arthur â
He hadnât been expecting the knock on the door, it took him off guard and whilst dread had filled his system, Arthur had managed to delay the instinct to throw up wards around the bundle of children who were drawing in the makeshift living room.Â
Charlie had looked up, a similar concern to his fatherâs running across his features as he checked on his baby sister sleeping just by Artâs armchair. Arthur shook his head at the boy. It wasnât an emergency, they didnât have to practise the escape route again. George was watching his older brother, waiting for the outcome of his fatherâs decision to start effecting him. Art flexed him a smile of reassurance before offering a sign of, âItâs okay, Iâll get the door,â before walking out to answer Alice.Â
Long gone for the need of security questions but there was an air of patience between the residents of Godricâs Hollow. Arthur checked her image through the peephole before unlocking the door, wand in a holster on his forearm. Never had a cardigan-ed man been so prepared.Â
Peering round the door he offered a loose smile, tension holding his body taut before he invited her in. Opening a fucking door. The kids relaxed as they spotted Alice, a chatter of greetings and Percy ran over. Art slowed him by catching his shoulder before Percy attached himself to the otherâs leg, noticing her off-demeanour. Instead the child offered his hand for her to take.Â
âLook at this writing!â He exclaimed, Arthur already worrying about the nature of the other, shutting the door behind her.Â
âWhy donât we get a cup of tea first Perce and then weâll come over.â He spoke aloud, stammering over the plosives but put effort into sounding assertive. Once the adults were watching the six year old smile and return to his drawings fortunately. It was a rare occasion that Arthurâs suggestion hadnât caused tears but he couldnât complain.Â
âAre you okay darl?â He offered gently, stepping away from the bustle of children and into the kitchen. It didnât take much for him to assume that it was about the mission. It wasnât going to be something that he had much idea of where to start. He wasnât sure of how much to say, or if anything at all. There was protecting a mate, and then there was excluding someone he considered family. Arthur put the kettle on almost automatically, only leaving her side to grab a mug from the cupboard before returning and placing a hand gently on her shoulder.Â
Alice dreams of Neville often. True enough, he comes to her in her nightmares, his final moments a frozen into an image she canât erase, so small and perfect and irreversibleâbut sometimes he comes to her older. Grown. Like Charlie or Percy or at some other stage in his life, with an entire family of memories stripped away. Some nights she wakes in screams, some in sweats, but there is one constant to it all: her son is dead and the space in the bed beside her is empty. All the warmth washes from Aliceâs eyes as Percy approaches herâshe is strange and alien and certainly earns Arthurâs concernâbut it is only because she is remembering.
Not remembering. Dreaming.
Alice shakes herself from the mirage. The gentle creasing around her eyes returns to her face and she takes Percyâs hand, rubs her thumb over his knuckles, releases it.Â
She knows Arthurâs directives are made in mind of the children, so she doesnât listen to the words much. She catches only parts: writing, tea, are you okay, darlâ? The latter she feels permanently imprinted on her brainâshe struggles to offer up an answer for it. Not the one she wants to give. Not even now, her cheeks discoloured by saltwater and the circles beneath her eyes bruised by violet, where she has been given the opportunity to be vulnerable.
Nevilleâs absence is one she is slowly growing accustomed to. Frank can see it, plain as day, and it has led him resent her. Not resent her, but resent something about the two of them: the fact that she doesnât seem to be able to feel anything; that they canât solve this mystery together, as if it was one of their cases; or that no matter how hard they both fight, they will never see their little boy again. Nevertheless, it causes him to abandon her side, searching for answers in the cracks of unturned stone. But Alice has never been one for vengeanceâthat, she supposes, is their one distinction, their one contradiction. Frank, furious, will expend what remains of his resolve to hunt down a faceless killer, and Alice will not. She has always been compulsive, but that compulsion has always been entrusted to logic: there has always been a process. It is why she knows she cannot impede her husbandâs destiny, cannot obstruct a fate written in the marrow of his bonesâall she can do is let him go, and wait.
It is a rhythm she has been recognising in her own time. Alice cannot keep Frank from destruction, self-made, but she can ensure he has someone to face it with him. Someone like Arthur, with provocation to return home to something other than mania or consternation or the silhouette of a woman he still loves but no longer knows. Alice catches the kitchen surface behind her with her left hand, leaning into it, the other instinctively moving above Arthurâs in answer. It is a simple gesture, one that does not chill her bones or force her body to reject it out of disinclination, but one that seems to speak without words. âIââ she retracts the contact, pulls the sleeve of her cardigan over her knuckle and wipes at her under-eye, sniffling. But there are no tears there to wipe; she has dried them all out.
Alice clears her throat and speaks with haste. âIâm sorryâIâm sorry, itâs justâitâs so late, youâd be putting the boys to bed just about now and I know that and I shouldnât have come, but I had toââ she pauses for a moment, inhales silently to steady her breathing. It must all seem so strange, her voice thick emotion but her eyes blinking without tears. Like choking through dry sobs, heaving through the grief. âI had to come, Iâwell, Frank is going with you all and I donât know when heâll be back or what heâll do orââ or if heâll come back, she thinks.Â












