excelsior

Edgar Abel Bones. 25. Hufflepuff. Order Loyalist. 'If you stand for nothing what will you fall for.' var sc_project=11182523; var sc_invisible=1; var sc_security="8c9f7ad7"; var scJsHost = (("https:" == document.location.protocol) ? "https://secure." : "http://www."); document.write("");

[arabarabarab-deactivated2017072]

[itswitchery-blog1]

Minerva didn’t hear him, at least not the first words, taking a while for her mind to process what it has given her, and in this situation, and as it has done before, it reacted to the new words by bringing them to the illusion she found temporarily herself in now, where the pause of the stunning spells brought her. There was no attempt to sit up and speak to him, no movement to indicate she heard his voice, the world something hazy and a pounding at her temple, in her chest, as if her ribcage was working to fall in on itself, shy away from the spells that met her sternum, though there was no pain, only the drumming. At this point, there was no reassurance she would be awake at all, unconsciousness when she arrived and still fell back into such a state from time to time, and with no ability to recall doing so, perhaps not a care either, at least not for the moment.

There were times she knew the present, seconds or minutes of clarity, as if Minerva was working to pry her way through where the effects of the spells placed her, returning her to dreams, reality painting as if paused, and as her adult life was spent solely at Hogwarts, this was where she found herself, sitting in a classroom or the Great Hall, her brothers in sight. This was where she was between those infrequent seconds of meeting reality, and at times, somewhere in between. In all, her actions weren’t to be predicted.

In her mind, she believes Edgar to be speaking about homework, her mind transforming the couch in her the long love-seat in the corner of her office, her image of him somewhere between first and third year. “You’re an intelligent boy, Mr. Bones, the answers will already be there,” a pause, and the continuation of the statement, those spoken so lowly it may not have been heard, a reminder she’ll be there if the answers on’t arrive and that he best check yesterday’s homework as an aid.

She won’t remember this conversation later, only able to be given the idea of the exchange if she was reminded of it next week or so when she could be on her feet again. It was now, however, that she was needed, and such thoughts would take their full effect when she did recover, and now all that they lost, all she couldn’t do. ( The irony of it all, not avoiding battle to protect, to fight, and she couldn’t be there in the aftermath when she was still needed, when there was still something to be done and perhaps the Order wasn’t enough without Albus, but she wouldn’t be sitting down. The irony of it all, where it is Minerva that must be carried for a bit, and to detest such days when she was back to herself, trying to go back and do the work she should have already been doing now, but instead, here she was, on a couch, and nothing to do about it. )

[edgarsanatomy-blog]

Seconds ticked on, a stretch of time so indeterminate he didn’t quite know whether he’d spoken or not, marked only by the rumble of the cat’s chest as he scritched beneath it’s chin and the slow kneading of it’s claws, in and out of the thread of his trousers and niggling at his skin. Her voice, when it came, startled him, head craning around to the still figure reclined upon the couch as if he expected her to rise up from it to scold him for his inaction.

The answers will already be there.

He blinked, once or twice, following the silent shift of her lips as if she were still murmuring to herself and wondered if she was dreaming. There was an answer here of course, the answer that he’d known from the start but hadn’t the energy to admit to. They needed to reconvene, sooner rather than later. To deal with their wounds and not allow their motley band to be split asunder by another blow. They would need to be brought back from where they’d scattered to.

Could they have avoided the meteroic rise and fall that Gideon had undergone if they’d only confronted his grief in those early stages? Did they have time to be treating one another with kidgloves while out there somewhere the Dark Lord had risen and now faced a world where the one man he’d ever been frightened of had been wiped off the playing field by another side entirely.

Surely they didn’t have time for infighting and bickering and the soul-crushing understanding that came with finding at least some of the moles who’d been in their midsts. Merlin, he was tired. If the elections had taught him anything it was that you could not lead if you were soft, that nobody would listen if you were gentle. He could not be this if he wanted to be that, but he didn’t know how to be that. He leaned forward, reaching out as the cat’s claws dug a little deeper into his thighs and settled a hand over hers — unmoving, cool to the touch.

“I’ll get that homework to you by Monday, Professor,” he offered after a long moment, squeezing at her hand pointedly before settling back into his seat. “Do you mind if I work on it here for a while?”

[unmillierdevies]

{ wearybxnes }

She was pregnant, obviously, because she was glowing. Amelia stared blankly at Frank for a long few moments, having to seriously contemplate on how someone who had thought up such an elaborate fake-death scheme could be so dumb. “That is not even acceptable as an answer, Frank. If I’m glowing, it’s because I’m just that angry at you both right now.” He was right on one end, at least: it wasn’t like people could hate Frank Longbottom any more than they already did. A part of her felt bad for him because of it, but that was his own situation. He could deal with the aftermath of it.

Then, of course, Edgar had to speak again, and her eyes narrowed. “First of all, that makes no sense whatsoever. He left when I was a baby, Ed. I don’t even like the guy. He can kiss my arse.” Honestly, fuck Robert Diggory Bones for leaving. Amelia wouldn’t give two shits if she never saw him again. “And second of all, I”m wearing all black, you dingus. Way to insult my clothing, thanks a lot.” She looked out the window of the carriage, huffing and clenching her jaw.

( @unmillierdevies )

“Yeah! Language, Amelia. The babies can hear you and they shouldn’t learn such words.” Frank was obviously taking the whole adopting the Sneep babies thing a little bit too seriously, but he wanted to do something good and positive with his life. With Janus and his big fat lie, he felt like a terrible person and he wanted to make it up to all of them. Sure this wasn’t the way to start a family, yet he wanted to help Amelia and Edgar with this. And in all the very selfish reason, he wanted to protect Marlene’s happiness as well.

This was bad and they were the only ones to blame. Amelia was carrying a baby, she needed peace, and they were upsetting her. “We just want the best for you. I think you’re glowing and it has nothing to with this. Right, Edgar? Isn’t she glowing? Doesn’t she look beautiful?” His mother had always told him that he had to be nice with women. He was too drunk for that conversation that he barely understood a word; he only nodded and agreed with Edgar because he was his friend and he really had nothing to lose. “He wears black all the time, kid you not. But you look lovely, Amelia, you really do.” It was such a bad decision, telling a pregnant woman that there was something wrong with her, and he didn’t want to piss her off ever more.

{ @edgarsanatomy }

[edgarsanatomy-blog]

Glowing with rage may have been a very real possibility, but Edgar had little interest in pursuing it when it might unravel the intricate threads holding this particular, neat little lie together. “Glowing,” he confirmed, as if it was factual evidence within the case, only visibly cringing at Amelia’s decidedly harsh assessment of their elder brother and narrowing his eyes as Frank confirmed yet another point of contention. “If you’re going to colour co-ordinate with your date, for goodness sakes Amelia make sure they aren’t a complete — a complete—”

He faltered, chewing furiously at his lower lip as his extensive and colourful vocabulary failed to provide him with a description that he could say within hearing range of someone who wasn’t family, “—Killjoy.” He turned back to face the front of the carriage, arms folded across his chest as he slumped backwards in an unusually petulant display for a public setting, muttering beneath his breath the entire while, “He killed my joy. He’ll kill your joy. He’ll kill everyone’s joy. Frank doesn’t even have any joy because he probably already killed it.”

@wearybxnes

[herquill-blog]

Hestia’s sleeping habits haven’t changed since she was a child, up with the hint of a sunrise and nuisance to her sisters and cousins as by she came around, the oldest among them were already twenty and all neighbors, and Hestia was going house to house to see who was awake to play with her. Many things changed in the past few days, though not this, no matter how late she stayed up through the night, which was what many did these days, sleeping with a potion or unable to fall asleep. Hestia was of the latter, sleeping on couches more than beds, not sleeping at all as she worked through notes and articles, waited for letters from her father

When sounds erupted from the back of Ms. Figg’s yard, Hestia was already standing in a kitchen, searching for any lasting tea bags. ( All while wearing quite large poka-dotted pajama pants that weren’t her own, and every once in a while she took the time to reroll up the pants legs to fit her frame. She came to the safe house only with the backpack with files from the Prophet and unable to go back to her apartment anyway, her fear of the beings that walked the streets now or not, holding no talent for apparition, preferring floo power or a broom. ) It was the crack that put a cease to the search, not that of the barking, though was all the more encouraging, taking away the bit of pain in her stomach from the shock.

It was a cautious thing, the way she turned to face the windows by the door, eyes poking past sheer curtains to onlook part of the suburbs, all slow but restless motions until the barking took to its full force and it would be silly to believe anyone that arrived with such an animal, not a guard dog, no silent entrance, no hiding motion, was a threat, and she would have believed this either way, seen as she was already opening the backdoor, already giving a bit of a laugh and the shake of her head with the expression of apology, all done while she was already making her way towards them, as if pulled straight to the Dalmatian, kneeling down with hands already scratching at the ears, working to calm him, noting the leg. 

“To let another wake up to a dog is never to be apologized for, never,” she began speaking formally, or rather worked to do so, all broken with a laugh of disbelief  fueled by the noise from the basket which caused her to finally look to the other, eyebrows furrowed and voice still quick, though no longer working to hold the same speech, “When’s the last time you’ve sat down?”

[edgarsanatomy-blog]

“Sitting is a waste of two perfectly good working legs,” Edgar replied wryly, largely relieved that Duke had ceased barking at the very least and that the rest of the house didn’t appear to be stirring. “Or three, perfectly good working legs,” he added, eyeing Duke fondly, “I tried to leave him back at the farm but he insisted on coming.”

Carefully hoisting the basket a little higher where it had started to slip (to a curious duet of meowing from it’s depths) he ruffled lightly at Duke’s ears on the way past, wondering if perhaps she hadn’t had a point with how much slower the steps came than they had earlier that morning. 

He set the basket down first on the steps of the porch before dropping down to follow them, the hesitant to follow (if only for the sake of not snubbing the attention he was being lavished with) jingle of Duke’s collar eventually moving to follow as he let out a soft, tired huff of air. Perhaps he could afford himself a little break before he was off again. 

(A long enough break to at least determine if Amelia had snuck off to behind those shuttered windows.)

Inhaling slowly against the dizzying sensation he got whenever he sat down or stood up just that bit too quickly, he offered a awkward smile up at the girl as if fully realising he’d been talking to an actual human being for the first time in the entire encounter. “Sorry, it’s been a bit of a morning already. I’m Edgar — Edgar Bones. I brought reinforcements,” he offered his hand, catching himself as her face registered in his head (a journalist? On the Prophet’s staff at least. Some vague recollection of a lightning bolt of energy inside the Hufflepuff common room. He’d been better at this, hadn’t he? When he was on top of his game he could have named each and every intern at the Daily Prophet. Names to faces, faces to names. He could blame the exhaustion at least.)

The basket wobbled on it’s step, as if demanding his attention and he hurriedly reached for it, pausing with his fingers on the strap on the lid. “Blueberry or Apple Cinnamon?”

[theconstellationsinhereyes]

A smile tugged at her lips as she looked up at him again. “I don’t know. I’ve always thought that you can communicate with cats. Like a superpower or something.” She didn’t think it was odd or something that should worry his neighbors. After all, animals understood people and knew how to answer without using words, and that was really interesting. But she was too tired to get into that, so she simply nodded. “You’re probably right. How could you say no to such lovely faces?” Mary wasn’t a cat person, but she liked them quite a lot. “No. I like it. I mean, people are acting weird when I’m around and they don’t talk to me that much. Like they probably don’t know what to say so they don’t do it all, and I like when people talk to me.”

She got to her feet and sighed. Her flat was normally a mess, but now that she had nothing else to do than worry, then she cleaned up everything until there was no dust left. She could help him, if he didn’t mind, but she didn’t know how to offer it without sounding rude. It made her laugh, the way he was talking to the cat as if they had discussion pretty often, and probably they did. So she hid her smile behind her hand. It was cute, actually, and somehow it made her feel better.

“Uh? Oh!” She laughed again and reached up to wipe the flour off her nose. If she had to be completely honest, she was glad that Edgar didn’t look at her like she could break at any moment, that he wasn’t trying make her feel better just like everyone else did. They all made her feel uncomfortable in her own skin and that was the reason why she had been avoiding people. “I’d love that!” It was no secret that she loved his muffins, that sometimes she went to the metings just to eat them.

She followed a cat into the kitchen, focused on its tail. “Did you know cats were really important in ancient Egypt? They considered them sacred and they played a fundamental role in their religion and their society. They were so important to them that, when they died, some of them were mummified just like humans. They were worshiped and respected just like Pharaohs. And they were known as Mau, not cats.”

[edgarsanatomy-blog]

There was no small relief to be found in Mary seemingly enjoying the rambling that was escaping his mouth at rapidfire speed — though the reasoning behind that was far sadder than he’d wanted to consider. How terrible, to be treated so delicately when all she wanted in the world was a moment of normality. He could give her that at least, or his best approximation.

“I suppose it’s lucky that I like talking to you then too,” he replied with a faint quirk of a smile tugging at his lips as he gently deposited the fluffy monstrosity off of his counter and to the floor before banishing the contents of the bowl the cat had been licking from with a faint furrow of his forehead. His smile solidified as she swiped flour off her nose and he began collecting ingredients from cupboards and the refrigerator again, keeping a close ear on what Mary was saying as he went. “That sounds about right,” he replied as he carefully nudged the fluffiest offender away from the counter with a socked foot, shaking his head as he slapped a pound of butter down on the counter, “They’ve never forgotten it either. Or at least, this lot haven’t — have you seen them? Butterball here thinks we’re making these muffins for him.”

He eyed the cat sternly, a golden lamplike stare meeting his unflinchingly with clear expectations of where that butter was going to end up tonight. “No. You’re already on a diet, I’ll get in trouble again.”

A reproachful meow swiftly followed and he sighed, glancing over at Mary and clearing his throat as he continued, as if he hadn’t taken a break to address the cat directly, “I try to bake the Muggle way, if that doesn’t bother you. It just — keeps your hands busy, you know?”

He smiled awkwardly as he cut off a hunk of butter from the block and dropped it into the newly clean bowl, setting it near the warmth emanating from the oven before reaching for the sugar container to begin measuring it out. “I’ve never asked if you like to bake before — I’m always just a little bit grateful that someone’s eating the muffins at those meetings instead of trying to use them as a weapon. Do you think banana bread would go down better? I think it would be a little more difficult to throw.”

That didn’t solve the real problem though, did it?

His forehead furrowed in thought, fingers drumming restlessly against the counter for a moment before he dumped the sugar in over the butter and drove a wooden spoon into the slowly softening slab of butter in the middle. “Do you ever see something that you know you weren’t supposed to see and then it just won’t leave you alone?”

[msdorcasmeadowes-blog]

Her kitten. Oh she was a terrible person. A terrible person who totally forgot to go home to her Sonny despite the fact that he probably hadn’t realized Doe was gone being that she left out so much food for him. (Just in case she didn’t come home at all.) But Dorcas did make it back and instead of going home to Sonny, she went and hid at the Potters. Where there Inferi in Diagon Alley? Did they make it out into the streets and found their way to her flat? Did they know where she lived? Did they break in and only found Sonny curled up in the patch of sunlight that came in through the window and landed in the perfect spot on her couch? The thoughts alone made her sick. How could she be so stupid and forget Sonny, her adopted four legged son?

It wasn’t entirely her fault though, Dorcas could argue that much. If things had turned out differently, if there had been a way for her to stop the deaths of a dozen of her friends or if she had just continued to be so oblivious that she didn’t see another one of her best friends betraying her, Sonny would have been one of her first thoughts. She would have gone home and cuddled up on the couch with him, telling him all about her day because as it turned out, he was a very good listener. She now had a vacant best friend spot…perhaps she should just give him the honor. Life would be much simpler being that you didn’t have to worry about a kitten betraying you.

“I was just going to go pick him up now.” Dorcas lied, finally speaking as she looked up at him, hoping he didn’t see right through her lie and realizing that she had already decided to spend the rest of the day (week? month?) in that chair. “Do you think it’s even safe to go out?” She asked him, chewing at her lower lip. Well, wasn’t that the question of the hour. The answer of course was probably no. It hadn’t been safe in a long while…but now? Things were definitely not safe, especially for an Order Member like her.

[edgarsanatomy-blog]

A curious break of laughter cracked his lips, tired and mirthless but somehow a relief amidst the oppressive weight of the world around him. The great myth of safety had finally been broken open, revealing everyone for who they truly were and there was a sense of liberation to it. Like the secrets that had grown dark over their heads had finally broken open and the release of it could be cleansing, if only they had the ability to let it. “We can go together.”

He wouldn’t call her bluff, not in the tired expression on her face that seemed to imply she’d been willing to sit in that one spot for days but he could hardly blame her. When the foundations of your world began to crack it was natural to want to stand still and find your bearings — but Edgar vastly preferred to keep busy. “I think we’ll be waiting a very long time if we wait for it to be safe. Come on, I can’t go leaving my godson to his own devices, who knows what kind of trouble he’ll cause?”

Sonny. Stufflebean. The list grew and grew by the moment. What of Tilden’s kitten? What of his own hoard. He couldn’t leave them to fend for themselves and while the despair that was rising up over their heads while they did their best to read water threatened to overwhelm them, he was not nearly so helpless as the animals they’d left behind. Anything to feel useful again. He shook his head, burying his hands into the pocket of the ugly windbreaker he’d borrowed from Madam Delacour and tipped his head towards the hallway in a gesture of, ‘shall we go?’

[k1nkydreamr]

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This one’s for the torn down, the experts at the fall Come on friends get up now you’re not alone at all.

comes and goes (in waves) /  greg laswell

[edgarsanatomy-blog]

😃

@itswitchery

It was easy to underestimate Edgar Bones. A Hufflepuff who fully embraced the traits of the house, his good manners and gentle nature hadn’t made him particularly noteworthy amidst the gaggle of First Years ushered into Minerva’s Transfiguration class that year, save for, perhaps, not being that one little shit that showed up without fail in every year. To Minerva, who was never given to easy praise, Edgar was unfailingly polite, rarely late for class, would always help his friends without them needing to ask and his wandwork never blew up her classroom, (which when it came to first years was really all you could hope for) but he was neither  troublesome enough or brilliant enough to demand a great deal of attention. 

In his third year, upon finding him hurtling down a seventh floor corridor towards the hospital wing at top speeds with one of the school’s owls cradled in his arms and receiving a teary-eyed explanation (“It’s leg is broken”), Minerva had been half convinced that there was an elaborate con in action and she was being distracted from it (the suspicion had abated when it had become clear he was entirely genuine and Madam Pomfrey had given her a fondly exasperated look that suggested this was not the first time this week that such a thing had occurred.) 

In his fifth year, when he had sat down for his first career counselling session Minerva had already scrawled down Healer next to his name before he had bluntly informed her he was going to be the Minister of Magic some day. She hadn’t been sure whether to laugh or be stunned (the Bones family’s reputation within the Ministry was longstanding and prolific enough that it shouldn’t have been a shock) but as it was the first time she’d seen any resemblance at all between Edgar and his younger sister and it came in the form of a steely kind of ambition and focus, she’d instead told him to think about where in the Ministry he’d like to start from. 

In the summer before his seventh year, when Albus had proposed his name for Head Boy, it had come attached to a lengthy debate — with the war alive and well outside their doors, his gentleness had seemed ill matched with the challenges that would face the student body. At the end of that year she would decide it would be the last time she would question whether Edgar was capable of taking on the challenges he was presented with.

It is for this reason, perhaps, that Minerva is so disappointed in how Edgar has handled his loss at the election. For a woman not given to easy praise, just this once, she hopes that she hasn’t overestimated him.

[coffeebooksandmountains]

[msdorcasmeadowes-blog]

Date: May 22, 1982

Time: 5:32 A.M.

Location: Potters Manor  

OPEN 

Dorcas had been sitting in the same chair by the window for hours now. Just staring out onto the great big fields that surrounded the house, almost waiting for something or someone to pop up on the grounds to come with the intentions of hurting her. It would probably hurt less than the pain she was already in. Gideon dead, innocent healers and patients dead, Marlene…traitor. Even just the though of it all made her heart hurt. Emotions just seemed to continue hitting her like waves against a rocky shore. Guilt. Anger. Sadness. The emotions just kept coming and coming an-

She tried to stop herself from being so negative. Everyone was so negative lately and she had promised herself that she would never be. That her friends needed her to be happy and hopeful and optimistic. But they were all so right, it was impossible to stay like that forever. She saw the bodies, she saw her friends lying there motionless, lifeless and she could only imagine her parents and all the life seemed to drain out of her. 

“Please…go away.” Dorcas said, her voice barely audible as she saw someone’s figure appear behind her in the reflection of the window. “I’m fine.” She flat out lied as she reached up to wipe away the tears that had once again begun to form.

[edgarsanatomy-blog]

He hadn’t expected to find Amelia there, not really. He wasn’t sure he even wanted to, that he was ready to talk to her again in the wake of their argument back at the farm, but it hadn’t stopped him from looking regardless. Everywhere he went, that persistent need to look for his sister, to ensure she’d found safety wherever she’d run off to, refused to release him and what he had found at the Potter Mansion had been just as devastating, Minerva McGonagall out of action, His friends splintering off into pockets of grief and anger and despair, Dorcas Meadowes with a face like a storm cloud. He hesitated behind the chair, reaching up to scratch at the tape that kept the bandage fixed tight across his cheek and wondering if he should move on and let her have her moment to grieve until she spoke and he jumped. 

“I thought,” his tongue was tangled up, grief and betrayal and anger tied up together in knots, “I’m going to see if I can find Amelia’s kitten. I didn’t know if you’d picked up Sonny yet. You could come, if you wanted.”

Get out of here. Anything, he thought, had to be better than this. 

[itswitchery-blog1]

The Potter’s Mansion May 22nd, 1982 2:12 am

Even the early morning was still tainted, rancorous as a ritualistic spell after the rain, clothes and skin still coated in grime and soot and mud. Fights weren’t beautiful spectacles, even if wizards didn’t have guns or always fists ( even though Minerva would try to fight the Muggle as a child, in her teens ), the end was still something devastating, a crowd known only by shadows, voices drowned out by distance, death in the gaps between words and Minerva didn’t hear much of them at all. She had been planed on one of the couches, some beds still being prepared, and the professor ( or was it ’ former ’ these days? ) was still in and out of consciousness, the spells reacting slowly to the point that she only seemed to be lucid for short periods of time. A stunning spell could be something to recover from, for giants, they had no effect from the casting, however, multiple, at the same time, to the chest, held a greater impact. Rather, it could be fatal if left unattended to for long.

Over the span of decades, an image was centered around Minerva, enveloping even her moniker. The professor who would silence a room without words, hold influence without effort, assumed authority and could be trusted with it, and now she was a heap on a couch she couldn’t remember be placed upon and a leg that couldn’t be moved much, recently tended to after a breakage. It was known how she would be reacting if she was conscious, would already working for the situation, the recovery, the regroup, and for once she wasn’t able to do so, and for many, this may be the first time to see her in such a state.

She wasn’t even all aware that another sat down by her feet except in a repositioning to give the other more room.

[edgarsanatomy-blog]

The cat on his lap had trailed him through the Potter’s home since the moment he’d set foot inside, doggedly pursuing his attention until he’d settled into an armchair in some quiet corner to consider the unnerving sight before him. It was quiet here, was the thing, quiet in a way that the farm and it’s menagerie of barnyard animals never seemed to be. Quiet in a stifling way, a way in which the echoes of the day were given free reign to repeat through his head, over and over and over again. The battle. Amelia. The battle. Amelia. Mrs. Potts body torn apart and trailing entrails and flesh as it clamoured at the fence between them. The smouldering rubble of the Lestrange Manor as they clawed at it to free Gideon from beneath it. Amelia. His fingers smoothed through the soft ginger fur at the back of the cat’s neck and it’s body rumbled with the force of it’s purr.

It seemed unnatural, to be here. To see the indomitable head of Gryffindor House laid out on a couch turned makeshift hospital bed, silent and blank. He almost might have believed her to be sleeping if the horrors of the day weren’t still crawling at his skin — his wounds burning and his skin hot and sweating, nausea churning in his stomach. There was so much wrong with the world that dawn had brought with it that he didn’t know how to comprehend it. Perhaps another dawn would bring clarity. 

“I would very much appreciate it if you would  get better,” he spoke aloud, surprised at the sound of his own voice. “I don’t know what to do, and I don’t know how to fix this, so I need you to get better.” He paused, clearing his throat before adding a weak, “Please.”

Oblivious to (or perhaps entirely too aware of) the strain in Edgar’s voice, the cat butted it’s head up into his palm, seeking further attention. 

[wearybxnes-blog]

I’m still me. Amelia wanted to shout it at him, wanted to erase every part of this conversation so that all Edgar remembered was that Amelia was his little sister and that he loved her very much. Now she couldn’t even say that with confidence, because all she could see was the disappointment and defeat that filled her brother’s stance and expression. Any anger that had filled her as she tried to defend herself vanished, leaving her with nothing but desperation and sadness. She fucked up, she fucked up so bad, that her own brother couldn’t even look at her now, and it made her heart ache, especially when all she wanted to do was hug Edgar and forget that the day’s events ever happened. Edgar always knew how to make her feel better

Amelia, meanwhile, always knew how to make him feel like shit.

She couldn’t respond to anything that he said, not without making herself sound absolutely pathetic. She couldn’t defend her actions any more, so all she could do was watch Edgar turn her back on her. For a moment, Diggory came into the forefront of her mind, and Amelia swallowed back tears. “I’m not like Digger,” she whispered like she had months ago on Edgar’s couch. With that, Amelia turned around and gripped her wand, vanishing to more neutral grounds. Maybe there she could find peace.

[unmillierdevies]

Amelia just stared. No matter what she said, it seemed that the two men in the carriage with her were convinced that she was having a baby–Snape’s baby, in particular. Where the hell did they get this idea again? Maybe in the morning, when they were all completely sober and hangover-free, Amelia could gather them and deny the pregnancy yet again, but until then… Frank wanted to be the father. You’ve got to be kidding me. 

“For fuck’s sake, I’m not pregnant,” she groaned, shaking her head as Edgar proceeded to hug Frank out of his wits. She’d heard what he’d said under his breath (more like under his hand), and Amelia frowned deeply at her brother, trying to catch his eye. “What does Diggory have to do with any of this? And you.” She looked at Frank again. “Even if I were pregnant–which I’m not–why would you offer to be the father?”

He had no idea who Digger was and something told him that asking would only drag him into another issue, so he just ignored it, even when Amelia mentioned Diggory. It truly seemed that the Bones siblings had even more problems than he had ever imagined, and somehow he got caught in the middle of whatever that was. Certainly it was a welcome distraction, and Frank found himself more focused on them than on what he had seen at the Ministry.

The hug was unexpected, but it made him feel better. Frank couldn’t remember for the life of him the last time someone had hugged him and he couldn’t stop himself, he had to hug Edgar back. He could admit that he had been a terrible husband, even though he wanted to make it better, yet a bad friend never, as least not to Marlene. But that was a whole different story. Frank pulled back and stared at Amelia for a moment. “You’re glowing.” That was his simple answer. Amelia had to be pregnant, that would explain why she was so moody as of late. “Because we’re friends. A baby needs both parents and I want to be here for you. Being a single parent can’t be easy and I’m just trying to help. This way you don’t have to tell Sneep if you don’t want to and we can say it just happened.” He shrugged, finding that solution pretty logical. “It’s not like people can hate me more, right?”

[edgarsanatomy-blog]

“Language, Amelia, babies can hear these things,” Edgar hissed in Amelia’s direction, patting solidly at Frank’s back before releasing him, the relief at this child having a (somewhat) positive male role model in their life tempered only by the fact that Frank had a very long way to go before his life decisions could be considered suitable for a father. Faking your own death to solve your problems was a terrible example to set.

He patted consolingly at the other man’s arm with a soft, “I wouldn’t be positive about that, Frank, but we’ll cross that bridge as we come to it. And I’m just saying, Amelia, that if Diggory were here you wouldn’t have seen a man who is so blatantly emotionally unavailable and socially stunted and thought you could change him. You were obviously damaged by his decision to leave us and you’re taking it out on the rest of us and yourself by inflicting Sneep on us.” Edgar exhaled sharply, as if the long tirade he’d just gone on had taken a lot out of him before adding, furiously, “Nobody wears all black to a gala. There’s something deeply wrong with him.”

( @wearybxnes )

[wearybxnes-blog]

What have you accomplished? God, Amelia couldn’t even think on that. What had Janus accomplished past the Battle of the Highlands? They killed the Minister, took the power and gave it to Millicent. They brought Regulus back from the dead, though whether that could be considered an accomplishment as a whole was up to debate. They were just as much of a mess as the Order was, but Amelia wasn’t going to admit that outright. Not when she was trying to defend herself to her own brother. But then he kept going, and maybe now she was actually shaking, but Amelia couldn’t find it in herself to care.

“How the hell could I not notice that he was back?” she snapped, taking a step away from Edgar and clenching her fists. “I was there. I saw everything.” Images of Rabastan’s throat being sliced in front of them all flashed before her eyes, and she wanted to be sick. “You make me sound like a monster,” she said, voice lowering and head shaking, because dammit, she wasn’t a monster. She wasn’t. “You think I wanted them all taken away? That I thought they deserved what they got? I know I’m heartless, but that’s just low.” Tell me, was it worth it? Seven months ago, Amelia would have said yes without a shadow of a doubt. They’d killed Dumbledore and Voldemort, could have ended the war completely if the Order and the Death Eaters had simply fallen out with their leaders gone. Now, Janus was so messy, and she honestly just wasn’t sure. “When I joined, it was more than worth it,” she finally said, looking away. She couldn’t even look Edgar in the eyes.

[edgarsanatomy-blog]

Edgar turned, shaking his head and trying to breathe against that tight, nauseating pain in his chest he hadn’t been able to shake since the battle. Did he think his sister was a monster? These past few months they had lived under the constant threat of another attack, from that first appearance in the highlands and Dumbledore’s death to the fire at the Minister’s ball (and Sirius had claimed ownership of that, had he not? But could they believe him that it had been an accident? Now when he too had failed to stand with them at the manor) to the attack on the Ministry and the suspicions that had arisen around the Minister’s death. A stranger claiming to be a healer and a hallway full of smoke. None of it had felt right. Had she been a part of that too? The thought made him sick to his stomach. And now the night before, the dwindling numbers of their faction laid out in black and white for them to see while another of their number fell.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to believe anymore. I don’t know who you are anymore. All those secrets you’ve been keeping, all the times I let it go when I knew you were lying to me.” He closed his eyes, anger collapsing beneath the weight of the day, “I trusted you to have my back and where were you? At the Highlands. At the Ministry. Last night. Where were you when we were digging Gideon’s body out of the rubble? How many people have to die before you see that the only thing Janus has accomplished is to divide us all further? Again and again and again until we’re all so broken apart that there’s nothing left for Him to break.”

Turning towards the fields he began a slow and pained trek away, eyes fixed on anywhere but here, some distant field where the mooing of the cows would drown out the despair that had crept up on him. “I can’t look at you right now. You aren’t the person I thought you were.”

[edgarsanatomy-blog]

You didn’t come here to cause a scene. Inhaling and exhaling slowly to soothe his rapidly rising temper (a rare enough feat in itself to pry that out of him, he supposed Severus should be proud of himself) he bit back the retort to having lost the election rubbed in his face. His parents had raised him far better than indulging in this behaviour. Deep breaths. “If you were a cleverer man,” he began slowly, voice forcefully steady, “You might presume to know a little less about people and things that you shouldn’t, that’s my advice. People might start to talk. Stay away from my sister, Mr. Sneep.” He turned on his heel, as if fully intending to sweep away into the crowd before turning abruptly back to add, as if it had been simmering at the tip of his tongue for so long he could no longer contain it, “And for Merlin’s sake, add some colour into your wardrobe. Wear a tie or a pocket square or something. This is a gala not a funeral.” 

Not remotely satisfied with the encounter, Edgar turned to make a hasty exit into the crowd, plucking a champagne glass off a tray along the way. He would find a more enjoyable way to spend his night.

[severssnpe-blog]

A hand reached up and covered his mouth in an attempt to stave off a peal of laughter. In that moment he found Edgar far more amusing than he did threatening - the other man’s suit offering him no favours in being taken seriously by Severus. “I’m quaking in my boots. Consider me told.” He snorted, his eyes rolling. Severus had already toed off against the man and he was sure that he’d come away just as well if it happened again. “You know what, I might just go find your sister now.” It annoy Edgar and Severus would be able to find out from Amelia what exactly was going on with her brother - it was a win-win. He sneered at Edgar’s comment about what he was wearing. He couldn’t see anything wrong with wearing all black. And one rather ostentatiously dressed man was not going to change that.  

Severus watched as Edgar disappeared into the crowd, relief flooding his system. Thank Merlin that was over.

[wearybxnes-blog]

Amelia never cared when people got angry at her. Anger was simply people venting their frustrations, and if she was the cause of the frustrations? It certainly didn’t make her lose any sleep at night. She’d take yelling with a straight, unimpressed face, maybe stifling a yawn if the reason for it was particularly idiotic, then proceed to send the person on their way (or, if she couldn’t do that, argue against their points as quickly and to the point as possible) before going about her business. So no, anger and yelling didn’t effect Amelia Bones, but this… This had her all but physically shaking in her boots.

The thing was, Edgar never got mad at her. Not in all of her years did she remember Edgar getting mad at her, and that wasn’t only because she didn’t particularly go out of her way to cause trouble as a kid. No, anger was not a good look on her brother, and he knew that more than anyone else. He’d rather fight with kindness and his ridiculous muffins that he brought to the Order meetings; he was someone who committed a crime in order to save kneazle kittens from a questionable animal display at an even more questionable circus. But mad? Never.

That is, until now.

The secret was out, and for the first time in her life, Amelia wasn’t sure what to do. She couldn’t deny her involvement in Janus any longer, that would only anger Edgar more. He knew, and that was beyond terrifying. She wouldn’t just take his yelling, because that wasn’t the kind of person that Amelia was (though, now, she sort of wished it was). Responding in anger would only lead to a more drastic situation, so what was left?

Desperation. Fear. Defense.

“You think this was fun for me?” she finally snapped, shaking her head, breathing picking up its pace. “This wasn’t fun at all, and it fucking killed me to hide this from you, but dammit, Edgar, just think for a second! How the hell can you stand there and tell me that the Order got remotely anything done? What has the Order accomplished in the last seven months other than biting at each other’s throats during meetings?” Anger wouldn’t hold itself back, and Amelia knew she would severely regret what she was saying later on. Fuck. “Sabotage? The Order self-sabotages itself because no one can get their shit together for five seconds and think logically. McGonagal had to place a silencing charm on the whole fucking room at the last one; do you know how childish that is? And you still stand by them. So don’t you dare yell at me for my actions. I’m a grown ass woman, I can make my own decisions.”

[edgarsanatomy-blog]

Perhaps some small, sad part of him had hoped that Amelia would deny it all. That she would insist it had all been a matter of circumstance and that he was wrong, that there was no conceivable way she would betray any of them. But that part of him, a withering hope with nothing remaining to sustain it, crumbled under her admission. What good was hope in the face of all this pain? “And what have you accomplished?

He could hardly breathe around the anger, around the pain clawing it’s way through his insides, a storm of grief and the horrors of the day unloaded in one ugly deluge. “In case you didn’t notice, he’s back. All of your plans and schemes and backstabbing and what did it get you? A promotion at the Ministry? Don’t tell me you didn’t watch those meetings and see everyone get angrier and angrier every time our plans got undermined. Tell me it didn’t help you to watch all that anger and frustration boil over, over and over again. Tell me that Janus didn’t leave our friends in the firing line because they weren’t part of your little club. Tilden — Mary — Alice — Daisy — tell me they didn’t deserve protection. Tell me they deserved what they endured, Amelia, because the sister that I know wouldn’t leave her friends in the dark when their lives were on the line.  People are dead. London is overrun. What exactly did Janus accomplish other than hurting every single person around you? Tell me it was worth it, Amelia, because right now all I see are the decisions and actions of a person that I don’t want to know.”

[edgarsanatomy-blog]

Edgar’s Home to [OPEN] May 24th 1982 6.15AM [OPEN]

A soft, telltale jangle of a bone-shaped collar, clinking against a metal buckle, and the rustle and thump of an uneven limping gait drew a soft sigh from Edgar’s lips, his head turning as a wet nose pushed into his palm and a single, sad lap of a tongue drew his hand to ruffle at silken ears. The dog had been limping half-a-step behind him since he’d freed him from Mrs. Potts’ back yard and Edgar hadn’t the heart nor the energy to dissuade him, not when there was so much else to be done. Not when that iron-clad loyalty and this pervasive, poisonous exhaustion was about the only thing he could count on right now.

His wounds throbbed, hot and vile, with every beat of his pulse and every footstep, but Edgar persisted, basket hoisted in hand and carefully covered over, the telltale meowing from inside a sign that his third rescue trip (becoming more and more difficult each time he returned as more inferi spread into the suburbs) had been a success. He was well stocked by now, another two cats scooped carefully from their hiding places (with the scratches to show for it) and baked goods from Madam Delacour’s kitchen stowed away into the compartments of the innocuous looking basket on his arm. Slowing at his porch he kneeled, palm settled at the back of dalmatian’s neck to calm him as he concentrated, summoning the energy before he disapparated with a loud crack.

With a soft thump they reappeared amidst the grass, staring up at the doors to another safehouse at which the Dalmatian immediately began barking, bewildered by it’s abrupt change in environment as it had been with every previous trip. “It’s alright Duke,” he insisted, scrubbing at spotted ears as a choir of yeowling from inside the basket took up amidst the barking, “You and I just need to check up on a few people, that’s all. You’re going to wake them all up if you keep this up.” His head jerked up at the creak of a door, an apology written across his tired face as he raised a hand in a wave, holding onto the back of Duke’s collar with a sheepish expression, “I’m sorry — did we wake you?”