undone

frank longbottom twenty-seven auror golden child, lion boy; tell me what it's like to conquer. fearless child, broken boy; tell me what it’s like to burn.

[flongbottomed]

ALICE:

who: @flongbottomed. when: happier times (flashback). where: auror headquarters, ministry of magic.

The Ministry was always in a state of flux – all this Alice knew, for it had changed several times over in the years she had worked there. Ministers came and went, changes gone as soon as they arrived, as was the very essence of bureaucracy. One thing was constant: an auror’s desk, inundated by parchment. By dossiers that placed a valuation on how much good they’d done, how many witches and wizards they’d put away. Alice’s desk was certainly no different. It was doused in since-solved assignments—fragments of old maps and amorphous scribblings whittled down the field—for which she was endlessly teased. As her hands astonishingly swept up all the correct files, loosely bound together by a single paperclip, they would say: ‘Merlin, Alice, how do you manage to get anything done with cases six months old still pinned to your walls?’

But the sheer number of them never went unnoticed. Not for either of them. Frank, of course, was harder to miss; six-foot-three and really quite pronounced, towering over his little wife. But that was not to say that Alice ever went overlooked by his side: as a two, they cut down threats and brought in criminals; soldier and logistician, one could not exist without the other. This, everyone knew. How could they not, when Frank insisted on referring to his wife as ‘Alice Longbottom’—emphasis on the Longbottom, because, yes, this woman here was his wife—at every opportunity; when he’d try his hand at every single bad pick-up line he’d ever encountered, mid-way through conversation, as if everyone around them had not each been at their wedding themselves?

Alice rises from her desk now, in the same state she is always in: faraway, eyes gripped by the case in her hands, looking up to watch her step only intermittently. As she turns the corner, moving her little body around the partition of her office cubicle, she knocks into something much larger; something she often runs into, as a general rule. ‘Oh—’ Alice punctuates the impact, recollecting herself. She smiles, bright and brief, as if Frank’s sharp materialisation had activated in her some gladly-received inspiration; an answer to a case as yet uncracked. He had the preternatural habit in doing that – of commanding such absolute faith in her, that she might crack any code, unravel any mystery, ensnare each and any outlaw who continued to evade their pendent justice. ‘Hello, you.’

Chaos exists beyond these four walls, but there’s a stillness here. The office remains largely untouched by the nonsense of the outside world, free from even the vacillating whims of the ever-changing Ministers due to Kingsley’s phlegmatic leadership. Really, it’s a gift to be free from the politics that other departments are subject to. However, it’s an unfair comparison. The Ministry as a whole has always been more reflective of the world at large, especially when it’s as divided as it is now. Their role as Aurors is much more cut and clear: search for dark wizards and witches, apprehend them, then rinse and repeat. It attracts a certain kind of personality, one that shies away from neutrality and disavows any sort allegiance to Voldemort and his goons. Here, there’s only one side to be on. So, for now, this is the eye of the storm, the safe harbor where ships come to dock and find reprieve from the winds that beat ceaselessly. It’s also where Frank thrives, propelled by a compulsion to achieve as he always has and always does. Simply put: he excels at his job and he loves it. 

Of course, being an Auror has always been a large part of his identity: since childhood it has been his objective; since adulthood it has been his impetus. Even though he’s an afterthought while he’s in his role, residing in the periphery until trouble emerges, Frank enjoys it. Truthfully, he prefers it that way. In the past, there was talk about flashier titles: become Chief Warlock; become the Minister of Magic. What he likes, though, is that he and Alice have carved out their own spots in history. Their titles, though meaningful, aren’t what set them apart; it’s their success rate and reputation that make them notable. As a pair, they’re unstoppable, lethal even—just as Frank knew all along.

Truly, he doesn’t mind working with his wife. In fact, he’d say that’s one of the more compelling points of his post. Some believe it’s too much; after all, how can they breathe if they’re constantly near one another? The answer is simple for him: he’s never once felt suffocated by her presence. Even now as she stumbles headfirst into him, knocking some wind out of him, with her hair undone and face flushed from exertion, Frank can’t help but look at her with the utmost admiration. His expression brightens as she speaks. Alice doesn’t say much, but it’s enough. He wants to see her smile again; he wants to be the reason for it. “Perhaps you could lend a hand? I’m looking for a woman, quite beautiful, about this tall,” he holds his hand up at an angle slightly lower than her forehead. “I saw her earlier and can’t seem to get her out of my mind.”

[flongbottomed]

LILY‌:

Where: Longbottom’s Cottage When: Early February Who: @flongbottomed

What are you doing, Lily?

She’s standing before the Longbottom’s cottage. Already too close to claim she wasn’t intending on walking up. She hasn’t spent much time near the house since they’ve all moved out here–it’s easier to avoid Alice that way. It’s too hard, seeing the blank look on Alice’s face, the flashes of unbridled grief when Alice catches a look at Harry. The same age her son would have been, had he been the one to live instead of Harry.

It happens with Frank, too, but it seems to Lily he’s coping better, doesn’t get the look on his face when it’s just her. He had almost been a friend before James’ death. He had, at least, been someone who knew James, who had reached out to her, attended the funeral, been there. And maybe Lily hadn’t been as proactive after Neville’s death. Maybe she’d tried, and pulled away when she realized that her son’s life brought attention to their loss. It was hard to say, now. So many of her memories from that time were foggy now.

She doesn’t want to pull away anymore. She’s been living alongside them–carefully steering Harry away, around corners when she hears Frank or Alice’s voice, back into the house if she sees them striding by. Living on their periphery, trying not to make things worse. For once, Lily wants to make things better. So she knocks, resolute, shoving her hands into her pockets while she waits. Please don’t let it be Alice.

Frank isn’t planning on answering the door. Sure, he hears the jarring sound of knuckles against wood, but he’s fairly certain it’s either Charity or Amos, so why bother? The fact is they come for Alice. If Frank sounds bitter, it’s accidental—truly, he’s grateful for what they provide even if he doesn’t voice it. His wife is listless and lonely; he notices, he swears, and more importantly he’s working hard on reconciling her grief, but at the current moment that requires more than he can give. Even after all this time and all this effort, he’s still where he was back in November: at a loss for words, answers, and any feeling except righteous indignation. 

With nothing left to do, he gradually begins to recede back into his study, but he realizes Alice has slipped away for the day, so whoever it is will have to settle for him. When he opens the door he’s shocked to discover that his earlier prediction is incorrect; it’s neither Charity nor Amos. Instead, the face belongs to someone that’s not quite a friend but far from a foe: Lily. 

There’s a dull pang in his heart as his mind automatically conjures up James, unable to disassociate him from her. The only real knowledge he has of Lily arises from James so it’s biased, colored by the boastful descriptions and high praises he divulged during arduous sessions when it seemed as if they had all the time in the world. Frank had trained him and perhaps in an indirect way thus contributed to his death. Whatever residual guilt he feels lingering compels him to open the door wider to let her in. He can’t recall the last time he spoke to her—likely, it was at the funeral.

“What can I do for you?” He asks, aiming to avoid the monotony of pleasantries. He finds that he’s losing patience with each glib encounter and though he knows he should act better, Frank can’t bring himself to care at this moment.

[flongbottomed]

  XENOPHILIUS‌:

It was interesting to observe someone else so wholly entrenched in their work, when they were used to being on the other side of things. Was this what they appeared like to those around them? It was a small wonder that anyone at all was able to get through to them, considering that they also had the added layer of whispers filling their ears as they researched, blocking out any and all outside noise, lost in their own worlds.

They were not sure that Frank would be someone who was open to hearing their own theories and aid, but they were still compelled to try, on the chance that he was someone who appreciated a shared knowledge, and the insight talking through a question could provide. Xenophilius did not know him well, and thus it was hard to read his mood, but it felt as if they had been led here for a reason, and they were going to try to follow through, and aid if they could.

And perhaps they could. After a long moment of staring at the place their finger hovered over on the map, Frank finally spoke, calling their assessment a good one, which made them more excited to continue on, helping him look at the problem with fresh eyes. “It’s hidden amongst Stoatshead Hill. It’s right near Ottery St. Catchpole, over the hill from the Burrow. You couldn’t miss the house wandering the gardens and hills, though, it’s shaped like a rook. I still have yet to figure out what, exactly, it was used for before Pandora and I made it into our home, but it has the feeling of a thousand whispered mysteries lurking in its depths,” they explained to him. “I doubt your Order would’ve made it their home, but it would be a very safe place for hiding. My Pandora and I spread our wards widely around our home, both known and experimental.”

His other question, however, amused them. So many people around them could not look beyond sense, beyond what the world told them was reasonable. But they had long ago learned that openness to the extraordinary was what made true solutions possible, helped expand the mind in ways no one could imagine. “I mean only that expanding your mind beyond what others want you to believe is oftentimes the only time to find real solutions to your problems. What can you trust, you ask? Only yourself. If the answer was sensical, it would already be found. Trust what you feel.”

Once more, Frank’s fingers began to cramp as he hurriedly penciled in notes. Already, he was planning, inspired by the untapped potential he saw in the information Xenophilius fed him. From that newfound knowledge, he was able to conclude that even if the others weren’t physically hiding near the Lovegood’s, their home could still be a potential rendezvous point for any sort of rescue mission. It was a spot where they could easily regain the upper hand if they were to encounter any unwanted trouble. Of course, they would have to disable certain wards first, but if he could ascertain that information now, it could easily be done. 

In truth, Frank trusted Xenophilius’ magic. They had been flagrantly bullied for years, but as a result they had become an expert at defensive spells and quite innovative as well. Years ago, he had once witnessed their abilities firsthand. After that display of magic, he was sure Xenophilius was not exaggerating. “Would you be able to explain to me how to disable these wards? Perhaps we could use your fortifications to our advantage?” Pausing abruptly, he remembered that nothing had been officially sanctioned yet. “Only if we need to, that is—truthfully, I doubt anything will come of Glenda’s announcement.” 

Then, eyes narrowing, Frank mulled over their next point.

Yes, to a degree, Xenophilius was right: some answers did indeed require a suspension of logic. He understood that, lived it even—after all, as an Auror, he had relied on intuition countless times before. However, after reason had been stripped from him, Frank found himself clinging to logic as if that was what was missing. In actuality, what he sought was balance. It seemed, at times, that his entire existence was predicated on that concept. He spent years honing his abilities to ensure that he became a well-rounded individual and based his life’s work on tipping scales, marrying his equal in the process. Even now, in the absence of rationality and justice, Frank remained committed to his pursuit of both.

Yes, to a degree, Xenophilius was right: Frank could only trust himself, but the indignation and distrust he felt was anything but balanced; it seemed as if it would only muddle the truth that remained if it had not already. Leaning back in his seat, he shook his head, incredulity coloring his voice. “I can’t. What I feel nowadays, it’s destructive. It’ll only lead me astray.”

[witchbxnes]

Amelia Bones, Frank Longbottom and Dorcas Meadowes meet in the war council cottage to discuss a plan to search Ottery St. Catchpole.

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[indigogypsies]

Someone asked me what home was and all I could think of were the stars on the tip of your tongue, the flowers sprouting from your mouth, the roots entwined in the gaps between your fingers, the ocean echoing inside of your ribcage.

E. E. Cummings  (via alongbottomed)

[flongbottomed]

CHARITY‌:

Charity watched as her attempt to absolve Frank of his abrupt appearance faltered silently. He wouldn’t contradict her but she saw his eyes marking the obvious signs of receding panic in her own visage and the regret that rose within them at the sight. Frank, in her experience, had always gone above and beyond in his attempts to do what was right and noble. It was one of the first things that had impressed her about him well before she ever stood in awe of his battle prowess. It was his solid resolve to help her when she was a stranger to him with little more to offer than tears and fury and desperation of her own that had first warmed her heart to the man and the fires of fondness were fed as she had watched his growing devotion to a war that was not naturally his own.

That knowledge burned in her chest now when she looked at Frank now standing before her so wounded from that same war. With the shield granted by his name and their unblemished blood, he and Alice need never have risked so much to ensure the safety of their own lives and future. And they had fought regardless, devoting countless hours and drops of blood and sweat and tears all to protect people like herself and her lost love. 

Once, Charity had held an ineffable belief in the inherent goodness of the world but it seemed this war was determined to rip it away from her. It was one of life’s greatest cruelties that she had to see the paradox of her once firmly held belief written out again and again. Althea had been blameless and noble and determined to save the world from those who would see it destroyed for their greed. And she had died a cruel and senseless death. The Longbottoms were good and noble even at great personal risk. And they had suffered the loss of their own innocent child as repayment for their goodness. It wasn’t fair. And as childish and small as that thought seemed in the face of all the horrors of war, it often made her want to scream… sometimes in grief that faintly echoed the aching terrified nocturnal shrieks of one of her dearest friends and other times in a rage more akin to the one that seethed under Frank’s own skin. 

Still, despite her own small measure of understanding of his fury and desire for justice, she could not fully accept the choices he was making as he ran blindly towards his goal. I won’t speak on Alice’s behalf. Her lips pursed ever so slightly as she wondered if he had spoken to Alice about the vigil before deciding to devote himself to more pressing matters. Her small spike of ire softened slightly as she wondered also when the last time he had slept for any length of time had been. None of the residents of the Hollow seemed disposed to restful nights but the signs of exhaustion were beginning to look stark and dangerous written as they were in the red lines pulsing in the whites of Frank’s eyes. Still so much to do. It was clear that he did not believe that the vigil was an appropriate use of time. He probably found the entire idea foolish at best. She wished that he would take the time to let himself rest and heal even the smallest measure. She wished she had the words to explain that doing so did not have to mean giving up on avenging his son and that even patching a wound could make a difference in the long run. Surely he did not think that she believed he would let go of his grief and determination so easily… not when he should know how deeply she clung to a thread of her own. 

“I see,” Charity said softly watching as he barricaded himself against her in her doorway. I wish… there was some way I could take away your pain… I wish you’d at least let me try. But she was not going to set herself up as yet another battle for him to fight. Not when he was killing himself already fighting enemies both within and without. “I’ll miss you at the vigil, I do wish you would come, but I appreciate you taking the time to come and tell me ahead of time. I know you’re likely in a hurry, but maybe I could press a cuppa on you before you leave?” 

As a child, Frank had been a voracious reader. With Augusta’s steadfast encouragement, he managed to sift through his family’s vast collection, methodically going book by book and shelf by shelf until that library could no longer contain his expansive appetite. He wasn’t particularly picky about the subject matter, but upon self-reflection he later discovered that all his favorite tales had the same underlying theme tethering them together: good always conquered evil and the valiant hero always defeated the dastardly villain. Perhaps it was a bit predictable for a boy of eleven to idolize such mythic figures, but as he would come to find out, it was certainly pathetic for a man more than twice that age to try to emulate them.

If Frank had been wiser; if he had made an effort to look beyond the superficial sheen of heroism, he probably could have saved himself a lot of heartache in the end. Yes, heroes won fame and acclaim; yes, they overcame and superseded all expectation, but at a steep cost. Initially, he thought he was exempt, that he had been overlooked when everyone else had been charged. Now, though, Frank believed he had paid the price ten times—no, a hundred times over—but was it enough? It seemed like they were all still baying for blood; demanding more sacrifice, more than he had left to give, but Frank had nothing left to offer. 

Unsure of what to do next, Frank eyed her warily. Even though he knew that she meant no harm, he could still feel the intensity of her gaze bore into him. She had become a pillar for Alice in recent memory, providing both solace and stability in the dead of the night when he couldn’t. It stung to realize that Charity, who had once looked to him for guidance and reprieve from her own grief, now saw him through new eyes. Although he would hesitate to call her gaze accusatory, there were moments in which it felt as if it were just that. He couldn’t fault her, of course, she had witnessed his fall from grace and each night as she came to comfort his wife in his stead, she watched as he tumbled more from the pedestal he once stood on. He wished it could be different; he wished he could be different, but Frank was struck inert by his failures, too preoccupied with his shortcomings to be of any use anymore. 

In response to her invitation to stay a little, Frank shook his head, holding his left hand up with the palm out to further emphasize his point. “No, thank you—I have to get going.” Then, as if on cue, his mind flicked back to lead that had previously preoccupied his thoughts. He still had much to do. With his free hand, he reached behind him, fumbling for the doorknob until he was able to grasp it between his fingers and secure his exit. “Another time?” Frank asked as a sort of half-hearted concession. Charity began to speak but her reply was lost to him, drowned out by the the sound of the creaky door opening. Nodding in response, he flashed an empty smile and ventured back into the January gloom, his back to her and what she offered.

— FIN

[flongbottomed]

ALICE‌:

She can see it in his eyes, the heaviness of his heart ballasted by her words.

Frank’s bearing is a concession. His words put aside his differences for a moment, forsake them entirely, even, for the good health of someone else who means a great deal more to him than himself. But Alice cannot take this as a victory. It is compromise and forfeit, something bare and void and surrendered. They don’t meet in the middle. They never meet in the middle — this is as close as they get to similitude.

“Okay,” Alice repeats, “We’ll go.” She knows she ought to say something more than this recitation of her husband’s words; something with more density or texture, something with wounding shape. Frank’s impersonal stare blisters her, wishing only for her to say something more; to break, to be human, to become someone else. That elliptic girl he still loved, long gone. She finds she cannot keep his gaze for long, withering beneath it. Loss has frozen her over, leaving her lonely but quite unable to ask for the intimacy. Instead, she sits mere hairbreadths from the other half of her soul and they establish contact more like strangers than husband and wife. Alice re-curls herself underneath the blanket and hugs her knees; with a need to hold something, it is not as if she can reach out and embrace the stranger beside her.

The two of them sit in this deadened silence for a few seconds; fleeting moments that hang between them for a lifetime. Despite their distance, Alice still knows husband better than any other; she feels his unfinished irascibility bait him, his agitation bubbling beneath the skin. She finds herself frozen, unable to break through this dry ice. It is impossible to see the balance of their partnership in moments like these — to understand their history in the way they had coolly blueprinted plans and captured fugitives of the wizarding world. Now they sit inches apart but seem parcels away from one another, the quiet burying them. Their victories are like morsels of dust separated in the air, ripped apart in the silence.

Alice finds that she is holding her breath in this stillness, her consciousness slipping somewhere between her last exhalation and the next inhalation she must force herself to make. She breathes in and out, her gaze fastened vacuously on Frank’s hands. Their fingers feel miles apart yet their proximity makes Alice feel close enough to touch them; but she remains bridled, governed by her hesitancy to interact with her husband, a thought entering her heads and escaping once more. Vestigial gusts of emotion that go unvoiced. In this moment, she finds herself more a paradox than she has ever been; more than anything she wants to tell him what his concession means to her, steps he might gladly welcome as progress, but she cannot unravel the revelation.

“Thank you,” she says, knowing how her blankness must provoke her husband. Frank’s surrender does not bring back her son, nor the man she loves. But it means something.

— FIN

[flongbottomed]

 XENOPHILIUS‌:

He didn’t reply to their offer of aid, instead continuing to desperately search over the notes to try to find whatever answer he searched for. Ah. So this was what it must have been like when others happened upon their own bouts of inspiration. They were so thoroughly entrenched in their own work that the outside world beyond their thoughts and the papers they put them to meant little at all. There was very little that could call them out of their own concentration beyond perhaps Pandora’s touch, which they realized now must have been somewhat frustrating for others. And odd, not that that was news.

Xenophilius did not mind, though. They understood well what it was like to be so focused on a problem and finding a solution or explanation that all else fell away, words blocked out by hundreds of other internal noises.

Moving around to look over Frank’s shoulder at the dozens of maps, the notes he had been making on them, their eyes widened with something close to excitement at all of the work he was putting into his theories. It was rare in Godric’s Hollow that anyone besides their own wife was seen doing such thorough research into a problem logically, and it excited them, the prospect of perhaps aiding in the valiant endeavor. 

“Perhaps looking beyond what makes sense might lead to more nuanced theories. Sense is rarely what brings truly revolutionary solutions, in the grand scheme of things. And if it was sensical, I think perhaps someone would have found them already before now,” Xeno commented, whether or not the other was truly listening. They continued to gaze over the maps, taking in all the work he had done thus far as best they could without verbal explanation. He was in search of what so many others seemed interested after the surprise broadcast, finding the second safe place. They did notice something about the map, though.

“Our home isn’t on there,” he said, after a long minute of silence. He leaned forward and pointed on the map to where the house was, unmarked as of yet. “Just there, near the Weasleys. You should ask when Greta lived, too. Perhaps you should consider at your allies’ bases as well. I would think those places would be less dangerous to create a safe space or even leave hints of where it might be; the other side would be less likely to consider non-members whereabouts.”

In many ways, Frank had been blessed beyond belief. Ever since he was a child, he had stood out in all the right ways, never once needing to doubt his ability or potential. Of course, it helped that he fit their society’s arbitrary rules: he was not muggleborn, a misfit, or simply different. Any target he had on his back was placed there with his own two hands. Others were not so lucky however, his wife and present company included. In fact, many in the Order were previously considered oddities. It seemed to be a commonality amongst the group, one of the many things that united them in their fight. This was untrue for Frank though. It felt as if he were the outsider here in Godric’s Hollow, but to claim such an identity felt wrong—not when individuals such as Xenophilius had to struggle to make it their own.

In reality, Frank had more in common with the other side. There was a time in which he also unfairly judged Xenophilius. Although there wasn’t much overlap in their years at Hogwarts because of their age gap, he could still remember watching from afar as the Ravenclaw sat sequestered in the library, surrounded by heavy tomes and aged scrolls. Perhaps in another life they could have been friends; after all, they both possessed a mutual love of knowledge and a ceaseless dedication in uncovering unwanted truths. In this life though, Frank had allowed himself to get swept up in preconceived notions, always staying an arm’s length away from the school’s resident pariah.

Now, he welcomed Xenophilius’ advice—especially this piece which held boundless promise. If he, a full-fledged member of the Order, had been able to overlook their many allies, Frank was sure the Death Eaters could as well. It was such an easy mistake to make. If they were clever, the second Order, wherever they were, would exploit this and use it to their advantage, especially since some of their associates had rather loose and clandestine affiliations with the Order. Eyeing the spot where their finger hovered over, Frank tapped the rubber end of his pencil on the desk in a rhythmic pattern while deep in thought. 

“Good point,” He conceded finally, labeling the site with his pencil. “The area you lived in? What is it called?” Frank peered at the map again, squinting at the indecipherable text, the letters smeared from decades of use. “I can’t quite read that.” Then glancing up at Xenophilius, Frank pressed further, his curiosity piqued from their previous statement: “Beyond sense? What do you mean? What can I trust then?”

[flongbottomed]

ALICE‌:

Alice does not quite enlist Frank’s final recitation; her engrossment loses itself somewhere in-between his words. Splintered and too cold, words are compelled out of his mouth as if they are the only approximation he himself can manage—for their hands to touch, that would be too much for the two of them. His initial assertion perforates; it makes her heart expedite, or perhaps miss a beat entirely. She would think it callous if not accompanied by his remote softness, the infirmity only a stranger exudes. Nonetheless, she knows his verdict: her husband would not join her in mourning the death of their son.

Charity. She clings to the word—it is the only one he proffers that offers her an inkling of comfort. Charity. The same Charity who, night after night, their homes a few unmitigated metres apart, pulled on her boots and pressed over to their house with a certain exigency, half-dressed and rubbing sleep from her eyes as she sought shield her friend from her nocturnal shrieks. The same Charity who held her as she sobbed, Alice’s own husband’s touch still too foreign to her, too dissimulating and inoperative, while she herself held back tears reserved for her wife. Alice has to remind herself sometimes: in war, everyone loses someone.

She wondered what Charity thought of her husband’s declaration.

“Oh,” Alice reflects, her voice small, “I see.” Here, she was at an impasse: to concede to the decision, to prolong their infinitesimal interaction, this uncommon but nonetheless allaying exchange of words; or to challenge it? In this moment, she desires nothing more for Frank to take her in the bulwark of his arms. She wants to lean into him utterly, his chin rested at the crown of her head, as was the nature of their affection—to tell her that he loves her, that they’d get through this. Together, as a team. But equally, she is assaulted by the prescience of her rebuffal; flinching at each others’ touch. They are too alien to each other now—disunited pieces that no longer fit together like a motley puzzle, but rather scratch and scathe against their roughed edges. 

“You didn’t tell me that was your intention,” she decides upon, as if he told her anything at all. Alice selects her words carefully, at risk of decrying Frank’s already distorted image of his wife. Separate and drifting away: that was how he envisioned her. Already severed from the past, dissolved into something new but incomplete, too willing to acquiesce to the anguish that befell them. She knows how her words must sound to him, like a childless mother too keen to bid her son farewell. Alice compresses the blanket in her hands now, thinly pulling it over herself as if a sheen of protection. He must see me, she thinks, as if he sees much of anything anymore. “I think—that you should go. That we should both attend. Otherwise, we would be the only ones that didn’t, and I know how that must look. If only to support the others; to support Arthur, Charity, Lily. We aren’t the only ones who—”

Alice stops herself. We aren’t the only ones who lost somebody in the war. She knows too well how her husband might recoil. No, she thinks. But we are the only ones who lost a child.

Frank examines Alice, watching for some degree of emotion to break through to the surface. She remains expressionless though, as if she is impervious to everything, including the bite of his words. He doesn’t voice it, but in this moment her neutrality irritates him. The dark parts of him want to lash out, to provoke something equally vile in her, but he cannot bring himself to indulge in such calculated destruction—not when she is the only one who can begin to understand. Instead, he bites his tongue and listens, mindfully modulating his own reactions until he can no longer.

She stops talking abruptly as if she realizes her error mid-thought. However, what remains unspoken still hangs between them, suspended in the air like an executioner’s blade moments before it meets its mark. It’s now that he feels most like Atlas: burdened with a monumental task and bearing the brunt of the world and heavens alone. Unsurprisingly, the weight of it all makes him tired and more weary than his twenty-seven years of existence can contain—whatever this emotion is, it’s primordial, contrived at the dawn of time to accompany the misery of living. Frank realizes then that he’s been holding his breath in anticipation of the blow, bracing himself for the moment in which her words pierce the skin and slice down to the bone, and thinks for a second that maybe Alice is too.

He lets out an exaggerated sigh, but he finds no release or catharsis. They have done this so many times before, quarreled about their varying point of views, but today Frank has no desire to revisit conversations that stall or recite points he’s made time and time again. So he bows his head in careful contemplation, his expression clouded by unease, until finally he snaps, managing to voice a rather strained statement of approval: “Okay, fine, we’ll go.”

We aren’t the only ones, Alice had said before trailing off. From that statement, this much was obvious to him: it had to be important to her if she was willing to risk setting him off. He looks at her cooly behind guarded eyes, but beneath it all, he seethes: it’s her pauses that are the most honest; it’s her silence that has always been the most telling. Her sentence repeats itself in his mind and innately he knows exactly what she had meant to say: We aren’t the only ones who lost somebody in the war. Frank wants to protest; he wants to yell and holler his rebuttal. That may have been true, but they were the only ones who lost a child.

[madzieloss]

Golden child, Lion boy; Tell me what it’s like to conquer.  Fearless child, Broken boy; Tell me what it’s like to burn.

oh darling, even rome fell // p.s. (via madzie-bane)

[getawaywithgifs]

When I was at Oxford University I used to break into balls. Like fancy balls. It was great! So there’d be a ball coming, where the college would be shut off and everyone would buy their over expensive tickets and regalia. We’d find out what the wristbands were and essentially would forge. One ball they had a yellow laminated wristband so we then went shopping for folders- you know with the laminated bits? We’d strip off that section and cut it into the thickness of the bands and would flash them at the bouncers. – Alfred Enoch

[flongbottomed]

   XENOPHILIUS‌:

the library, midmorning, january 28    ( @flongbottomed )

Some things changed so quickly that it left nothing but a hazy shadow in its place. It seemed just now that which had been changed, lost was the sudden bought of productive inspiration from the vigil and subsequent message. Inspiration gave way to a sort of mental anguish they weren’t certain they would ever become used to, even over a decade since the attack. Thoughts on fire, a myriad of sounds in their head, all too jumbled to understand, the sudden impossibility of managing anything brilliant, or even coherent. They needed to be grounded. 

Somewhere along the way, Xenophilius had learned the art of appearing more put together than they were, the art of appearing as if they weren’t constantly being bombarded with dozens of sounds at any moment. Those around them might’ve disagreed, but managing to wander towards the library without stopping distracted, seeking anything that might help cool the fire, was a feat for them.

Into the center of knowledge he travelled, breathing a sigh of relief as soon as he’d closed the door behind him. In the midst of chaos, there was something eternally comforting about the sound of quill, or pen, or pencil scratching against paper, the transferal of ideas from the mind to the world. And hearing that familiar sound, echoing through the nearly empty library, somehow brought them back to earth, a chill traveling up his spine. For a small instant, the noise filling his ears stopped, and all they heard was that which was actually there.

All purpose was suddenly lost but to find the source of that noise, as it felt as if somehow finding that would lead to some truth that they needed. Why else had they been gifted with something approaching silence for an instant?

And perhaps that was correct. The scene they came upon, Frank Longbottom sitting alone, odd scraps of paper spread out in front of him, hard at work, focused with intense precision on whatever it was he was thinking up, was glorious. Xenophilius did not know Frank particularly well––the same which could have been said for most everyone in the village before coming here––but this felt different. In a way, it felt like looking in a mirror. He did not want to disturb the scene, but he knew he must.

“Having the privilege of witnessing inspiration at work is rare, especially now, where we are. Such an intensely private thing, but not all work should remain as such. I look at you, just now, and I see something familiar,” he said, breaking the delicate silence all at once, approaching. “What grand questions have you come to chase down? Perhaps I can offer my aid…”

It was rare for him to cede to anyone’s will but his own; even rarer for him to admit fault or ignorance, yet in recent memory he had done both in equal measure. As with most things, Frank had Alice to thank for that. Although he had been recalcitrant at first, he was now admittedly grateful to have attended the vigil, but not for the reasons they had hoped for. Damn the candles and well wishes—the broadcast was what really mattered that night. It had left him frenetic; bristling with kinetic energy and rearing for action to break the droll convenience of passivity. Whatever frustration he felt at his progress or lack thereof dissipated in a span of seconds and was replaced by a renewed sense of focus. 

However, his attention was surprisingly not centered on the seeds of mistrust that Glenda had sown—no, he’d suspected it all along, known it deep within himself that among them someone dealt secrets for lives. Instead, he sought the location of the alleged second Order. That was the newest conundrum, perhaps even the break he’d been ceaselessly searching for, but he couldn’t find it in his study; not when he was surrounded by clues that grew increasingly stagnant over time. Gathering what he could, Frank made the short sojourn to the library. This would be yet another step in his design, a potential pathway to new theorems and postulates.

There, sheets of maps were splayed out on the oak desk before him, some bound within atlases that predated his existence, others half-crumpled and faded from use. Atop each chart he had marked the home bases of past members, dead or alive, and the locations they were last seen. Each individual notation was further surrounded by a fifteen kilometer perimeter, sketched out in graphite, indicating an approximate of what could be reasonably traveled by foot with the proper motivation after factoring in any ill or wounded. Likely, the others had taken refuge somewhere familiar as they had—hopefully, nowhere as morbid. Regardless, if they truly existed, they existed somewhere within the bounds of these maps.

His hand trembled as he jotted down notes, the ache of overuse eroding his joints. He knew why: he gripped the pencil too tightly; Frank was still acclimating to this new contraption Arthur had introduced when the ink for their quills dried up. Frustrated, he ceased writing just as Xenophilius cut in. His eyes remained trained on the documents before him, unwilling to be torn from his unfinished work. Half in a trance, he began speaking, “They have to be somewhere here. It’s what makes sense.”

[flongbottomed]

ALICE‌:

The two of them continue to use terms of endearment as if still really cohere to them: dear, darling, sweetheart, my love. But Alice knows now that these are only names they use in clinging to something long gone—a memory, an idea, a ghost.

As a child, Alice found she was unable to keep her peers’ gazes for long. Their eyes were always too prying, too vigilant, as if, piercing, they traveled too deeply into her soul. Correspondingly, then, Frank had certainly been quite unlike anyone Alice had ever met. When he watched her, she never much minded—that feeling, to be wholly seen and entirely loved, was one she had yet to replicate. But Frank looks at her now, his stare unbroken, and she knows he does not truly see her. She is an anthology of memoirs, of reminders, of clues; Alice feels Frank look through her, as if she were a draft let in by the open window, or a cut of thin film. And yet, she cannot break the stare; she both withers and grows beneath his eye.

Their house’s four walls and blankets, frayed at the edges, have been her only comfort these recent weeks. Since the two had met—that day she had peered into his eyes and seen the stars—Alice had always felt quite alone without Frank. To be without him now felt an impossible feat; and yet, she survived, if she ever dared to assume so. “Would you sit with me?” Alice asks, though it passes her lips as more a pleading than an invitation. Alice shuffles herself around to generate some room for her husband as she crosses her legs beneath herself.

“I wanted to discuss something with you,”  Alice’s words are soft and delicate, and not quite her own. “I wanted—to talk to you about something.” Too much of her is foreign, alien; her expression, her words, her manner; this is not how two people in love interact. Alice pauses for a moment, as if she needs a second to muster the courage to enforce the transition. Clearing her throat, more emphatic this time, she says: “I wanted to talk about the vigil.”

There is a part of him that recognizes they are alike in all the ways that matter. Alice is his equal; a mirrored image, inverted but matching nevertheless. Nowadays, though, he struggles to see that same girl who set it upon herself to recenter his orbit years ago. There is an absence in her that is wide and gaping; gone is the ceaseless passion and sharpness that he had once called his love. 

Even as she speaks, her words sound hollow and distant. This is where they are now: occupying the same space, but still worlds apart. His brows furrow together, but Frank decides to acquiesce to her request, standing up only to seat himself back down again. Beneath him, the cushions sink from his weight and gravity pulls Alice closer. He realizes that he could reach out and touch her with ease if he wanted to, but the act feels too much like surrender. Instead, he places his idle hands on the tops of his knees, the coarse fabric of his pants furling up in his palms.

In the dim light, as he looks at her, Frank registers the dark purple circles beneath her eyes, but he cannot bring himself to comment on them. It feels too obtrusive, as if in doing so, he would violate some sort of unspoken pact they had established to ignore the ugliest parts of their grief. Over the past few months, he has grown too comfortable with this tenuous balance they have fashioned. What they have now between them is a pale facsimile of their initial union; they used to be the envy of all, but oh how they have fallen from grace.

“Right.” Frank nods to punctuate his statement; he had seen this coming. Although he understands their motives, he finds the very idea an affront to their dead and missing. This vigil is a concession of sorts and he cannot fathom how they could hold it here where the soil, still loose from the digging, demanded justice. “I’ve already spoken to Charity about the matter.” His voice is low and hesitant—now, it strikes him how it all must sound to her. “I informed her I wouldn’t be going.”

[flongbottomed]

CHARITY‌:

The sound of hurried footsteps approaching set Charity’s mind spinning with possibilities ranging from hopeful to devastating. It was someone rushing to tell her that someone had been found - maybe Molly gods please… please let Molly be alright - it was news of an attack or some new soul lost to them - when was the last time I saw Dorcas? - or worse it was an attack on the Hollow. They had waited too long and been found out already. Moody and Amelia had been right and even taking the merest time to breathe and recovery from their losses had doomed them and now the enemy was at their doorstep.

Her heart jumped into her throat but she held her ground. Every minute counted in a battle, she’d learned that by now at least, and if she could at least go down fighting those few moments she bought could mean the difference between life or death for any one of her friends. It could be the difference between Arthur and the kids getting out or them joining the already too long list of those who had lost their lives in this village. Her grip tightened on her wand, knuckles turning white as she steeled herself to face…

Frank. 

A tightly held breath shuddered out of her even as she shook her head dismissing his apology. “It’s alright, Frank.” Her heart pounded in her ears as she tucked her wand back out of sight, although never out of reach, in the pocket of her wrap, but she forced herself to relax and offer the man a small smile of welcome.

God knew he had plenty on his mind without worrying about having had upset her. It didn’t surprise her that he was far too distracted to have realized how his abrupt entry might have come across until after the fact. In her experience, any sort of grief could be blinding and Frank had suffered a keener loss than she could imagine. It was hardly surprising that he was still reeling from it, she only wished she could find a way to draw him from the edge that she saw him tripping along. But it seemed no matter what she… no matter what anyone - her mind catches on a flash of Alice’s face pale and pained- did it seemed that he kept slipping just out of their reach. 

Once they had all looked to the Longbottoms for guidance and hope. They had been bright burning stars in the dark of a bitter war and now to see them so fractured and dimmed that they hardly seemed able to see each other in the dark was something beyond a tragedy. 

His words, saddening as they were, did not come as much of a surprise either. “Oh,” Charity’s voice was quiet with uncertainty, “I’d hoped you might join us. But I…” she hesitated to say that she understood. No matter the depth of the wounds that decorated her heart she could not believe any of them so deep as the mark of grief that colored Frank’s every movement. “I know that it’s not right for everyone right now.”

Despite her small act of clemency, Frank still felt remorseful; he was sure he had frightened Charity, and although she was battle-tested, she was not yet a hardened soldier. Even now, he could see the last traces of her panic as she unwound, relief flooding her every movement. He should have known better, especially in this current climate when, quite frankly, safety was more of an illusion than a solution, though both Kingsley and Arabella swore otherwise. Once, he too had been foolish enough to believe in the fallacy of it all; now, he functioned in spite of it.

However, the irony of the situation was not lost on him; he had initially sought her out to exercise his etiquette, but in doing so, he had also acted thoughtlessly. Frank had been so set on wording the refusal that he let his sense of propriety slip for just a moment too long. Biting back another apology he was sure she’d disregard, he decided to linger by the door instead and press on. 

“I won’t speak on Alice’s behalf, but I cannot go in good conscience when there is still so much to do.” The words felt odd coming out of his mouth. For so long they had been an us, a we, Frank and Alice: always together, always unified. Aloud, their separation seemed wrong as if he had misspoken in haste, but it was the truth; Frank could no longer speak to her mind or her thoughts—they were disconnected, detached even. 

He shifted uncomfortably, suddenly all too aware of her measured expression and deliberate choice in phrasing; she was, in a sense, handling him as if he were as fragile as cracked glass. To an extent, Frank was grateful for the gesture, he had acted similarly so many times before—to Charity, even, as she mourned Althea—but still, it irked him. He hated feeling so impressionable, as if any misfire could send him careening off the edge and into a deep spiral, but Frank felt grounded in his rage. Her concern, although appreciated, was misplaced. He was fine—well, he was nearly fine.

Crossing his arms in a motion that could only be described as defensive, Frank dropped his gaze, studying the worn wooden planks beneath her feet. Truthfully, he had been expecting more of a resistance to his answer or at least a barrage of questions regarding his decision-making process, but Charity’s empathy was seemingly unparalleled and a true testament to her virtue and her name. He searched for something else to say, but there were no words left. Instead, for once, he let the silence communicate for him, though even that felt inflammatory.

[flongbottomed]

fool

           “WHAT’S THE BIGGEST RISK YOU’VE EVER TAKEN?—”

In retrospect, the answer is blatantly obvious: by bringing new life into this war-torn world as soldiers with targets on their backs, Frank and Alice unwittingly gifted their enemies with an opportunity to construct their demise and thus risked everything. It was, perhaps, the ultimate act of self-sabotage; a surefire way to ensure that they would not come out of this unscathed. 

Of course, at the time, they both acknowledged there would be a degree of danger, but they believed they were making a calculated and conscious decision. However, they were lulled into the choice by a false sense of optimism and security, emboldened by their sure and steady victories. Defeat seemed like an afterthought; something wholly improbable. Only when they were sick with confidence did they foolishly determine that they were capable of shouldering such a task.

It ended just as quickly as it began. He had spent nine months in the womb and only about fifteen months in their embrace. No finite amount of time would have been enough, but a little over a year was certainly too short. Neville had been a difficult baby, but nonetheless, he was theirs. With dark eyes and a button nose, he was a perfect amalgam of both Frank and Alice. Now, he is nothing. 

However, even though he feels his son’s loss keenly, if asked, he’d say he wouldn’t trade their time together for some added peace. Despite it all, he still believes the risk was worth it. If he were to omit anything from their story, it certainly wouldn’t be Neville; not when there is much else he’d be set to excise.

[lovedbyapollon]

I used to say I’d know you anywhere, but it’s getting harder.

Margaret Atwood, “Shapechangers in Winter” from Morning in the Burned House (via lovedbyapollon)

[flongbottomed]

ALICE‌:

•  timestamp: 16 january 1982, 11:30 pm. •  location: the longbottoms’ ‘house’, sitting room. •  status: closed to @flongbottomed​.

They have been living apart for some time now; somehow, it felt like eons as much as it did seconds. Fashioning it as truly living was done so with hesitancy; after all, Alice just about managed to drift between locations, more a shell of her old self than the girl Frank had married. Nowadays, Alice watched her husband grapple at various theories, like a parched fish gasping for the ocean. Not so much separated in that they lived far from one another, or that their detachment had ever been a discussed, conscious decision, the two of them are simply severed as they had been years ago; strangers once more.

Though they had yet to discuss the matter, Alice knew the vigil would be the latest thing to divide them. The way Frank functioned had, in marriage, become second nature to her; and she knew exactly how, in his grief, he was now likely to react. He would want to say, without truly wanting to admit it: how could they light a candle in concession of a thing which continued to be fought for? Alice found they often disagreed, something she had experienced once or twice before but which was nonetheless easily reconciled, though she lacked the capacity now to ever truly challenge him. Frank’s latest theories saw Alice, expending all her energy to do so, nodding and agreeing with this fog of vengeance, conceding to him in a way she hadn’t before.

The vigil, then, left them at something of an impasse.

The house grows cold and, suspended in thoughts she perhaps does not recognise she is even considering, Alice does not initially notice Frank’s emergence from the adjacent room. Alice had learned quickly not to visit him there; what remained of Neville’s belongings – those which Frank had cached as evidence – were glossed with a sheen of grey. Lifeless. Like too much now. Conversations, when they managed to have them, saw them repeating themselves: the memory of a wound, which still cut like a knife with teeth. Alice turns to face a husband she rarely recognises, though she feels as if he doesn’t really see her; as if he is somewhere else, in front of her. A hesitant, barely discernible “Frank,” passes through Alice’s lips. She clears her throat, more certain this time, and her words manifest. “Frank?”

On most days, Frank spends his time alone in his room focused on the piles of evidence he’s amassed. Today is no different: he sorts through the documents and relics gingerly, with all the gentleness left in him, intent on the act of preservation for this is it; these are the last vestiges of that day at the Malfoy’s, when the world as he knew it ended and begun anew in the span of a moment. 

He knows it’s a macabre collection, comprised of papers detailing the events that led up to the attack and his child’s playthings, mostly new but now forever suspended in disuse. Laid out before him, it’s a winding timeline with pieces that don’t quite fit together and red herrings that detract from the truth. It resembles some of the convoluted cases he was assigned to work as an Auror, but without Alice he is half of a whole, lost in the vastness and ambiguity of his task. He could ask for her help, but she cannot bear to share this space with him; Alice finds the air too inert and too stifling. Although he can understand to a degree, her absence stings nonetheless. Before this, they were an indivisible unit, brilliant and shining, an example of what could be. Now, he has to continually remind himself that to her, this room is just a motley compendium of their deepest loss, but to him it has always been a lesson in abject failure.

If he’s honest with himself, he’ll admit for that reason alone, he cannot bring himself to face her. Frank is no longer the bright, triumphant boy she loves. It is why he clings to the mystery, as if in solving it, he will be able to finally draw clarity from chaos and return the world back to its proper state again. Yet his vision blurs as he scrutinizes the cryptic report for the fifth time this hour. With the back of his fist, he rubs at his eyes, but the scrawled script on the page remains amorphous. It seems as if he will not crack the case today. Rising from his seated position, he decides that a break would be worthwhile now. His belly is empty and angry.

As he steps out of his cavern, the soft hum of her voice pulls his attention, though at first it’s like a gentle tug, but as it grows in volume, so does his compulsion to turn to her when she speaks. Accordingly then, Frank pivots towards Alice, leaning back to catch a nearby table with his hips and hands. It’s the first time in recent memory that he’s able to look at her straight on—not from a haphazard sideways glance or when she’s reclined back in repose, deep asleep—but eye to eye, unabashedly sincere. For a moment he’s taken aback, but then, he finds his footing. 

“Yes dear?” Frank answers almost instinctively. “What is it?”