WHERE: Countryside outside of Ottery St. Catchpole. WHEN: 5th August, 2002. STATUS: closed / @lovegood-lvna
The sky had been churning, gloomy and grey, overhead since Fabian had first left the Burrow a half-hour ago for some air, as he’d insisted to Molly when she’d popped up in his path, suspicious of his intentions. The thick, smothering heat spoke of a sky on the brink, a storm in it’s first infant steps, the breeze rustling sporadically through the tall grass, rustling and whirring and buzzing with life and the deep bruised horizon that he’d spent the last ten minutes studying with the intent focus of a man who had never had so much time to himself in his life.
Unemployment, unequivocally, did not suit him.
Fabian sighed, loudly, then louder into the empty field and to the burbling stream only meters away and when this did not garner a reaction he lay back on the grass and stared grumpily up at the canopy of the tree he’d perched himself beneath, watching the leaves ripple back and forth with the breeze, the boughs of the tree sighing and creaking overhead. What use was a journalist without his pen? A wizard without magic? What use was a soldier without a war? Why him, why not—
No, no, he wasn’t being maudlin today. He had taken the bicycle out again and he’d rode until Molly and her bat-sonar couldn’t possibly hear him bellow out his frustration, then he had flopped here in the grass, determined to find something to sustain him before he returned. Molly deserved better than his wallowing. It had never been his style.
The countryside was as unmoved by his existential angst as the face that appeared suddenly in his vision, wide blue eyes blinking down at him from beneath a low-brimmed hat that appeared to resemble a frog.
Fabian’s forehead furrowed faintly, taking in what appeared to be a butterfly net swinging over her shoulder and cleared his throat, blinking upwards as he asked, “Have you - I don’t suppose you’ve been here for very long, have you?”