WHERE: Outside the WWN Headquarters, Hogsmeade. WHEN: August 13th, 2002. STATUS: closed / @eastonks
Hidden behind an armful of paperbags, stuffed full of turnips and onions and sprouts and pods of peas, Fabian made his getaway.
It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate the intention behind Molly’s (not at all carefully scheduled) bonding time with his nephews and his niece. He certainly couldn’t dislike the absurdity of the vigour with which Percy had come to approach this task, like an exam that had been rigorously studied for and usually coincided with performing some errand or the other for Molly in the process.
So no, it was neither Molly’s schedule nor Percy’s planning nor The Magic Neep and it’s charming collection of (“Organic! Every last one!”) vegetables and fruit that were at fault, he supposed, but rather a wildly unfortunate proximity to the one place on earth that Fabian did not wish to revisit. Iron will guided him around the aisles of the store and out again, but as Percy had nipped into Scrivenshaft’s for just a tick, that iron had swiftly buckled and Fabian had beaten a hasty track down the High Street and away from the familiar turn off to the Hog’s Head, grateful for the rushing of blood in his ears if only because it was drowning out the hiss of coward.
He’d legged it almost halfway to The Three Broomsticks before it all came unstuck, the wizard staring blankly up at the sign of the Wizarding Wireless Network’s headquarters seemingly oblivious to the full-speed trainwreck heading his way until Fabian slammed into him, produce first. The paper bag split and an eruption of produce spilled into the street, heralded only by the distressed groan of, “Oh, bullocks it all,” as Fabian bounced back onto his heels and skidded on one of the tiny fancy onions that Percy had been so thrilled to find, balancing himself hastily against the stone facade of the looming radio station to assess the carnage.
Fabian stared at the tremendous split in the bag with the long-suffering expression of a man who had faced down the consequences of the Muggle way of doing things and decided he didn’t much fancy it, before focusing instead on the task he could accomplish. “Percy’s going to bloody murder me over those onions,” he sighed, a compulsive choked little laugh escaping his lips over the uncomfortable turn of phrase as he scrabbled at his pockets for the packet of cigarettes he’d been keeping hidden for fear of a lecture. He sunk moodily down to sit on the stoop of the radio station, ignoring the concerned glances of passers by before finally, he triumphantly produced a cigarette from the carton and cast a dubious look up at the man he’d just accosted with organic produce.
He frowned, then frowned deeper, raising a hand to block the sun and squint at the features that had changed with age and a hairline just beginning to sprout greys and his breath caught abruptly, painfully, in his chest, cigarette dangling from his mouth as he asked, “Tonks, is that you?”
