#arabellafiggaf

[untamedmeadowes]

Salve for Sore Spirits

LOCATION: House of Bones DATE: March 23, 1982 @arabellafiggaf

Dorcas did not much like sitting still. It was one of her least favorite things in the world, in fact. But Benjy had insisted in no uncertain terms that she should do as much of it as possible as she recuperated from her injuries in her battle against Voldemort. As much as Dorcas adored her friend and trusted his medical know-how, she would have found it a difficult instruction to follow if not for the pain.

Pain was something Dorcas was used to, of course; she was a rash and reckless with who didn’t so much look before she leaped as she did leap and never look at all, laughing-off the consequences after. But these consequences were no so easily laughed-off, and that was something to which Dorcas was very unused indeed. Magical healing could fix almost anything in a matter of minutes, maybe hours if it was particularly bad -- but days? That was something so far beyond her scope of experience that it almost seemed like a joke.

Not a very good joke, mind.

Even when she’d exploded herself halfway across the atrium of the Ministry of Magic, it had been more a matter of aches and stings and headaches than actual deep-rooted pain. She didn’t like it. She didn’t like it at all...but she couldn’t complain about it, either. Benjy was so busy, so strained. Whatever was wrong with Emmeline was eating away at him enough; Dorcas wasn’t about to make herself into another problem by whinging. Besides, Benjy’s fall off that broom and out of his Quidditch career was the kind that never went away. Dorcas couldn’t possibly whinge to him about her aches, now!

Instead she moped around, curling in first one chair and then another in the weird, creepy, wonderful House of Bones. (She’d made it home to tell her parents she was all right on the strength of some noxious brew that Severus had handed her, and told her she was under no circumstances to drink again; they thought she was crashing at Emma’s house to avoid the heartbreaking sight of Diagon Alley in tatters.) She tried to read -- ordinarily a favorite pastime, and the only thing that could make her sit still -- but it was hard to focus on the words. Red eyes and a high, cold laugh kept breaking in to her concentration.

Dorcas flung her book across the room in disgust, only noticing that she was no longer alone when it came to a stop inches from someone else’s feet. “Uh...sorry,” she croaked. “That wasn’t personal. I mean, it was, but it was directed at the book, not you.”

[bristlybranwen]

fruitless

Location: Hogsmeade Time: Late at night, 28th of February Status: Closed, for @arabellafiggaf

Bran kicked against the wall of one of the huts, immediately regretting her decision and groaning out a list of curse-words, all of them accentuated by the deep Scottish accent her tongue sported. 

Two hours for absolutely nothing again! She was sick of this! Sure, at least nighttime fell before 7pm up here, allowing her to do this before actually making anyone at home wonder where she was, but it was also bloody freezing and if only it were Summer, she wouldn’t have to drag around seven layers of shirts, jumpers and coats. It was heavy and annoying and all for nought, once again. 

“I’m so fucking tired!” she hissed again, each word louder than the last, and then it was her fist crashing into the same hut wall, and -- surprise, surprise -- this idea was about as bad as the kicking. White pain shot through her body and she sank to her knees into the snow. Not because of the pain, though. Simply because there was nothing left to do. 

[spellnbone]

like my own mind

Location: Hog’s Head Inn, Hogsmeade Time: 1st of March, evening Status: Closed, for @arabellafiggaf​

Hogwarts was surrounded by wards which not only kept away people who weren’t supposed to be there but also the passing of time. The darkness of the world couldn’t seem to enter it -- not in reality, but also not in the idea of safety that it stood for. All memories of one’s time there were bright and colourful, as though untouchable by time, as though nothing -- neither time nor evil -- could harm the children that lived there, many years ago. 

When Fabian had told Edgar he was going to move there, following a job offer from Dumbledore, Edgar had felt a sort of relief wash over him. Fabian would be safe there. The war would be distant and he would be safe. It was only when Fabian offered that Edgar could just come visit him -- the wards not repellent to friends of Dumbledore, after all -- Edgar had felt tense again.

For years he had kept his family out of the war, even Amelia he had lied to, for the first time in his life. And then she had found out, and she had been the exception, the only other Bones to know, and he had been able to pretend that it was all fine. But now two problems were arising. Firstly, their Head Quarter’s Secret Keeper was dead and Edgar was offering up the House of Bones, his family’s private estate. They weren’t around at the moment, no, but no one could stop them from changing this whenever they wanted. Secondly: Amelia had seen the Potter Estate. She’d been at the Rosier Engagement Party, she had seen what the battles which Edgar always feared to tell her about looked like, and then she had been brought to the Potter Estate and seen every single Order member, running around in a frenzy, saving lives, fighting, being just that: members of the Order of the Phoenix.

She’d not said it, but in her eyes Edgar had read that something had changed then. Something in the way his beloved twin sister saw the Order had changed, and he hated it. Perhaps because for the first time, she wasn’t so eager to stay away from it. For the first time, she was willing to participate. He’d done it, after all; he’d brought the war to the people he wanted to see live in peace the most.

And now he was supposed to meet Fabian at Hogwarts. Supposed. He couldn’t. He didn’t dare. Every time they found each other at Strongarm Cottage -- by accident or on purpose -- it was a moment of bliss and relief, but the idea of seeing him at Hogwarts? It was an idea made of tension. He’d tried a couple of times, but each time he’d made his way back instead, too anxious to ruin whatever peace Fabian had found behind the thick castle walls.

Thus, arriving at Hogsmeade, he made sure to keep his eyes on the path ahead, and not look up at the castle on the other side of the lake, just keep his eyes on the hut in front of him, the door, the counter, the stool, the smile on Arabella’s lips. “A moth coffee and some company, please?”

[artemthevictorious]

Date: March 2, 1982 Location: Hog’s Head Starter: @arabellafiggaf​

It had been a couple of weeks since Artem’s conversation with Diggs had him questioning whether he could handle a pet. He was pretty sure he didn’t have the time or responsibility of one, but supposedly the pros of a cuddly companion outweighed the cons. When presented with an opportunity to test that theory with Arabella’s half-kneazle things, well, who was he to argue.

As Artem knocked on the door to Arabella’s room at the Hog’s Head, he tried to imagine coming home to a distinctly feline presence. The idea seemed a little odd but not unwelcome. This was the test, after all. When the door opened, Artem smiled at Arabella and offered a quick, “Hello,” but he couldn’t help keeping an eye out for her pets in case any decided to make a run for it. That was how cats worked, wasn’t it?