#d:may21

[porcelaindagger]

May 21, 1982 7:30 AM The Murderflat [ @goodnightgideon ]

There was nothing quite like waking up on the morning of something big, something important, something that held undeniable promise. Even the air seemed to agree with her excitement, for although it was a dreary day the very breeze buzzed with electricity and anticipation. It was because of this that they found themselves awake far earlier than the normally would have liked; Alice would not deign to rise before eight for just anything or anyone, but Gideon’s insistence, his excitement, his determination was infectious. RIsing was easy, flitting about Gideon’s flat was easy; by the end of the night, they would have made exponential changes, and that in itself was enough to make waking a non-issue. 

“Want coffee?” she called, hopping from the bathroom to the bedroom, half-clothed, blouse hanging around her neck and one leg in her jeans, “We’re gonna need it today!” Both of them had so much to do; Alice would be more than happy to simply lay atop him and nap for the rest of the day, but she was positively buzzing. Perhaps it was morbid, to be so thrilled at the possibility of a grand coup in the middle of the night, but Alice and Gideon’s idea of exciting had certainly warped over the past months. 

“Listen, you can’t be mad if I end up taking out more Death Eaters than you,” she grinned, tossing a crumpled shirt onto the bed, “I’m keeping score, and you’re buying me a drink after.”

As much as she was determined to joke, as much as she knew that the both of them would be fine -- they were always fine as long as they were together, right? -- Alice knew to steel herself for this sort of thing; as much as she jested, it was not a game. There was every possibility that they would end up bruised and battered; but they would come out of it together, and that was the only thing keeping a morbid, manic, hyena’s grin upon her face. 

[porcelaindagger]

UT ROMA CADIT LESTRANGE MANOR MAY 21, 1982 7:00 PM [ @moodyalastors ]

She couldn’t feel her fingers. Shouldn’t she have been able to feel her fingers? They were moving, digging, pulling at stone and broken wood, dancing over and around the head of flaming red hair that lay beneath. But she couldn’t feel her fingers; nor could she feel the blood that dripped from her palms, her wrists, her arms as she dug through the rubble, mindless and numb; so numb, in fact, that she’d not even realized that she’d been screaming herself raw. She dug into the rubble, ash and spark falling upon her hunched shoulders, and she screamed for she already knew that he would not answer her. 

“Gideon!” her voice was a hoarse, raw pleading, almost wordless as her face twisted into a mask of wide-eyed horror. Alice pushed aside a large chunk of rock with a heaving cry, tears and blood and ash muddling her vision, and her knees gave way, sending her pitching to the ground at his side. “Gideon, please! Please wake up! Please!” Alice scrambled across the dusty ground, crawling over crumbled rock and splintered wood, falling atop him like a gruesome animal for the slaughter upon a morbid altar. She had little time to look at him; he was going to goddamn wake up -- all she had to do was pull him out from under the rubble. She knew it. 

Alice hooked her bloodied hands, raw from clawing at what remained of the western wing of the Lestrange home, beneath his shoulders, and pulled, scrambling to her feet only to slip and fall again. She pulled at his shoulders with every ounce of strength that she could muster, shoulders shaking violently beneath the strain of his weight -- dead weight. Through heaving sobs, she pleaded with him once more, hoping that perhaps she could stir him from his silent stillness, sobs dissolving into a wordless cry as his body finally loosed from within the rubble amidst a crumbling of the beam that covered him. 

And now, here, uncovered and in full view, it was obvious. So startlingly obvious that Alice could not pretend that he had simply not heard her screaming, just inches from his face. So glaringly real that Gideon was dead here before her, that she could not hear her own name being called from somewhere through the chaos. 

She threw herself atop his body, palms smearing his cheeks with blood as she cradled his face, tears falling onto eyes permanently open. “Gideon please,” she sobbed, chest heaving with belabored breaths and horribly tiny frame shaking upon him his blood mingling with her own, “Please don’t leave me, Gideon, please! Oh God, oh God, Gideon, please wake up -- please! Gideon!” She could hear the fire roaring behind her as she clung to him, weak and horrified, and more useless than she’d ever been. Alice pulled her face back to hover level with his, eyes darting around visibly still features, her fingers pressing over his cheeks, his jaw, his lips, eyes, neck; her tears cut jagged streaks through the dirt upon his face, almost as if he’d cried them himself. 

And she still could not hear her name being called. 

“Gideon, wake up!” she cried, screaming as loudly as her heaving lungs would allow, shaking his shoulders; it wasn’t until she began to muster the strength for another command -- he had to listen to her, he always listened to her; they were a goddamn team, and he had promised, he had promised that they would see each other through -- that she realized her name was the prevalent sound cutting through the chaos. But it hardly mattered. She could not leave without him.