#frankdavis longbottom

[untamedmeadowes]

Second Verse, Same as the First?

LOCATION: Longbottom Residence DATE: March 14, 1982 @alices-husband​

Dorcas didn’t exactly enjoy apologizing when she’d been in the wrong; she liked even less apologizing when she hadn’t been in the wrong. Which of them had been what during her last conversation (confrontation?) with Frank Longbottom was not up for doubt in her head...but she also knew that, as wrong as he’d been to declare that she was some blithering idiot with zero Death Eater-fighting experience who’d drop dead the minute a wand was pointed her way, she’d also said a few things that weren’t quite nice, herself.

And the longer her talk with Dedalus had simmered in her head -- the idea that different people need different incentives -- the harder it had been for her to keep pushing-off the knowledge that she needed to talk to Frank Longbottom again.

Not exactly to apologize, maybe...but to reconcile, at least. Frank was less intimidating than Alice (and certainly less so than Moody!) and always seemed less certain of himself than Kingsley, which meant that if she wanted to get an Auror “on her side,” he was probably the best choice. And Dorcas figured that if she could get at least one of the Order’s complement of Aurors to agree that it was time to do more, she’d have a better shot of convincing everyone else -- or at least the “inner circle.”

Frank being married to Alice didn’t hurt that prospect, either.

So Dorcas took a deep breath, grimaced until her cheeks ached in hopes that it would help her be able to maintain a pleasant expression later if she got it all out of her system now, and tromped up to the Longbottoms’ front door. She shifted the covered dish she held to one hand and knocked on the door -- three crisp raps, like a polite wix. Then she added two more because no matter how polite she tried to be, Dorcas was impatient by nature and just couldn’t help herself.

She bounced up and down on her toes as she waited too, but that wasn’t being rude. Not on purpose, anyway. She’d just never really learned to be still.

[ainsleyabbott]

Rumors Spread Like Plague

@frankdavis--longbottom​

Ainsley still had damp ink on her fingers (and a streak alongside her nose, but while she was vaguely aware of the state of her hands the fact that she had smeared those inky fingers against her nose while straightening her spectacles would, eventually, come as a complete surprise when she discovered it) when she burst through the door of the Potter Estate. Her warm winter cloak (thankfully a sensible gray herringbone against which the ink she had smeared on it hardly showed) hunt askew from one shoulder and a haphazardly fastened clasp; her now-damp feet were clad only in the flimsy muggle-style slip-ons she wore for comfort around the offices rather than the sturdy boots she should have put on before going outside.

Ainsley didn’t care. “Longbottom!” she shouted, pushing past the little house elf and stomping down the hallway. “Longbottom, are you around? Frank!” she clarified, belatedly realizing that she ought to specify; without stating why she was cross, there was no way for anyone to know which of the Longbottoms she was shouting for.

Frank’s answering shout drew Ainsley’s attention -- and ire -- to the study on the right of the hall, and she veered sideways like a Bludger course-correcting in search of a target. That was roughly the attitude in which she entered the room, going straight up to Frank and saying hotly, “What the Hell do you think you’re playing at?” If her temper had been capable of emitting heat, the glare she turned on Frank would have been enough to melt the glasses right off of her face. “Weaponizing Dragon Pox? Are you mental? Most of us are barely back on our feet after that -- that whatever that was that had us bleeding out our bloody eyes, and you want to go around weaponizing Dragon Pox now?”

Her eyes widened in horrified realization. “Oh Hell -- don’t tell me that was something you were working on with Scrimgeour that somehow got out of the testing lab?” That would explain not only why the mysterious disease had mostly seemed to affect people in the Order and some of those who associated with the higher classes of pure-blood society, but also why Frank had been hit by it badly enough to have gotten stuck in St. Mungo’s, if he’d been patient zero of their little epidemic...

[untamedmeadowes]

A Cold Morning's Conversation

@frankdavis--longbottom

Dorcas was trying to work herself up to going back -- to facing everyone again. She was still part of the Order of the Phoenix, after all, which meant that she had to go back, to be part of things again...but it was hard. All the sidelong looks, the dark glares, the blame and guilt and shame that was sure to be piled on her the moment she walked through those doors again, the moment she faced them all...

So she sat, like a coward, on a fallen log and stared at the McKinnon home from a safe distance. It wasn’t like she was hiding, she told herself; she had made no effort to conceal herself with either spellwork or ground cover, she was just...resting. Enjoying the crisp early morning air. Anyone who looked hard enough out the windows at the east side of the house would have seen her there, just another visitor taking a break in the woods opposite the werewolf encampment. Fortifying herself before she...face everyone. Dorcas swallowed.

Maybe she should just go home, come back and try again tomorrow...

The crunch of leaves kept her seated. She thought, madly, about simply Apparating away for a moment -- but much of the grounds had been spelled against Apparition for security reasons, and she would feel like a fool if she got caught trying and failing to disappear. Besides, whoever was walking up to her log had surely already seen her, and there weren’t many in the Order who boasted as glorious a mane of curls; they had to know who she was already. She couldn’t bring herself to turn and face them, to see just who was coming to confront her; she would know soon enough, once the angry words and recriminations started. But she had little choice but to stay and endure them.

Running away would only make it look like she was running away -- and Dorcas would sooner be tortured than be caught acting like a coward. So she stayed on the log and cleared her throat and said in a voice that hardly cracked, “Morning.”

[ainsleyabbott]

Hot Off the Press

A roar of green flame announced Ainsley’s arrival. So did the clatter of knees and elbows on hard flooring as she tumbled out of the grate in her haste and sprawled forward painfully. Hissing and cursing under her breath at the sting, she thrust herself to her feet without once properly ceasing her -- somewhat stuttering -- forward motion. In one hand she clutched a copy of The Daily Prophet so fresh off the presses that its ink was still damp enough to stain the fingers curled around its crumpled length.

“Oi -- anyone here?” Ainsley half-yelled, half-coughed; she had been in such a rush to go through the floo that she had made the rookie mistake of inhaling after she spoke her destination, and had gotten a mouthful of soot for her pains. “There’s news -- bad -- I’m sorry, I only just found out when we went to press, another editor was proofing the story, I swear I would have owled right away if I’d known sooner--”

Her flood of words stopped dead when she locked eyes with the only other occupant of the room. Ainsley made herself straighten up, take a deep breath, and say firmly, “Evans. Lily Evans. She’s been taken in by the M.L.E.P. for questioning. The Prophet is taking the position that....well.” She winced, looked down at the bedraggled newspaper in her hand, and up again. “It’s not great,” she admitted unhappily.

An understatement if ever there was one -- but then, the only stories the Prophet had ever published in the Order’s favor had probably been by accident.