the battle of diagon | aftermath
Time: Noon, March 21st Place: Diagon Alley/House of Bones Status: Closed, Self-Para
As always, Edgar returned from battle without a scratch. And as always, he didn’t let himself think about whether he was relieved or ashamed because of it.
He couldn’t apparate, so his path took him to the Green Lion first, where he found Jim in tears. Tears of anger. ‘They took him’, he shouted, throwing rabble and broken furniture out of his pub, ‘they took my father’.
“Don’t hope for him to come back,” was what Edgar replied in a tone too poised.
The House of Bones was found the same way he’d left it, but it took only a few conversations for him to learn that the same couldn’t be said about the Potter Estate. Maurice Creevey’s name and his radio show fell, but Edgar didn’t react. Only time and many more conversations could explain what had really brought the Other Side to their old safe house. That he himself thought of someone completely different, was said to no one. He asked if anyone could go back there now to make sure everyone was safe, possibly apparate them to the House of Bones. He didn’t pause to imagine what horrors they’d find at the old Head Quarters.
After preparing some jugs of water, he made his way up to the New Map Room, finding the Minutes and bringing them down, approaching everyone with a nod towards the water and the question: “What happened?” Not with strain or anxiety in his voice, but the ever-same poise that felt so painfully misplaced amongst all this blood and heavy breaths.
Benjy and Emmeline at the McKinnon farm. An owl was dispatched. This list of dates of attacks found by Fletcher and Amelia. It was placed between the pages of the Minutes. A prisoner brought in by Yaxley. The man’s eyes still blinded, they brought him to a secure room upstairs. Injuries over injuries. Curses, open wounds, broken bones. Nothing to do about those but amateur first aid. But -- at least it looked like it presently -- no deaths to record this time.
No deaths? More and more people reappeared, and the minutes in between passed too slowly. Until, finally. Dorcas face was the one to draw a breath of relief from Edgar. Arm in arm with Efa, she moved to settle down on a couch, the imminent lack of healers suddenly present in everyone’s mind. They hadn’t thought to set up an infirmary here yet. The mistake weighed heavily.
Edgar approached her -- the Minutes still in his hands, yes, but not to be used, not right now -- and crouched down before her. Placing a delicate hand to hers, he looked up at her to find some form of recognition in her pupils and said: “You’ve done well.” His voice barely lost the cold, calculating sound of logic but the words were honest all the same. “We’re proud of you. Rest now.”
And then, finally, there was Caradoc, ready to leave Edgar’s peripheral vision to walk up to him, and Edgar shook his hand, as though scared to allow for more emotion. Instead of letting go, Caradoc held onto him, however. Edgar’s smile was never returned. ‘Fabian’s missing.’
No scratches, just wounds.