❝ if you tell, you are my enemy! ❞, ❝ forget everything and forgive me. ❞ & ❝ i know you are capable of anything. i know you so well, my friend. ❞ -- frank
natasha, pierre, and the great comet of 1812 starters // accepting
❝ if you tell, you are my enemy! ❞
A glint of amusement, sly and startling all at once, appears in Kingsley’s eyes. It looks like comeuppance has arrived. There are many years of similar instances on Frank’s part to make up for, and the least of them is Frank’s having explained to Arthur what those seventh year study sessions with Oliver actually meant. And Kingsley is just getting started.
“Tell Alice that you are lactose intolerant?” he asks, as if he has no idea what Frank’s talking about. He continues eating his Florean’s ice cream cone. It is delicious. He almost understands Frank’s dilemma, but then again, Kingsley is constantly reminded that of his friends, he seems to be the only person to treasure his own health. “I have never had an enemy before, but I am glad that you are the first, my dear friend.”
❝ forget everything and forgive me. ❞
“No.” The instinctive response is as fast as it is jarring. It tears from him like a shout, and its absence is all aching emptiness. There is an ocean inside him, or a torrent of hope, worry, and fear that he cannot put into words. You will live. You will love Alice. You will see Neville grow old. We will see Arthur and Edgar again. By Merlin, you will live. Kingsley paces, too choke-full with dreams to be still. He observes Frank’s tired eyes and the way the both of them stand, waiting for the ambush that still hasn’t come. The shape of the war lies in how they have all been chipped at until only curses and counter-curses remain. But never Frank. Never Frank. The very thought is enough to shake Kingsley, and if he were to have to tell Arthur or Edgar, it would be the end of them all. “Don’t ask the impossible of me. After all, you’ll always be here to remind me to make another terrible decision.”
There are few moments in his life without Frank. Continents away, Frank has always managed to leave his mark. Kingsley remembers Meredith informing everyone that Frank stole Kingsley’s sense of fun, or Winfred asking after Frank in their letters. Hogwarts is as much remembering the secret passages and lessons as it is remembering Frank. Kingsley will not be left with only memories. All too aware that he is about to make a promise beyond his power to keep, Kingsley raises his wand with his right hand. With his left, he grasps Frank’s shoulder. “If Voldemort himself comes, I will not forget everything and forgive you, as you say. I’ll fight, and we’ll both have another story to tell. We’ll see the end of this violence.”
❝ i know you are capable of anything. i know you so well, my friend. ❞
And Kingsley, deep into his fifth gillywater, smiles. It is a visionary’s smile, and it is full of summer and only broken at its edges. It is the smile of one who has not yet learned the nature of life and how it slips away, and who cannot believe that some deaths may truly be in vain. Of one who knows that he is insignificant in the overarching story of the past and even the present, but who nevertheless must believe that one more practice duel, one more hour spent with pouring over the disappearances, will turn the tides of the war. Edgar is a fresh wound, after all, and there cannot be any true justice or any true goodness in the world if this much is not true. “Here’s to you,” Kingsley agrees, “and here’s to me. To the days gone by.”
Autumn can continue its onslaught. Brown can seep into the leaves and dread into each silence, but this is something else. Sitting side by side with Frank, it is almost possible to forget that they are all cogs in the machine. The war may be an expression of hate, but there is no hatred tonight. The hours spent reminiscing about Edgar offer a glimpse into what could be. The gillywater clouds his thoughts so that he trusts, if only for a whisper of a moment, that all they need is patience and time. What evil, what malevolence, could withstand them? The warmth of the fireplace of 13.5 Saint George’s Drive spreads though Kingsley’s bones. They have spent a lifetime here, cooking up terrible plots or conspiring about one ongoing bet or another. The house that’s been left to him by his parents knows Frank, Edgar, and Arthur as well as it knows Kingsley.
If his thoughts stumble or if his heart stutters and protests at Edgar, it is lost with the third or fourth gillywater. Kingsley lifts his glass and proposes his own toast. “One day, we’ll see that everyone is equal. The centaurs will have their own land. The werewolves will have the right to work anywhere they are qualified. No one will prize blood-status more than talent. There will be free elections for the Wizengamot, just like the muggles do for their parliament. There will be no more dementors at Azkaban, because there’ll be no more darkness. Then, you, Arthur, and I will visit Edgar. And he’ll know that we’ve won.”
