The Cursed Disco
@spellnbone at the House of Bones 10 March 1982 with a box of sneakoscopes
Edgar had spent most of his life in the shadows. Of Amelia’s, of his classmate’s, of Caradoc’s. He didn’t mind that. Stars were famously known to be seen best when it was truly dark around you, and anyone who knew Edgar also knew that his gaze was always guided skywards. But there was something to be said about the House of Bones: it was dark. And Edgar didn’t like it.
While his siblings had hurried to fit into the rainy, cold English life they had been made to suddenly lead twenty years ago, Edgar and his father had never stopped shivering. The Mexican sun was an old, old memory to them by now, but still a vivid one. Never had they grown to like the darkness of this island, a darkness emphasised by the thick Norman castle walls of this house.
The darkness in here was the only shadow Edgar had never grown fond of.
With a heavy heart he had watched the Order move in, helped them with instructions and guided them through the different parts of the East Wing, introducing them to the quirks of the house – at least the ones he was aware of. He’d done his best to be accomodating, to make this place accommodating, but at the end of the day it was but a house full of cold shadows.
Frank didn’t see him leaning against the fireplace, smoking quietly, and he didn’t seem to notice him until Edgar was by his side, crouching on the floor, a helpful hand already extended. Edgar didn’t look at him, the same way he hadn’t rushed to help, just moved to pick up what had been dropped as though he was alone and it had been his fault, the cigarette between his lips.
As soon as the box had collided with the ground, there was another hand at Frank’s side, picking up the sneakoscopes that had toppled onto the floor. The surprise nearly knocked Frank over as he crouched to help pick up the mess—he hadn’t realized that there was someone at the house.
(Of course there was someone here; this was headquarters!)
“Merlin’s—” He spotted the cigarette before he could identify the person who had come to his assistance, and before Frank could greet Edgar he was immediately drowned out by a high-pitched whistle.
There was a reason that very few Aurors were fond of sneakoscopes—more often than not they were left at field offices as a (rather unnecessary) secondary precaution. Frank couldn’t be sure that the impact with the box on the ground had activated them.
A few of the larger ones had come to life, dancing on its tip and its lights illuminating the room like a disco. The whistles had become something akin to a badly managed chorus, out of tune and competing for the solo. Frank gritted his teeth against the noise and reached for the one closest to him, clapping his hands to stop it from moving as it tried to fight him as it persisted in its warning.
