beealight

[beealight]

alongbottomed‌:

In even her darkest moments, Charity was a birdsong. A sort of lyrical, vivacious warmth that reminded you that even now, in the midst of persecution and hardship, beautiful things still grew. Mother birds, still providing for their fledglings under the glow of the sun. The way that very sunlight, furrowing down at them from various points of the sky, continued to rise and fall, day-by-day. Some things were constant; some things toughed it out. Like Charity.

A stifled laugh unfurls behind Alice’s lips, still nibbling at the scone as she reaches for her tea. She had been in Charity’s kitchen on numerous occasions, witnessed its sparkly sheen before the typhoon; flour spun about the room like a dust-devil, buttering itself over each conceivable surface it encountered. Charity wasn’t wrong in her testimony, and Alice certainly had the evidence to fortify it. But she could hardly say she minded. Mess gave her something to do: something to clear up, something to occupy herself with, something with which to busy her overwrought, restless fingers. After all, some things were difficult to let go of: her overzealous heart, reined in by her mother’s straightening-up, her grooming. Eccentricities Alice had inherited as an afterthought.

She sips at her tea to clear her throat. ‘I think it’s perfectly forgivable when the end product is as good as yours. If you tasted my cooking, you’d strip me of my right to make mess entirely,’ she says; half joking, half not. From birth, her mother had impressed upon her an obstinate duty to manage herself, bred in the bone to tauten and pull together her wild escapades. Bare feet muddied by dirt were scrubbed, nails bitten were filed down, teacups detonated were swept under the rug. ‘At least I’ll know how to find you if I ever lose you,’ Alice remarks from behind her cup, gently pressed to her lips. It is a thought that unnerves her a little; the mental picture of Godric’s Hollow without Charity Burbage, the cobblestone pathways hollowed out by her absence. No lacquered, warm light in this grey village; no bright smiles or lemon tea or food spreads with blood, sweat and tears—so many tears—poured into their preparation. It is a thought she cannot bring herself to consider right now, one that—it must be said—does not even cross her mind now fully formed. It passes by unrecognised, in all likelihood to be revisited later, when she can truly identify it; when she is alone.

Alice furrows her brow, only slightly, as she watches Charity stumble over her words; how the right ones remained suspended somewhere just beyond her reach, unable to reconcile the truth to what she feels she should reveal to her now. Alice pulls back the evaluation in her eye, the scrutiny, and lets the words fall where they need to. I’m happy to have something to share: a half-truth, through which Alice easily peers. In all things, that has not changed. As she listens, Charity’s expressions expose the sentiments oscillating beneath them: I’m happy to have something to share, because before I shared everything with Althea, my wife, and now I have no-one. That, Alice supposed, they could share. Fortunate as she was to still have her husband—sound in body and limb—by her side, he receded from her anyway. Alice’s expression is one of cognition and understanding, and a recapitulating smile unfolds on her face as her friend shifts her attention back to the spread. It was comforting to see her indulge in it alongside her; it made her feel less condoled, less like alms-giving, less like Charity’s presence here was a keenly-felt necessity rather than an individual gladness.

     ‘Dessert first—what has the world come to?’ she says all caricatured and incredulous, with the fettle of a girl who did not yet know war. Alice has not spoken with anyone like this in some time—with the exception of Amos, who knew better than most how to coax out the spirit of that misplaced girl from her lungs—with such jauntiness and life. But for Charity, as it was for Amos, it was easy. It is why she does not mind so much when she wrenches the discussion back on itself; back into the vigil, the broadcast, the way the gaps between her fingers felt all lost and alien as Frank’s own slipped away from them. She bows her head, almost, as she fixates her attention on her own shuffling feet, before casting it back to Charity. Alice’s eyes are soft and she smiles consolingly, reaching her hand out and placing it gently on her friend’s. Her fingers linger over Charity’s own and they provide, she hopes, some solace in all this. 

     ‘I wish you wouldn’t say that,’ she says tenderly, though without much conviction as how to proceed. Unpremeditatedly, she feels a flash of guilt wash over her. Of course. Of course she wasn’t the only one to have lost something to the static that night. Frank had moved quick as light from her side and he was yet to return to her; perhaps he wouldn’t. ‘People needed to say goodbye. You gave them that.’ The broadcast wasn’t you. What happened—it wasn’t you. Alice tilts her head to the side, smiling with her eyes and adds: ‘But I missed you too.’

War is hell. It is a phrase that has echoed through history. No matter how young or how urgent or how full of righteous fury they were when they entered into this one they should have known. There was always a chance they would lose and that even if they won it still didn’t mean that they would be spared any personal pain. Somehow, despite or perhaps even because of the fact that she was reeling from her own earth-shattering loss, Charity had never truly anticipated the weight of it all. It was not that she was a fool in truth. She had known that war was full of horrors. There were those in her village who spoke in hushed tones of their lost ones and shrank away from reminders of the last Great War even decades after its end. She had expected the threat of death to hang over them. She had already lost the most important person to her and had known there was always a chance she would lose others as well before the end of it all. But she had not realized how much more there was to it than all that. She had not expected it to change her the way it was in this slow insidious way that left her feeling weary no matter how hard she tried to ward herself with rest and tea. She had not expected the guilt or hopelessness to grow stronger than the fire of her belief in the goodness that existed in the world. 

There was a howling emptiness growing inside her that she could not fill with baked goods and soft hopes no matter how skillfully she crafted them. It gnawed at her day and night but there were times when it fell almost quiet- generally in the presence of celestial bodies that reminded her for a moment that there was something good still burning bright in all this endless dark. It was there when she sat alongside Remus staring up at the stars dotting the night sky. It was here in this kitchen flickering in Alice’s eyes despite the clouds of concern and grief that pass over them. It was there when she watched Amos walk through her door after a long absence.  She can’t imagine losing it without losing everything else entirely. Some days it feels as though it is all she has left worth fighting for. 

It is especially bright when Alice smiles and playacts along with her and for a moment Charity feels light again. But she can not keep the dark clouds from creeping in and is careless enough to let them slip out through her lips. The change in Alice is palpable. Her head bows under the weight of memory. The glimpse of the bright young woman she’d blossomed into fades like a flower crushed and dried between the pages of life. Charity wilts along with her wishing urgently she could snatch back her admission and return to that moment of sugary happiness that bloomed so briefly. The feeling of Alice’s hand on hers is a balm for her sadness but the pulse of her guilt remains until Alice’s eyes light up again. 

Charity nods tears of gratitude for Alice’s careful understanding threatening to prick at her eyes. She shifts her hand to tangle her fingers with Alice’s lightly squeezing to return the touch and silently express her thanks. People needed to say goodbye. She had tried to give them that. Had hoped to give them something more- a renewed sense of unity. But the broadcast, which still reigned chaotically in her mind casting light and shadows both with each twist and turn, had only seemed to deepen the fractures that were forming among them. It takes her a minute to trust her tongue again and untangle her fingers reluctantly from Alice’s but by the time she does her own smile has returned. 

“Shall I make us some eggs?” 

#w: alice #reaching out #location: The Longbottom's house #date: 7 February 1982 #I'm sorry this is sort of ehh #but I love them #also this is p out of date so if you want we could tie it up here or with your reply and start on something new! #<3

[beealight]

amoodyauror‌:

There were more than a few things to consider these days when looking at plans in front of you and even though Alastor hadn’t quite finished moving into one of the cleared out homes in weeks past, he certainly hadn’t anticipated that he would ever really truly have privacy in a place like this either, it wasn’t something that he was going to be able to achieve in this war and it wasn’t something that was remotely a priority either. Still, sometimes it was nice to be able to process your thoughts somewhere other than in the shower or the bath.

Between the message from Glenda and the fact that Kingsley still was standing on not doing other than twiddling their thumbs and hiding themselves? Well, he didn’t even want to think about adding on the letter that Meadowes had found or the recent registry that had been enacted by the Ministry. His opinion certainly wasn’t about to be heard by the high political members and they were probably not going to play by the rules that he would want in a fight. No, there were priorities and this… well, this is something that he might agree with Kingsley on that it wasn’t a battle that they could fight. 

Or at least, it wasn’t a battle that Alastor should fight.

Charging in with wands and fists raised would likely do nothing for anyone, least of all the Ministry, sometimes they just bloody needed far too many political talks for the liking of Alastor. After all, there was no way to make every single person happy, no matter whether you wanted to or not. Charity’s voice floated into his tent, Alastor clearing his throat for a second before pushing himself up off of the cot that had been set up and pulling the fabric back. “…Charity, is everything okay?”

Charity wasn’t sure what she expected to find when she marched through the dusk to Moody’s tent but it isn’t what she finds. As far as she’s concerned the Ministry’s announcement is an attack even if it is tied up in a neat bow of bureaucratic nonsense. She’s so full of impotent rage it feels like the blood in her veins is boiling from the heat of it. So his question, although reasonable given the oddity of her appearance at his tent so late in the day, stuns her into confused silence for a moment.

Is everything okay? It is a question with many answers and none all at once. It is common knowledge by now that nothing is truly okay since the war took its last turn towards bleak darkness and loss and so the meaning of the word has shifted slightly in her mind to mean uninjured and removed from immediate danger. She isn’t bleeding, at least not on the outside, and she’s safe tucked away within the wards of their little refuge... unlike so many others out there well within the reach of the Ministry’s shadow master. But she knows in her soul that she isn’t ‘okay’ that no one will really be okay until they’ve managed what the man in front of her set out to do in the first place and burned the deadly rot out of their world. In her mind she’s starting to sound like a soldier... she’s starting to think things like “the end justifies the means”... once she would have horrified herself thinking this way imagining human beings as parts of a disease. Now her rage is starting to become the brightest light that she can find inside herself. Where is Moody’s rage now? She finds herself wondering. 

“I’m okay,” a clipped attempt at reassurance that she’s not the one at risk. She holds out the Prophet the headline showing crumbled but bold above her clenched fist, “They won’t be. What are we going to do?”

#w: Alastor #Demanding Answers #date: 15 February 1982 #setting: Moody's Tent #//you know shit is real when Charity has no time for pleasantries lol

[beealight]

rcmus‌:

     ‘No, you’re right. I can’t… blame them for it,’ he said, rubbing his own tired eyes with the heel of his hand, shaking his head a little. Couldn’t blame Sirius for their drive, their need to fight, as much as he wanted to. But knowing that someone was doing what they needed to do didn’t always mean that watching them do it was any easier. Every conversation with Sirius hurt. Every missed glance as they tried to navigate carefully around each others’ sharp edges. It got worse, and worse, and worse, and…

And it was wearing Remus down to his bones to live with it. There was only so much he could take. And love or not, he didn’t know how worth it it was to keep suffering like this, when he had so much else to take care of. 

     ‘I just don’t know that I can handle it anymore, Charity.’

He took a sip of his tea, gone mostly cold in the chill night air, finished off the cup in a long, slow sip. He looked up at the stars, his eyes tracing a familiar pattern from the belt of Orion over, across the sky, to the Dog Star itself, bright against the black of the void behind it. The brightest star in the night sky. Canis Major surrounding it. Something he used to lie on his back in the sand and chart with his eyes for comfort when he went home for the summer, missing his friends. Hands behind his head, counting down the days until he’d be back to them. 

     ‘I think I might be done. With trying to hold together the broken piece of something like this. I think my hands are full enough with just me.’

Charity listened quietly aching with sympathy at the clear notes of exhaustion and heartache in Remus’ voice. It was hard for any of them to live like this. Hidden amongst the dead shrouded in tragedy and secrets. It was no wonder they were coming apart at the seams divisions sprouting like mushrooms on a shallow grave. And some of them were so young, it wasn’t fair that they were only just barely surviving when they ought to have been able to be living free from the weight of it all. 

Charity remembered being twenty four and in love. She also remembered being twenty four and watching her world crumble before her eyes but at least then the Order had been a solid foundation to turn to. Now it felt like even that was falling apart. She could hardly blame Remus for needing to at least try to put himself first for once. He was already sacrificing so much for all of them, he couldn’t be expected to set himself on fire to keep his love from freezing too. She nodded when he finished her eyes tender with understanding.

“Holding yourself together is more than enough, especially now, if they love you’ll they’ll understand that... if not now, eventually. You’re doing the best you can for all of us already, you deserve to be able to do what is best for you too.”

She followed his gaze to the sky her eyes tracing familiar constellations and remembering the nights that Althea would pull her from bed to sit wrapped up in blankets and each other’s arms and stare up at the wonder of the starry sky. So much in their world was changing, so many endings and too few beginnings, but at least the stars remained. She picked up her thermos from where Remus had sat it and ran her fingers over the charmed rune on the side watching as tea from the pot she’d left back at her cottage trickled in to refill it and sipped at it content to wax into a comfortable silence alongside Remus. 

#w: Remus #Sleepless Wanderers #setting: Outskirts of Godric's Hollow #date: Early February #//we can end this here if that works and plot something more current <3

[beealight]

unbearablyblack‌:

where: somewhere outside holly cottage, godric’s hollow when: february 1982, the day after the xeno/sirius smackdown closed for: @beealight​

Sirius’ day has been spent mostly in a trance, their mind elsewhere as they go through the motions. Most of their days have been like this since James’ death, but this one is particular; they keep running last night’s conversation with Xenophilius through their head. They don’t regret it– that’s what they keep telling themself– but they can’t seem to shake the shameful feeling hanging over them. Sirius’ issue, when dealing with right and wrong, has always been that they don’t seem to realize the wrong thing until after it’s done.

They decide now’s the time to get a cigarette, to force thoughts of Xenophilius out of their head with a cloud of smoke. A walk might do, too, except they’ve barely made it out the door of Holly Cottage when they quite literally run into Charity Burbage, a fresh plate of something in her arms. Of course, they should know better than to expect to be alone in this little village by now. It’s far too small. 

“Sorry,” Sirius says, by habit, because they’re not even sure if it was actually their fault. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

It’s still there when she wakes up. That buzzing under her skin like a hive of queenless bees formed of grief and directionless irritation. Talking with Arthur had soothed it... but only for a time, long enough for her to get a few hours of fitful sleep before she woke again with frustration simmering in her veins. She’d tried to bake it away pulling the shortbread dough she’d made out of the fridge and rolling it flat to cut out cookies in the shape of flowers. The kettle screamed while they cooled once more in the fridge and she moved through the familiar steps of making herself a cup of tea glancing briefly into the living room to see if Amos was about and in need of one. Finding him absent she returned to her task but even as the warm scent of tea and cookies filled the air she could not find so much as a hint of the peaceful calm that had once accompanied such scents. 

Her mind flicks frenetically through options as the cookies cool. She could go visit Alice or Arthur and the kids... but she loathed the idea that any of this burning irritation might spill out in front of the people she held closest. Arthur and Alice would both understand but neither of them needed any more grief on their plates and she hated the idea of the children seeing her so unsettled. Finally her mind spun and landed on Remus. He had his own suffering to bear as well but he would understand better than most this feeling of being trapped and aimless. She found herself plating cookies as both a gift and an invitation. She would not feel particularly comfortable invading a space he shared with others, particularly Lily, but perhaps he would walk with her tracing the steps of some of their nighttime wanderings under the sun instead. 

She was nearly at the door when she ran into Sirius instead who seemed near to overflowing with their own frenetic energy. Her plate of cookies rattled in its careful wrapping and she shifted to settle them while finding her own balance again. Sorry... I wasn’t paying attention. To be honest neither was she or she would have noticed the door opening in time to dodge it but their words grate against her nerves bringing to mind something Arthur had said the night before about a ‘bit of fuss’ after the Order meeting. As though the suggestion that Xenophilius was unwelcome in their refuge was anything but abhorrent. Clearly, you aren’t paying attention to anything but yourself. She very nearly snaps and the first word spills out before she can stop it. 

“Clearly.. neither of us were,”she affects a strained smile in an attempt to soften her words, “It’s alright, I..um is Remus in?” 

#w: Sirius #Without Thinking #setting: outside of Holly Cottage #date: 17 February 1982 #// and awwaaayyy we go lol

[beealight]

artseptimus‌:

Chain smoking was totally allowed when he wasn’t sure where his wife was right? He wondered whether she was bothered by his constant need to fill his time but then couldn’t ever imagine turning her away. It was now that they needed to not doubt themselves with one another and their relationships. 

He watched her walk down the street, and noticed only the cardigan covering her shoulders. It was a short walk, but it was cold. He beckoned her towards him happily as he took a drag of the cigarette, arm wrapping around her shoulders as he pulled on the warming charm over his own shoulders. 

Arthur plucked his zippo from his pocket and flicked it to a flame, offering it to her carefully. “Nice to have you home.” He joked, words staggered and monotonal but the little smirk on his lips lifted the weight of tonight’s conversation with Char from his chest. 

“Are you alright? Sorry to call so late.. Char has just been askign difficult questions.” He signed, cigarette between lips and sentence signed as he took another drag, he needed her atmosphere and thankfully it was almost a relief to see her attitude match his own rather than the undying optimism his children seemed to have. It was a shame however to see a friend so tired and worn, the line that htey all walked and barely balanced. 

Charity tucked herself into the shelter of Arthur’s arm welcoming the warmth of his gentle and immediate care as much as she did the warming charm he had cast. The world was a cold place but it was made just a touch warmer by the presence of one’s friends. Even if everything else seemed to grow darker and more uncertain day by day at least she could count on Arthur.

Charity pressed her cigarette between her lips leaning in to catch the flame from Arthur’s zippo. She had a similar one back at the cottage tucked away in a box with most of the other things she had left that Althea had touched wrapped in a sweater that even now held on to just the faintest hint of her scent. Some days she felt like she would trade all her magic just to preserve that scent. She knew she would have traded it all in an instant to turn back time and have her wife back. There was a time when she had wept and screamed for a time-turner uncaring of the consequences that could spring from the harsh manipulation of something as delicate as time. 

“Nice to be home,”she parried back. This was as close to home as she got outside of the contents of a few treasured boxes. Arthur was as close to family as she had left and she thanked the stars for him and the kids every day even as she sent out her own desperate hope that Molly be returned to them all. She and Arthur were holding each other together but the specter... gods no not that... the memory of Molly was sometimes so strong when they were together that she had to stop herself from craning her neck to search for her just around the corner. 

Charity watched his hands wincing sympathetically when he mentioned Charlie. She took a drag from her own cigarette letting it out in a sigh. “It’s alright I’m glad you did, I’m so sorry Art. Is he wondering about Molly again?” The little Weasleys were just children but even they had not slipped by untouched by the bitterness of the war around them. Molly’s love was still real and evident in each member of the Weasley clan but her physical absence was sorely felt and beyond that there was life in the Hollow itself. Arthur had made the cottage feel as much like home as he could, and truthfully it was one of the few places in the Hollow she could feel truly at ease, but it was not the Burrow. 

“I’ve been better,”she admitted finally, but hadn’t they all been better than this once? “I just feel so...”she hesitated to say useless although it was the truth,”frustrated. I was working some with Pandora today to see if we can’t find a solution for my apparition sickness. I’m tired of feeling like I’m deadweight here when there’s so much happening out there.” 

Good Comes to Those Who Wait || Charity

#w: arthur #Good Comes to Those Who Wait #date: 16 February 1982

[beealight]

xenosechoes‌:

It seemed that attempting to offer a bit of physical comfort had been the right choice for this case, as Charity clutched their hand, keeping it there on her arm as the emotion overwhelmed her. This sort of thing was not something that they were used to offering. It took a conscious effort, an effort that they had never bothered making before meeting Pandora, to read into what someone’s emotions might be the way so many other people did with ease. They supposed part of that, at least, was due to the fact that their comfort had always come in the form of knowledge, of seeking solace in voluminous tomes and unanswerable questions, in researching things beyond comprehension of the average mind. The sort of human-to-human comfort that so many others needed was something they had learned from a young age, thanks to their parents’ strained relationship once they had immigrated to London, was not reliable. There were other means that were less dangerous, made you less vulnerable.

Having Pandora, though, and now being here, in Godric’s Hollow, where they could not hide from being known as they had when they were still in the comfort of their own home, in solitude with their wife, had shown them that there could be something beautiful to the way people could help one another with something so simple, and so intangible. It had led them to researching ways to help each and every member of the Order who they now lived so close to, but it had also led them to feeling even more useless in their curse, unable to come up with real solutions that could help anyone concretely. It was frustrating, but still they tried, even if it felt hopeless at times.

Perhaps, though, this was enough, just trying for something close to hope, offering the sentiment that they were not all alone in the pain that they each felt individually. They wished that something such as that could be enough to ease their own worries and paranoia, to lessen the curse on their mind, but at least, for now, they could help Charity even slightly, even for a moment. Easier to breathe when you knew you were not alone in your pain, that others were there for you.

Xenophilius offered her a small smile when she looked up at them again at last, agreeing with their words. They were pleased to know that, even in some small way, they were able to help. “Yes, perhaps that’s what we all need to remember. This is not something we can get through on our own, and we are not on our own. If you feel as if you’re losing strength, you can find it in someone else,” they nodded, in agreement. Her compliments, though, made them let out a small breath.

“That is very kind of you, Charity, although I’m not quite sure it’s true. Pandora, yes, anyone would be lucky to have her talent and grace around. She’s an asset to the Order. But I’m afraid I’m more of a burden than anything as I am now,” they said, matter-of-factly. “Unfortunately, the curse has only gotten more overwhelming since coming; it makes it very difficult to be helpful.”

The sun was slipping beneath the horizon and the air was growing colder in its absence. The chill bit at her skin where it was exposed cooling the hot tears she had spilled and turning her breath into little clouds as it escaped her parted lips. Yet somehow she still felt warmer out in the cold of nightfall with Xenophilius than she had in the frozen solitude that had fallen over her little cottage following the vigil. 

The worries wrought by Glenda’s message could not be fully cast away but they had retreated to the darker corners of her mind for a time and she felt more able to face them armored by Xeno’s comforting words. They were beset on all sides by darkness there was no denying that truth and even if she could she wouldn’t because that would mean giving up. There was no true safety to be found in closing one’s eyes to the harsh realities of their situation but they could face it easier if they stayed strong and sought reminders of what had drawn them all together in the first place. A shared desire to strike back at that darkness and sustain the light in their world. 

Xenophilius had it exactly right. They could not do this on their own, no one could, but they were not alone. She had tried to express a similar feeling through the vigil. She’d wanted to show that even in mourning they could be united. That there was still something worth fighting for even after all they had lost. But she knew that wasn’t the message everyone had received when word went out of her plans. She’d heard the whispers about her tender heart and misguided desire to put their cause to rest. The last thing she wanted was for anyone to give up but it was easier and easier to jump to cynical conclusions as the cracks in the Order continued to split and widen. They were wounded and broken but even broken things could still have value... could still be made whole. Wasn’t Xeno themself proof of that? Cursed and suffering but still reaching out to others to share what strength they had left. 

Her focus sharpened as they huffed quietly at her words and she shook her head at their rebuttal. Her fingers wrapped around theirs once more squeezing gently as she peered into their eyes. “Pandora is a blessing in herself, but you make a difference too. I understand that it is hard and I hate that you are suffering here but you’re still trying. You keep going on, despite the odds, despite the darkness in this village, despite your curse- as hard as it is you’re still here looking for ways to help and that means something. I wasn’t alone tonight, because of you and that in itself is enough. You said it yourself, we can’t do this alone.”

#w: Xeno #running from shadows #date: 26 January 1982 #setting: outside the village church #//Help I have too many feelings #Also we should be able to tie this up soon I feel like #I can't wait to do more things with them <3

[beealight]

wornaway‌:

Alice watches her friend hawk-eyed. She recognises the solemn shift of her expression, one which she feels can only be a scrutiny of the silence, of the missing half of a whole. “Frank is out,” she says, with absolute certainty, with a roughness which she quickly shows penitence for. She has grown too used to the eyes of the Order, surveying their difference. Like the creature Argus: all-seeing. It was plain, she knew, as conspicuous as two continents drifting. It has forced her remarks into formula, rehearsed so as to soften these intrusions — Frank is out. Frank is busy. Please, don’t worry, Frank continues to look after me. We look after each other. But Charity is not just anyone, halfheartedly asking after her well-being in the event of obligation. Charity is a friend, a good friend, who deserves the truth — the truth, as much as she can give it, as much as she knows of it. Accordingly then, Alice softens the edge of her comment with a smile, occupying her hands with teaspoons and sugar, making up their teas as each were known to drink them. Charity knew, better than most, that Alice scarcely knew where her husband was. That was not to say that he wouldn’t return later that night, wearied and ferocious, to feverishly tell her of all the had pieces he had unearthed — but she would sit blankly, forcing smiles and participation, and when they parted, the marrow of his words would escape her once more. 

But they would always be honest with one another. That, they owed one another.

Alice smiles gingerly as she watches Charity arrange her bazaar of food, passing the cup of tea over to her once she’d finished. For the most part, their house’s dusty possessions had been left behind by its previous owner — but these teacups, hand-painted and breakable, were a wedding gift. The gift-giver had been courteous enough to present them with the ceremonially accompanying saucer removed, given Alice’s credentials. A private joke, an epigram which had brought the Longbottoms a good deal of amusement each time they used them — they were amongst the few effects she felt a dearth of, far above golden candlesticks and trinkets and all other decorative ornaments their wedding-attendees saw as necessary gifts. Alice’s eyes scan the rich display of food laid out on her counter, always so taken in by its propensity for making their home seem that less bare, before craning her head back towards Charity. With a half-suppressed laugh, Alice nods. “Please,” she says, reaching for one of her scones and pulling it from the basket.

It is hard not to appreciate a sensitivity such as the one impressed in Charity Burbage: with gentle diplomacy, it is a quality Alice cannot help but admire, ever-grateful of its presence. How she does not presume to force assistance upon her friend as if she is a child, incapable of the self-aid that war certainly necessitates — she does not investigate, diagnose or betray Alice’s transparent malady, but rather prescribes tea, lots of it, and home-baked goods. These, she will attest are for herself, but if her friend would like to indulge alongside her, she would certainly have no objection. Alice sees through such ploys, but she will not betray her bearing — her eyes will widen in disbelief on the occasion that Charity invariably leaves her spread behind, and, when reminded of its existence, insist that she has already baked fresh batches. Thus, if her friend did not eat the spread, it would surely go to waste. Frank would be obliged to indulge too; after all, she had brought far too much for one person to eat, and of such small stature, too.

“Oh, no, our kitchen is always a mess,” Alice retorts, dismissing a half-apology with a semblance of truth to her words. Alice lived invisibly; like a ghost, vaporous, with hands straight through her, there is little about her way of living that generates mess. Frank, on the other hand, was written in ink. She feels her stomach echo, and she realises in that moment quite how long it has been since she ate last — a day at least, perhaps two, sustained by listless grazing, if only to allay the hollowness inside. “Make as much mess as you like,” she says as she clears her throat, taking a bite of the scone still in her hands. “I won’t be turning your efforts down any time soon. I was never all that good at baking, you know. Frank was always all too happy to eat whatever sad attempt we could make between us — you’re a bit of a reprieve, I think.”

Alice always could read her better than most and the subtlety of her silent wondering is shattered by her knowing response. Frank is out. The words slice sharply through the still air and they cut all the more for the immediate penitence that follows them. Alice’s smile is soft and kind and makes Charity feel even guiltier for wondering what she could have easily guessed. Frank is out. Frank is somewhere searching for answers... for resolution. And Alice is at home suffering with the harder truth of their loss, alone. It makes Charity want to turn on her heel to track him down and shout at him that there is searching for answers and there is hiding from the truth and one can look very much like the other. She doesn’t. It would be doubly cruel to besiege him when he is already beset on all sides by the agony of his grief and to leave Alice alone, again. 

Instead she busies herself with her spread and accepts the cup of tea from her friend with an answering smile. She sips it gratefully letting the warmth fill her. If it does little to chase out the darker thoughts that sometimes rise up to poke at the cracks in her soul Alice’s soft laughter and the sight of the scone in her hand more than makes up the difference. Even mired in her own despair there is a brightness to Alice that breaks through in moments like this. Something similar to the light flickering in Charity’s chest yet altogether different. If Charity was the glow of the sun on summer day bringing warmth and contentment in its wake, then Alice was the piercing light of a constellation of stars pricking the dark sky and lighting the way. Like much of Alice it was often obscured by the clouds of her grief and loss but there were times when it burst through and even when it didn’t Charity knew it was there just beyond the fog. She could chart it in the merest hint of Alice’s smile or cadence of her laughter like an astrologer searching the night sky. 

"Oh hardly. If you saw my kitchen you wouldn’t be so quick to welcome my mess-making efforts, I’ve yet to find a cleaning charm diligent enough to get every bit of flour up. I feel like I must leave a trail of it everywhere I go by now,”she laughs the corners of her eyes crinkling as she watches Alice bite into the scone. It’s such a little thing but for much of her life it has filled her with happiness to see people enjoy anything she’s created. Even as a little girl she was ever pressing samplings of roughly formed cookies onto visitors and neighbors alike watching eagerly and wondering - do you like them? Will they make you smile? Do I make you smile? She bakes now almost constantly and cooks more than ever but the small pleasure she once cherished fades beneath the weight of her guilt. This isn’t enough. This isn’t really helping. I’m not enough. She doesn’t feel that way with Alice. Alice’s gratitude isn’t strained or forced or absent. Her eyes lack the casual judgement she finds on the edges of other Order member’s glances and words that seem to label her refugee instead of ally. With Alice she still feels like she has something worthwhile to offer and that her longing to help is natural and welcome instead of just another symptom of her desperation. 

Alice’s words conjure a picture of the past. Of Alice and Frank coated in flour and buoyed by their shared laughter. It flashes through the room like a specter and fades just as fast. “I’m glad to share, if I ate half of what I’m baking nowadays I’m afraid I’d be too stuffed to move but I like to keep my hands busy and I...” I’m not sure what else to do. Charity could hardly forget the outcome of her last attempt to organize something she thought might be useful. She can still hear Glenda’s voice bursting from her radio like a rock through glass. “I’m happy to have something to share.” Her words are honest but still come out slightly strained.  She settled at the small kitchen table reaching for a jar of pear preserves to spread on a honey scone of her own, “I planned on fixing some eggs to go with the savories but I feel like today is a day for dessert first.” She paused after a bite tilting her head and admitting,”I’ve missed you. I’m sorry I’ve been absent I...” Alice is hurt and faded but she’s still Charity’s dear friend and there is too much between them for Charity to hide the whole of her own feelings with any true success. “Well the vigil didn’t go quite like I hoped and I’ve been worried I might have done more harm than good.” 

#[ Alice • Just as You Have Loved Before You Will Love Again ] #w: Alice #reaching out #location: The Longbottom's house #date: 7 February 1982

[beealight]

amosisnotahero‌:

Charity has this–way about her. Something calm and steady, when inside she’s vibrating, her voice betraying none of the worry he knows she feels. She exudes an aura of predictability, of oh please like me, I like you already, of something akin to the smell of fresh baked goods. She makes Amos feel safe and he hasn’t been close with her since they left school. She just…is that way, he supposes.

Amos entered the kitchen carefully, drawn in by the smell of whatever she’s making. “Merlin,” he breathes, “that smells delicious. What, have they made you house cook since I’ve gone?” Although, come to think of it, he didn’t know who was really cooking what out here, and maybe that’s not that out of the realm of possibility. “Yeah. Starved, actually.” And he is–he hasn’t noticed it til now, because he ran straight to Alice when he arrived.

“Thank you,” he added, and smiled at her, hoping he might receive a genuine smile in return. He liked Charity, really, in a way he didn’t like a lot of people here. She was real in a way many people seemed afraid to be. Honest. “How have things been here? I just came from visiting Alice, but–well. She doesn’t have much by way of gossip.”

What, have they made you house cook since I’ve been gone? The words are gentle and half-teasing, they shouldn’t sting the way they do. But sting they do so much that she hopes her half turn to reach into the cabinet for a bowl has hidden her face. It doesn’t help that she’s thought them herself in a dozen self-deprecating forms. No one has made her into anything but what else can she provide the Order but food and the flickering light of her dying hope? “Oh you know me, I’m just trying to keep busy.” 

Starved. He says and she worries for Alice. She and Frank will have gone through the spread she left during her last visit by now - it will do no good running over there as though Amos has made such a thing clear, she’ll have to bring the rest of the soup over in the morning. She ladled some into a bowl for Amos and passed it to him. 

There is a sincerity to Amos, even though she remembers seeing him in school trying on different faces for different audiences, his gratitude is real and solid and his desire for connection has always drawn to her. She’d missed him after school and had written for a while until their respective lives led them far enough apart that only a faint thread of familiarity existed between them and the letters stopped. She’d found out about Nora from a Prophet buried under a pile of unanswered mail weeks after she’d been put in the ground and had stared at the image of him bracketed by the Longbottoms in a sea of other faces at the funeral. Some of those faces were familiar in much less comfortable ways. She’d seen them contorted in disgust as she passed them in the halls of their school. Fucking Mudblood. 

But Amos is her ally... her own old friend who trusts her and just wants to help. She smiled back at him and wished the warmth of it would melt the ice that drips into her veins when she remembers all those faces. 

“Of course,” she took a seat at the small kitchen table and waved at a fresh cut loaf of crusty bread by a dish of butter,” help yourself.”

She hummed at his gentle assessment of Alice,” It’s been... quiet.” Quiet like the calm before a storm... like a room filled with naught but the soft ticking of a clock. Which is to say almost deafening. “Dorcas found a letter in the post. Arabella thinks it might have something to do with the second safe place Glenda mentioned.” She busied herself for a moment tearing off a piece of bread and buttering it before finally allowing the first of her own questions to slip through, “How is it out there?”

#w: Amos #Welcome back #setting: Charity's House #date: Early February #//me @ myself please Stop Rambling

[beealight]

artseptimus‌:

Date TBA 10:00pm Weasley Settlement

Cigarette smoke charred his throat and whiskey burned the insides of his cheeks. 

Arthur had a moment of peace after Charlie had gone to bed after the others, the two of them talking about Molly, about Bill, about their uncles. It had been a difficult evening. And so the smoke filled his legs silently, the cherry of the cigarette dressing his features warmly in red. The night settled over Godric’s Hollow with an uncertain tension, an air that something could go wrong. 

She sat in the back of his mind then. Snorting at the drama of him. Arthur let the smile reach his lips, his heart aching for the familiarity of sharing one another for so damned long. It was a break for once, and he let himself feel it all - if there was one thing he was sick to death of, it was pretending that he could think of a life without her. That their unit might only ever be seen as his. 

He lingered in the cold doorway for a moment longer before stepping in and jotting an invite to Charity, it wasn’t too late for a chat. The vigil hadn’t necessarily had the impact that either of them had desired and Art knew that it was difficult to witness the stillness in other’s actions. They were at war and everyone just wanted to seem to forget the missing as if they had already died. That they were walking corpses. She knew better than anyone else that they needed to carry on fighting: Althea deserved justice, Molly needed to be returned home. 

Sending off the little memo, he locked the door and sat back in the wooden chair propped by the fire, still emanating warmth from the little wood he’d stoked it with. Reaching for the tea that made himself before stepping out for a cigarette, ignoring the half sipped whiskey for now. 

There was something seething under Charity’s skin. It had settled there after seeing those fateful words in ink bold and venomous on The Prophet page and nothing seemed to fully calm the sensation. Even bone-tired from her work with Pandora combatting her apparition sickness she could not seem to rest. It did not help that she’d passed out when they’d finished and slept fitfully through the Order meeting earlier that day leaving her once more without any direct way of contributing. Instead, she haunted her kitchen baking and longing for the sense of contentment such acts used to bring her.  

She’d put a batch of shortbread dough in the fridge when the paper airplane tapped on her window. Arthur. Here, at last, was something familiar... in more ways than most at least. Arthur had been a constant in her life ever since he had become the other half of Molly’s bright soul. She could still remember the day her bold laughing friend had introduced her to this once stranger who spoke with careful words that showed little of his busy brilliant mind. The way his face had lit up when she’d learned to sign and how rapidly his fingers would move caught up in sharing the excitement of a new idea or discovery. And then later the sound of Althea’s own joyous excitement tumbling through their home as she and Arthur sat sharing knowledge for hours. She could almost close her eyes and see them there until the glow of charmed lights in the kitchen she’d shared with her love. 

But those days were in the past no matter how hard her heart tried to drag them back to the present. Back then it had been Charity & Althea and Arthur & Molly now it was just Charity and Arthur trying their best not to come apart at the seams despite the war having artlessly torn half of their hearts from them. 

Charity opened the window and read the note before reaching in a drawer to pull out a pack from a carefully hoarded carton of cigarettes. The brand was a muggle one and the cigarettes inside had long since gone stale but she clung to them all the same. Once they had been the focus of one of her few ongoing fights with her wife, now they felt like a lifeline. Quickly she shrugged on the cardigan hanging by her door and stepped out into the night making her way the short distance to Arthur’s finding him outside waiting. 

“Arthur,” she said warmly despite the hint of exhaustion in her voice. She drew out a cigarette from her pack, “Do you have a light?” She could have charmed it but somehow it didn’t feel quite the same when she did. 

Good Comes to Those Who Wait || Charity

#w: arthur #Good Comes to Those Who Wait #setting: Outside the Weasley's house #date: mid February #Exact date tbd

[beealight]

pandora-goodlove‌:

Pandora had been curled up in the laege armchair that sat facing the window of the Lovegood’s living room for hours. Long enough to watch the last stars of the night blink out, replaced by the soft glow of the sun rising on another day in the Hollow. Xenophilius, oblivious to the feelings of most but acutely aware of Pandora’s wrapped a heavy and slightly itchy woolen blanket around her frame before leaving for their morning walk around the village. A cocoon of warmth and love, battling the cough that had kept her awake most of the night, catching the occasional drip that fell from her icy nose.

A well read copy of the Daily Prophet lay open on her lap, a hand occasionally snaked out of the nest of blankets to turn a page or reach for a quill, Pandora’s ink marks annotating the paper, trying to make sense of it all. Pandora shook her head in disgust reading about the Muggle born census, in her mind a thinly veiled way to round them all up and lead them to the slaughter. There was no real solace in the fact her Muggle father was buried years ago, when these hateful voices were merely a whisper. Nor that her mother and Benjy’s parents had fled to Korea. God knows it wasn’t safe anywhere, though there was nothing reported in the Daily Prophet the postcards she received spoke of unrest in Asia. Pandora - everyone she cared about - had massive targets on their backs, no one was safe.

It wasn’t until an orb of bright light glowing the rich gold of honey began nudging her shoulder Pandora dragged her eyes from the disturbing news to look around in slight confusion. Her attention landed on the clusters of lights and charms hanging from the ceiling, swinging and flashing - the doorbell. Pandora emerged from her cocoon and hurried to the door, one foot clad in knitted sock far too large for her foot, it’s pair lost somewhere between midnight and dawn.

“Charity.” Pandora signed after opening the door, her lips curled into an inviting smile, not giving away the surprise she felt seeing the other woman so early in the morning. She ran a hand through her messy hair, trying to neaten herself up, subtly attempting to wipe her nose that was once again threatening to drip on her sleeve. “Come in, please.” Pandora ushered Charity in from the cold, her voice soft, quiet, a little raspy. “Is everything okay?”

Charity waited by the entrance to the tent shifting side to side with equal parts impatience and indecision. It was so early to be calling even on friends and she hated the thought that she was passing on her problems and sleeplessness onto others once more but at the same time she could not face the thought of returning to her cottage to pointlessly pace any longer. So she stayed until Pandora appeared in the doorway her smile as warm and welcoming as ever despite her own apparent dis-ease. 

“Pandora, thank you.” Charity signed in return smiling nervously as her eyes took in Pandora’s disheveled state and dripping nose with a further spike of contrition even as she followed her into her home. And it was a home filled with all the markings of two people who lived and loved more authentically than most even despite all the tragedy they had faced and their ongoing struggles. Others might call it messy and it would not be far from the truth but to Charity, it felt like a refuge - a shining bastion of love in the midst of so much darkness. 

For the merest moment after Pandora voiced her question Charity’s carefully built walls held out.  It had taken time to build them around an openness that was as natural and bright as sunlight but she had shored them up with a determination to shield others from the storm of her grief and anxiety. Their world was full of enough unpleasantness without her adding to it and people needed her to be bright and comforting not broken and worried. Strangely, or perhaps not so strange after all, it was easier to hold them against battering rams of sadness and anger than it was to hold them up against the earnest kindness that shone through Pandora and her love. 

“I...”she barely stifled the sob that tore at her throat before shaking her head emphatically and taking a deep slow breath to try to stem the tears that threatened to fall. “No, I don’t think I’m okay, I’m sorry for coming here so early like this but I wanted...I needed to ask you if you could help me with something.” 

#w: Pandora #Pandora tag #Help me Heal me #date: 16 February 1982 #setting: The Lovegood's tent #//Charity out here weeping all over the poor Lovegoods #poor girl has Too many feelings

[beealight]

Masterlist of Memes

lxckwolf-archive‌:

☹ My muse is visiting your muse on their death bed

♫ A drabble about our muses inspired by the next song that comes on shuffle

☻ A drabble of our muses on their wedding day

☺ my muse trying to piss yours off

ت our muses running into each other after not seeing each other for several years

ヅ for a situation that got both our muses arrested

シ my muse walks in on your naked

Ü your muse walks in on my muse naked

ϡ a goodbye letter from my muse to yours

♥ you muse suprises my muse with a kiss

۵ my muse kisses yours to shut them up

ღ a forehead kiss from my muse

웃 my muse torturing yours for information

유 my muse trying to seduce information from your muse

♈ a holiday drabble featuring our muses

♉ our muses are together when they get ambushed

≑ my muse wakes up in your muse’s body

?  my muse will ask your muse a question they always wanted to ask

+ my muse has died and your muse is included in their will

◈ my muse’s reaction to finding your muse beaten and bruised 

♊ my muse will do something stupid to impress your muse

✃ your muse visiting mine in the psych ward

♋ my muse visiting yours in the psych ward

❅ my muse rescues yours

✪ my muse seeing the ghost of your muse

● my muse’s turn offs

○ my muse’s turn ons

△ our muse’s get in a playful wrestling match

⍢ my muse gives yours a hickey

✧ our muses having dinner together

☎ my muse drunk dials your muse

✈ our muses on a flight together

☼ my muse giving yours a massage

♡ my muse flirts with your mue

☣ your muse visiting my muse in prison

♌ your muse visiting mine in prison

X my muse doesn’t remember anything from the night before. They have blood on their hands, and your muse is beaten at their feet.

☁ our muses are trapped in a fire together

〰 our muses are at the beach together

❢ my muse has lost their memory, and at the sight of your muse starts to remember things

✑ my muses daily routine

❂ a new years eve memory from my muse

✬ our muses share a new years eve kiss

✆ your muses name, ringtone, and icon in the muse’s phone

◙ a christmas gift from my muse

♍ a sexual story from my muse

₩ our muses are caught in a thunder storm together

❊  a regret my muse has about your muse

♎ your muse tracing one of my muse’s scars

♏ my muse tracing a scar of your muse’s

♐ my muse hearing your muse scream

♑ our muses go out for coffee together

♒ my muse visit’s your muse’s grave

♓ my muse injures your muse

✄ your muse injures my muse

☩ a dream my muse has about your muse

☨ my muse searching for your muse

☦ my muse trying to cheer up your muse

✞ my muse taking care of a your muse while their sick

✛ my muse trying to calm your muse down

✜ my muse trying to get your muse to recover from amnesia

✝ a confession from my muse to yours

✙ our muses shopping together

✠ our muses watching the stars together

« a past memory with our muses

» a daydream my muse has about yours

✐ a mistletoe kiss

✎ our muses going to a costume ball together

✏ our muses are evil and out reaking havoc together

♔ a kiss on the cheek

♕ a kiss on the palms

♖ a kiss on the back of the hand

♗ a kiss on the nose

♘ a kiss on the eyelids

♙ a kiss on a bruise

#Like Caisey I prefer these to fit in canon buttt try me on others if you're feeling shippy #prompts #drabble prompts

[beealight]

amortal-sybil‌:

The sudden shifting of time in the mind’s eye not even an hour prior had left Sybil with a strange sense of psychological vertigo. Timelines were all wrong, people were all wrong, and it felt like her mind just couldn’t latch on. To what? The seer had never been able to answer that question in all her years of being at the mercy of the fates and visions. Nothing felt real, yet at the same time it felt overwhelmingly real. Every scent was too powerful, sending her into gagging convulsions with every breath drawn, yet she never moved an inch. Lights made her squint, yet she lived in shadow. It was a constant tug-of-war of contradictions that left her mind reeling and her senses burned out.

She’d fallen, she was sure, but it felt like she was drifting upwards. She struggled for a hand-hold, but grasped at thin air. The seer was floating away, the atmosphere growing thinner around her, when the voice cut through. The words became a tether and she found herself crashing back to Earth, slamming once more upon the packed dirt and cracked paving stones of the village. She looked up dazedly at the source of the voice - another heartache stood before the seer, concern apparent on her features. Another tragedy in human clothing stared down at Sybill - wasn’t that all each of them could be reduced to, after all?

Can I help?

The whispers breathed in the seer’s ear - that was all the witch wanted. The desire to help consumed her as much as guilt consumed Sybill. Perhaps luckily, the seer was more focused on the words themselves than to state something that would simply be unnerving and drive the witch away.“Yes. To both.” Speaking was like turning the knob on the radio - bringing the static-filled reality into sharper focus only to lose it again. “My basic first aid is… lacking, you could say.”

Charity fretted silently as the other witch’s eyes wandered dazedly for a moment before they finally focused on her own. Although she knew of Sybil, their resident seer had been a topic of much curiosity following her affiliation with the Order, she could not remember exchanging more than perhaps half a dozen words with the other witch. It was unlike her to go so long without reaching out to a new member but it seemed clear in Sybil’s demeanor that she preferred her privacy and Charity had not yet puzzled out how to approach her without overstepping these apparent boundaries. It seemed that perhaps fate had decided to step in for her. 

Charity hovered for a moment waiting until the other witch voiced her consent and then sat down next to her in the dirt. Charity winced sympathetically at the sight of the red of the other witch’s blood seeping through to join with the other colors that decorated the handkerchief as leaned over to gently pull it aside to get a closer look at her wound. The bottom of her foot was wet with blood and spotted with dirt from their tumble but it could have been worse if not for the makeshift wrap. 

“Lacking skill or not, your wrap definitely helped but I just want to clean it so I can get a better look before I try to heal it. You may feel a slight tingling sensation,” Charity warned the other witch before pulling her wand from her sleeve, never far from hand even on what should have been a simple trip to the supply shed and back again, and pointing it at the bottom of Sybil’s foot. “Tergeo” The specks of dirt pulled free first streaming through the air towards her wand before disappearing followed by a stream of blood that left the bottom of her foot clear save for the cut. Charity hummed softly at the sight as she leaned in again looking it over carefully. It didn’t look so bad that she needed to send for Pandora. While she lacked the skill and experience to feel comfortable attempting anything more complicated she had learned a few simple healing spells over the years.

“It’s deep but not too jagged, I should be able to heal it easily enough. You will feel a hot-cold type sensation that can be somewhat uncomfortable,” Charity frowned slightly at her own words. She sounded ridiculous. When were any of them comfortable anymore? “I just mean, are you ready? I would move you somewhere more comfortable first but I think that standing up will be an altogether better notion for you once we’ve got this taken care of.” 

#w: Sybil #setting: on the path to the supply shed #Vision Interupted #date: mid February #post- letter #pre- muggleborn census

[beealight]

Lily James as Eve Harrington in All About Eve 2019 at the Noël Coward Theatre

#[ We were real once ] #visage #//hc that Althea smoked and Charity hated it but after thea died Charity picked it up 😭

[beealight]

rcmus‌:

They all wanted to have hope. That was the problem. When Remus had thought of Godric’s Hollow, a safe place for all of them to hide and recover, he had hoped that being here would provide them all with some small measure of hope: a physical sign that all was not lost, that they still had each other no matter who they had lost. That there was one safe place where they could survive. But it had all soured so quickly. The fighting, between their so-called leaders, and the memories that came with living in the ruins of a massacre. The people they’d left behind, who wouldn’t be here. There was so little hope in this place they’d made, even he was wavering because of it.

But false hope was just as dangerous as no hope at all, right now, when they needed to be more cautious than ever. 

     ‘I’m already scared enough that Sirius–’

He exhaled, folding in on himself a bit, shoulders hunched, and closed his eyes. With all Charity had lost, he wondered for a moment if it was cruel to speak as if he’d already lost someone who was right there, lying next to him in bed every night. But… he did feel like he’d already lost Sirius. He felt that way from the second they found out James had died. Like seven years, seven years of loving Sirius, of being by his side, wasn’t enough to balance out the loss of the one person Sirius had always cared about most. Like it had put some wall between them that they’d never tear down. That Sirius would rather run headfirst after James into death than have one conversation with Remus about how he felt. He already had, after all, hasn’t he? Running off to try to kill Rodolphus Lestrange with his bare hands? 

He cleared his throat, and started again.

     ‘I’m scared that he’ll run off after it and never come back. I’m scared anyone will. We’ve all got people we’d leave for if we knew there was a chance they were alive, and the message… it could be any of them.’ And it was so much like the Death Eaters to use that against them, to use hope and love and all the reasons they had fought the war this far, to lure them into something they’d never come back from. 

Charity felt as much as saw him pull away from her shrinking into himself and suddenly measuring his words against some invisible weight. She couldn’t know for sure of course the way his voice had caught on his love’s name and then faded off gave her reason enough to guess at what made him suddenly hesitate to confide in her. It was part of why she had long since stopped talking about Althea with most of the Order. For a time she had watched over and over as the other members shrank away from reminders of her pain and loss stumbling over their words and shying away from her offers to help. It was not cruelty that drove them to do so, in fact, she knew well that it was mostly born of an opposite instinct to be kind, but it had cut at her all the same. She had little enough use to offer the Order and the least she could do was to make sure that as many of them as wanted to could feel comfortable coming to her for support. Even if it meant burying her own pain deep enough that it wore at her soul day by day.

Even now she was tempted to protest. It’s all right. I’m all right. It was a long time ago... But she had a feeling Remus would hear the lie in her words. So instead she waited patiently watching the stars and giving him the space to put his fears into words. When they finally came she regarded him with understanding having half-expected the gist of his concerns. The message was a lure one way or another and Sirius was certainly numbered among those most likely to chase it. It made her ache for him and she wished that she could refute his fears for his love and smooth the worry from his face with promises of safety but Sirius was wont to do as he willed regardless of Remus’ fears and there was no true comfort to be found in lies. 

Still... she did not think that Sirius’ unbridled restlessness meant that they loved Remus any less. Anyone could see that they were feverish with grief and rage. She knew well enough, despite her tendency to softness, that heartache tended to leave ragged edges in its wake that were sharp enough to cut friend as well as foe. It made her think of Althea and her fervor for change and righteousness that often rose to a fever-pitch. She remembered all too well her own fear and panic when she got a call from a London jail not long after they were married and Althea channeled her own grief over her father’s absent cruelty into a spat of risky protests. 

“I think as long as any of us...” she nearly said as long as we live and that might well have been true but it was an unnecessarily harsh truth for an already bitter night,” continue to fight we will be worried about any of us who set out in search of answers or hope. But I also think... that we are stronger than we seem. That these worries are born of bonds that our enemies cannot truly fathom. They might know well enough to try to use them against us I’ll admit it but I don’t think they can account for how fierce Art would grow at the merest chance to see Molly again... or how hard Sirius would fight to get back to you.” 

#w: Remus #Literally one thousand years later I'm so sorry #Sleepless Wanderers #setting: Outskirts of Godric's Hollow #date: Early February

[beealight]

Hierophant and Tower

hierophant: do you value tradition?

Charity believes that there are traditions worth preserving and respects others’ right to honor their traditions as long as they aren’t harmful in nature. She understands the value and comfort that can lie in traditions. Her mother always told the bees whenever anything important happened in their family, a tradition Charity brought with her to her own home and hive draping them in black and sobbing the news of Althea’s death and then later whispering her goodbyes when she left them for Godric’s Hollow. But when tradition begins to stand in the way of progress she has little care for it. It is tradition after all that so many hide their hate behind. The tradition of purity and separatism is what led them down this bitter road to war and it is only the striking off of those rusted old beliefs that will bring them out of it.

tower: what do you most want to change about yourself?

Before the war Charity was rather content with herself and her life. While she knew that some people would consider her life mundane or unambitious, she was just a tea shop owner after all in a world full of magical opportunities, it was full of that which she valued most- kindness, sweetness, and most of all love. Althea’s death and the onset of war changed everything for her including what she saw when she looked in the mirror. Once she had been happy to be kind and gentle by nature, now more than anything Charity wants to be ‘stronger.’ There is certainly a strength in her softness but years of loss and the ever growing dark presence of the war that they are currently losing have worn away at her confidence in her light leaving her feeling small and helpless in the face of the darkness overcoming their world. While she does what she can to remain a soothing and positive presence in the Order it grows harder for her daily to feel as though this is anywhere close to enough to make an actual difference in the war effort as she is desperate to do. She badly needs to seek emotional nourishment and coax what little light she has not bled out already back into the blaze of sunshine it once was but she is blind to this and instead seeks to harden herself longing to create a strong enough shell of armor to become the soldier she believes the Order needs her to be while ignoring the risk that this shell may snuff out what remains of the light inside of her (figuratively or literally this is war after all). 

#flongbottomed #[ asked and answered ] #[ ask meme ] #finally finished this lmao

[beealight]

Date: 16 February, 1982, Early Morning

Location: The Lovegood’s Tent

Status: Closed to @pandora-goodlove

After the news of the census arrived shattering the fragile illusion of cease-fire that was cast by the wards that surrounded their frozen refuge Charity had spent the last hours of the night pacing the house leaving cups of nearly untouched tea cooling in her wake. The usually soothing liquid did nothing to warm the shard of ice - the exact color of the ‘Minister’s’ eyes - that had lodged in her heart at the sight of him staring up from the page. She could not sleep. Could not close her eyes without the words running along the inside of her eyelids. MUGGLEBORN CENSUS RETURNS. Thousands of owls... Ministry staff will go door to door. It was nothing more than a threat and a thinly veiled one at that. She’d been too young to remember the first census but she’d learned about it in school and knew of the terror it had wrought even then in a time of relative peace. She had seen enough of the changes the war had brought in its wake to know that this time would be different. This time would be worse. 

The morning light began to spill through the windows but what warmth it offered seemed to flee before it could touch her skin. Another day had come and with it, the realization of the Ministry’s threat crept ever closer. Suddenly the walls of the house she had struggled so long to make into a home felt oppressive and she abandoned her latest cup of tea in favor of grabbing her wand and pulling a shawl around her shoulders to step out into the village. Although she stood under the open sky and was as free to go as any resident of their refuge - she had been advised against it of course and knew there was a proper procedure to be followed - she still felt trapped. Even if she were to step beyond the wards where would she go? What could she do to help those left outside? She could not even fucking apparate to save her own life let alone others. 

Her earliest attempts at apparition had been a nightmare. Her first lesson at Hogwarts had left her bleeding and vomiting on the castle floor. She had been so excited at first watching the other students disappear in one place and appear grinning with triumph in another. It had seemed that magic would never cease to find fresh ways to amaze her. She had listened to the instructions carefully and repeated them in her head as she focused on the hoop across the room- Destination, Determination, Deliberation. She’d spun in place and felt her body contort unpleasantly into nothingness. Her next sensation had been of a sharp stinging in her hand and she’d looked down to find the tip of her pinky missing and promptly screamed, threw up, and passed out. She’d come to in the Hospital ward a thin white line around the digit marking her mistake. It had taken her well over a week to work up the courage to try again and when she did it became clear that her nausea had not resulted solely from the sight of her blood spurting into the air. While she managed later attempts with all her fingers and toes intact she could barely make it a dozen meters without popping back into sight pale and violently ill. Before too long she had given up. This failing had already cost her one life - just one life but in that same moment had crumbled her entire world to dust - and now there were countless lives at stake and she was still dead weight unable to apparate on her own and slowing down others when she fell sick after even a side-along trip. 

She had failed before by giving in to weakness but that was before and now she was determined to be different. To find a way to be stronger. There had to be a way some sort of remedy...some sort of potion perhaps. Pandora. She followed the path away from the houses to the tents on the outskirts of town and then further to the tent that the Lovegoods had made into their home filling it with strange plans and scents and overflowing it with love. It was just a tent on the edge of a haunted refuge but somehow it seemed to exude more warmth than almost any other place that the survivors touched. She hesitated by the entrance the sun was only just beginning its climb into the sky and she knew it was rude of her to appear so early... still she could not bear her own weakness and endless waiting any longer and she ran her hand along a string of bells by the entrance and cast a ball of light from her wand into the tent and waiting for a sign of life inside. 

#w: Pandora #setting: The Lovegood's tent #date: 16 February 1982 #Help me Heal me #Pandora tag #// this got way too freaking long with all the set up but I'm a So Hype for the girls

[beealight]

Date: 15 February 1982 

Location: Alastor’s tent

With: @amoodyauror

Her eyes scanned the Prophet again as though this time the words that were already seared into her memory might shift into something less sickening. Each time only made the feeling in the pit of her stomach grow worse as though there was an iron ball lodged within her that grew hotter and heavier with grief and rage until finally, she could take no more. She snatched the paper up from its place on her table crumbling it in her clenched fist and headed towards her door. Something had to be done. Surely the Order would not... could not let this stand. She stepped out into the dusk the frozen stillness of the village only grating further against her raw nerves. Where was everyone? What were they still doing here? Were they really resigned to just cling to survival while the world outside burned? 

Charity wasn’t really sure where she was headed until she found herself standing outside of his tent. Moody was their leader. Even wartorn. Even shackled by the division threatened by his so-called partner... surely he had some answers... some sort of plan at least. All she could think of was the thousands of lives that hung in the balance outside of their wards. Although the past year had been colored with dark shades of grief and desperation she had not felt a fury like this rush through her veins since the day Frank had told her of the Minister’s final decision on Althea’s case. It was an agonizingly personal feeling to imagine all the families out there facing this barely veiled threat from the same man and knowing that they were not doing nearly enough to strike at the sickness in their world that gave him the boldness and power to make it. She stopped at the edge of his wards taking a deep breath that did nothing to settle the shaking in her hands and jump of her pulse. There was a light in the tent but that meant next to nothing when its owner was so fond of decoys and protective measures.

“Moody... Alastor, are you in there?”

#w: Alastor #Moody tag #Demanding Answers #event: The Muggleborn Census #setting: Moody's Tent #date: 15 February 1982