Fulgurite
Disclaimer: A penniless student, don't sue.
"The victor belongs to the spoils."
Anthony Patch
There were violent knocks at her apartment door – an incessant rage of blows at the wooden slab that closed off her environment, her ecosystem of despair. The windows were rattling with alarming force by the shear strength of the storm climaxing outside and the pelting of the rain on the exterior surfaces of the building was nearly deafening, yet she still managed to hear those knocks.
The hallway between the living room and her bedroom was flooded with used tissues; broken glass lay next to a rickety coffee table with the remnants of the spilt water nearly fully dry on the itchy carpet.
Her head hummed in the aftermath of yet another severe panic attack and she ached for some sleep, some rest, anything that would stop the hurt.
Across the hall the knocks kept getting louder and merely wishing them away wouldn't do. So, for the first time in hours she got up from her tired spot halfway down the hall and, steadying herself on the wall, began her slow journey to the door.
One, two, three…she counted her steps, each triple followed by a calming breath.
The door creaked open, her shaking hand frozen on the handle, numb fingers amazed at their ability to function in ways other than rubbing angry tears from reddened eyes or crumpling sodden bits of tissue.
"Merlin Weasley, it's not exactly a pristine spring morning out there if you haven't noticed."
It took her a minute to comprehend the sounds coming from the figure's mouth as it stepped around her, to place a non-descript paper bag on the wooden counter-top of the kitchen pass-through.
From this spot the man surveyed the room, noticing the general state of dismay and with a simple spell vanished the tissues and a quick Reparo sorted out the glass shards on the floor.
The living room was a knot of mismatched blankets, throws, and assorted cushions, an indiscernible hum emanating from a pile in the far corner of the room which he assumed must be the wireless playing some moody tune.
Finally catching up to his words, the redhead turned to face the pale man. He looked pristine as a spring morning, or a winter evening more like.
He was rummaging through the paper bag, taking from it some Sleeping Draught, chocolate, and elderberry tea.
Feeling nauseous she hobbled across the room and simply stood by the windowsill, looking out into the heaving skies of torrential London.
Thunder roared and the lights briefly flickered as lightning struck the building, electricity funneling down its spine into the deep entrails of the Earth.
A pair of firm hands rested on her shoulders, thumbs rubbing slow, comforting circles. "It's a wonder this rickety assembly of bricks manages to withstand a storm like this one. I swear Weasley," the figure nuzzled into her neck, "the landlord's a wizard pulling the wool on you."
How she wanted the building to not to, for it to cave in and crush her whole, stone on Earth smash her like mortar and pestle so she could at least look as fragmented as she felt.
"It's Thursday," was all she could manage before giving into a bout of hiccups. She wanted to scream but she was so tired and she couldn't hic keep hic them at bay.
Before she could give in and crumble to the ground she was floating, the pair of arms now carrying her bridal style, long strides leading past the living room towards the bathroom.
There was a tub in the bathroom that had been there since the building had been erected seventy six years ago.
In typical fashion of the time, it stood on four brass claws, now tarnished, and one replaced by a black rubber stump thus tipping the tub slightly to the right. The off-white ceramic was chipped at the edges, a makeshift shower-head sprouting rather crookedly from behind the headrest which on occasion sputtered Morse code regarding the appropriate way one should shampoo twice.
It was strange to think of all the bodies that must have once bathed in the oblong concavity of this giant, aging bowl. It was strange to think about many things.
When they entered the bathroom, there was sick on the toilet bowl seat, and he scourgified without second thought, glancing past it to the tub fitted against the back wall. With a flick of his wand he turned the hot tap on full.
"Time to stand, Gin."
Her bare feet tingled as she placed them on the cold, tiled floor.
Her hiccups subsided as he began to undress her. He gently tugged at the elastic band of her loose cotton trousers, letting them pool at her feet. He unbuttoned the fading flannel shirt she had nicked from him a few years back just enough to pull it over her head and untangled the ribbon holding the haphazard pile of waves on her head. Her hair flowed stark against her pallid skin looking a shade too much like blood in the harsh bathroom light.
She managed to enter the bathtub by herself, the cold of the bathroom floor marginally revitalizing her weary body. He pulled a rickety rattan chair towards the edge of the tub were he sat beside her, watching her avoid his gaze. Her skeletal looking hands gripped the curved rim of the tub as she began slowly sinking into the water while he proceeded down the futile path of counting all the freckles he could see.
As she dipped her head beneath the surface for some clear of mind, letting her arms sink alongside the rest of her body, he summoned the tea he had left in the kitchen: a ridiculous mug in the obnoxious Cannon's orange that used to chant "another drink for the winning team!" each time you'd lift it up but now proudly commemorated each spill with a hearty "clumsy like our Keeper!". He had more than an inkling that Ginny may have tampered with that particular charm to annoy the Weasel.
She had had her head under the water for a little longer than he felt comfortable with so, sinking his arms past the elbow and wetting his rolled sleeves, he gently pulled her up.
Exhaling heavily, she reached behind her to wring her hair and he grasped the levitating mug, bringing it towards her.
"No tea," she burst, her hand halting him at the wrist.
Placing the chipped mug beneath the tub he offered, "What would you want, then?"
So much. She wanted so much. Words stacked on her vocal chords, toppling over each other in a race half a millennium of language could not hope to succeed in. How could she articulate within the frequency of human hearing the depth of her desire buried in the darkest pits of her conscious hell?
Overwhelmed by the shear enormity of her inability to reply she let out a strangled sob, "no tea."
He placed a hand on the side of her face, stroking her damp cheek. "Hush now," he murmured before softly kissing her forehead.
She had fallen asleep right after he'd finished clothing her with a fresh flannel shirt that had also been his at some point.
As she laid her head on the small mountain of pillows on her bed, she had offered him a weak stretch of her mouth he assumed was an attempt at a smile and whispered a nearly inaudible "Draco", her eyes so dark and sad, blinking slowly as she gave into her exhaustion.
While she slept he decided to sort out what he could of her flat. He mainly focused on excavating the living room for the furniture buried under presumably the early stages of fabric sedimentation knowing that if he tidied ("meddled" according to her) anywhere else she'd have his head.
As he levitated aside the folding blankets and arranged the cushions with spells she had admittedly taught him, he began catching onto what could distinctly be identified as words and unknowingly started approaching the far corner where he had assumed the wireless was playing music.
"…wanted to be Rapier…"
He recognized that voice, if only vaguely.
"…various stories we've been hearing about…"
There was a tilt to it, a certain humorous quality he had heard but in one other wizard's he'd ever met.
"…strategy of remaining in the shadows…"
He had to bite his cheek to stop the sudden choking urge, the bile he felt rising between his lungs.
"…alleged sights of him are genuine…"
It couldn't be.
"…let's try and calm down a little bit…"
He remembered catching this particular segment of Potterwatch, confiscating the device from some fourth year Gryffindors in an alcove near the Charms classroom a little over five years ago.
The last of the crocheted sheets piled onto the stack of other bed linens.
"…that's still likely to be the last thing you ever do…"
Lying unassuming on the itchy, imitation Persian rug was an old Muggle tape inside the modified wireless playing in a loop the voice of Fred Weasley. He lifted the ratty old radio, generous amounts of Spell-O-Tape keeping it together.
"I never thought I'd hear myself say it, but safety first!"
He switched it off.
A/N: The quote at the beginning comes from the opening of "The Beautiful and the Damned" by F. Scott Fitzgerald. The actual proverb is "to the victors belong the spoils" but Fitzgerald turned it around for his story. You can take it as you will as I can imagine multiple meanings for it regarding this fic (leave your interpretation maybe as a review? Hint, hint!)
Also, I do plan on this being a chaptered story but there is no concrete path at the moment. I hope you enjoyed this first part though, so please leave me a review with your thoughts and criticisms.
I will be creating a soundtrack album to go with the story which will be available on my tumblr at some point (I will notify you!), where I have posted the cover artwork already. All links and further information are available on my profile.
Hope summer/winter (depending on your hemisphere!) break is suiting you well, much love,
andes & sea.