Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter
Pairing: Charlie Weasley/Lavender Brown
Prompts: word: memory; colour: orange; object: quill; emotion: apathy; dialogue: ''if it means that much to you.''
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[Querencia, n.] – the place from which one's strength is drawn, where one feels at home; the place where you are your most authentic self
''Ooh, look at him, Vender,'' Parvati tugs on her pigtail. Lavender hates that particular childhood nickname, but she is never angry at Vati for using it. Parvati could kill a hundred men and Lavender would forgive her. ''Isn't he a hunk?''
Lavender follows Vati's gaze to a broad man with hair a brilliant fire-red-glinting-orange. She blinks. The only one she ever saw with a hair even remotely that shade is – well. Ron Weasley isn't nearly as handsome as this man.
''Who –''
''He's the dragon tamer,'' Vati says importantly, and she pronounces the last two words the way Lavender's father might say 'fiscal responsibility,' or 'axe-murderer,' or 'the Devil.'
There really isn't much to say to that. Lavender studies the redhead for a moment. ''Oh.'' Surreptitiously she adjusts her scarf and, after a second of thought, pulls her hair free of the sparkly hairclips keeping it in place. She knows herself well enough to know that her hair is her best feature, seeing how her body is still too thin and coltish to be alluring.
Sadly, the man thumps his friend – some wizard with hair dyed a silver-grey – and walks away where she can't see him.
''Who are you cheering for?'' Vati asks, already forgetting about the dragon tamer. ''I know we agreed on Harry, but did you see the Beauxbatons girl? I swear to Merlin, if I thought I had any chance at all I'd throw myself at her.''
Lavender rests her head on Vati's shoulder, huffing an amused little scoff. ''She is beautiful,'' she agrees softly, burrowing in closer to her friend's warmth.
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[Kuebiko, n.] – a state of exhaustion inspired by acts of senseless violence
The next time she sees him, she is no longer a fourteen-year-old child, and he is no longer a good-natured dragon tamer.
She is seventeen, with thin, ropey scars slithering their way around her arms and down her stomach like poison ivy. Her hair is the only thing beautiful about her – a lazy tangle of honey half-curls, reaching all the way down to her waist – because the expression she wears most of the time is that of a hunted animal backed into a corner. She regrets so much and so many, and she wishes time could be rewound just so she can pretend the horror she lived through was a mere nightmare.
He is in his mid-twenties, and he seems to her like some god of war. He shoots spells left and right, twisting just so to avoid getting killed, and he is… revelling in the chaos of battle. She only catches flashes of him, his image flittering on the edges of her vision.
She should be angry, or ecstatic, or hyped up on adrenaline, or something. But, she isn't. This is a battle she waited a year to fight, and she slips into a certain calm, as if she is separated from the world by a cocoon of some sort. It isn't apathy, not really, but… acedia, maybe. She feels and knows and is aware, but she is bone-weary and her soul – if such a thing exists – is too tired to care about anything anymore.
And then Greyback happens, and she shatters.
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[Marcescent, n.] – a flower that is withering but not yet falling off
Waking up and knowing she was bitten by a werewolf is horrifying.
Waking up to the knowledge that Vati is dead is much more stomach-turning.
She cries herself back to sleep mere minutes after waking, because Padma is on the other end of the infirmary with her parents, and she is sobbing her heart out. Vati is dead, and Lavender feels a little bit dead, too.
The next time she wakes up, she isn't alone. The scarred redhead is sitting next to her.
He puts away the Daily Prophet he was holding before she can dwell too much on the front page headline. The Battle of Hogwarts: the Dark Lord is Dead! screams at her in gothic font, a picture of Hogwarts in ruins beneath it.
''Are you awake?'' his voice is deep and rumbling, like an underground river.
She breathes through her mouth for a minute. ''You're the dragon tamer,'' she says finally, because she can't think of anything smarter.
He barks a laugh. ''It's been a while since anyone called me that. I'm afraid I've been known as 'Weasley' and 'blood-traitor' in the past few months.''
She closes her eyes. ''Why –''
''Am I here?'' she hears the chair screak and scrape against the floor as he arranges himself more comfortably. ''Greyback got you. Madam Pomfrey and the other Healers are busy with the critical patients and the kiddies, so I got sent to explain some things to you. What happened to you also happened to my brother, you know.''
She listens to him as he goes on about her diminished lycanthropy while pretending to be taking a nap and, when he is done, curls her fingers in his trousers. She feels like a child for asking, but –
''Please don't leave.''
She fears dreaming about Vati.
He doesn't laugh, but it's a near thing. ''If it means that much to you, then fine. How 'bout a deal?'' He doesn't wait for her to answer before continuing. ''I'll keep your bad dreams at bay if you keep mine. Sound good?''
She nods, relaxing her hold on him minutely. She thinks she hears him say something about his little brother before she fall asleep completely. He might have sounded sad.
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[Scabulous, adj.] – proud of a scar on your body, an autograph signed to you by a world grateful for your continued willingness to play with her, even when you don't feel like it
They become near inseparable in the following weeks. It isn't a sexual thing, this desire to touch him that she struggles with. At least, she doesn't think it is.
With Vati gone, it feels as though the world has turned strangely ephemeral while she was looking the other way. Or maybe it was like that all along, and she just didn't notice it. Either way, she refuses to let go of Charlie lest he fade away like Vati and so many others did.
He bears it all with good humour. ''I have a bad memory,'' he says. ''I'd forget stuff without you there to remind me.'' Lavender has no idea what that's supposed to mean.
Charlie introduces her to his brother Bill, who was attacked just like her. Bill is a good man, kind and smart, but he rubs her the wrong way. He treats her like glass, like a doll made of sugar that will melt in the gentlest of rains. Lavender hates that. If anything, he should know what it means to have been attacked by Greyback and survived. And his wife –
Vati had a crush on Fleur Delacour, years ago.
''Why do you keep calling me a dragon tamer?'' Charlie asks her, curious and a bit frustrated with her habit of not saying his name and choosing to address him by his occupation instead.
She hunches her shoulders slightly, searching for words that would explain it. It isn't – She first saw him in her fourth year, in the glamour of the Tournament, when the world was still light and happy and right. She first saw him when Vati was still alive. And he was a dragon tamer then. She hopes he will be a dragon tamer now. But, she cannot find a way to turn that sentiment into words, so she settles for a shrug.
''I was fourteen,'' she tells him quietly, tracing circles on his forearm. ''And you were taming dragons.''
He hums a bit, mock-scowling, but accepts that answer eventually.
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[Kairos, n.] – the perfect, delicate, crucial moment; the fleeting rightness of time and place to create the opportune atmosphere for words, action or movement
She is twenty-two, and she is gifting him with a book for his birthday. He blinks at her, well used to her antics by now to do much more than flip it around and read the synopsis. There isn't one.
''What's this?'' he says, tickling her under her chin.
She bats his hand away. ''Stop that,'' she snaps out, tugging her hair behind her ear. ''And it's your gift. I made it for you.''
Charlie rolls his shoulders lazily. And then he realises what she said and gawps first at her and then at the book. ''You wrote a book for me?''
It's an almost herculean effort not to blush. Charlie is her best friend and mentor, all rolled up into one, and she wants to… impress him. Yes, that's a good word.
Still, it's hard to part ways with that book. She took up a quill as a way to let go of Vati's death and make peace with her own lycanthropy, diminished as it is. That book… is what the inside of Lavender's head looks like. For all that it is charcoal and ink, it might as well be brain matter smeared across paper.
But, if anyone deserves to know exactly what she thinks and feels and needs, it's Charlie. So, she tucks her fingers in her sleeves – a nervous habit she picked up from her mum – and says:
''Yeah, I wrote you a book.''
He sways a bit on his heels, and then he leans in close like he's about to pull her into one of his bear hugs. She braces for the crushing pressure, but… it doesn't happen. Instead, a face is pressed up against hers, lips and cheeks and noses touching, and she breathes in the air Charlie exhaled.
''I'm afraid I don't have anything that amazing for you,'' he says casually, as if he didn't just snog her out of the blue. ''I suppose I could take you out to dinner instead.''
A date. He's asking her out on a date.
Lavender licks her lips, smiles. ''I suppose you could.''
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Unedited, unbeta'd.