MollyWobbles

Where Dwell the Brave at Heart (v)

A/N: --

Playlist:
10. "Time" by Hans Zimmer

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Part I: "Where Dwell the Brave at Heart"Chapter Five

Fabian

October 30, 1963

The second-worst day of Fabian Prewett's fourth year started like any other.

He woke up to Gideon shaking him, nearly twenty minutes before the agreed time because Gideon was an impatient prat. Sturgis, Fenwick, and Diggle were still asleep in their beds. Gideon wanted a cuppa. Gideon always wanted a cuppa.

Gideon was impossible, until he'd had his cuppa.

The two crept down to the kitchens, and Fabian tickled the pear on the portrait. "Can't wait till breakfast?" he muttered.

"I'm a growing boy," Gideon lilted, stepping through the entry. At quarter to five, the kitchens were still empty. They helped themselves to the tea—English Breakfast, no cream or sugar, like always. Gideon nicked a few apples, then they headed up to the training room.

It didn't truly have a name, but that was all Fabian could think to call it.

It rested on the seventh floor's left corridor, and it only appeared when they walked up and down several times, thinking about how much they'd like to knock Dolohov and his little Rabastan-wannabes right out.

Then, they worked through a set of drills. Nothing complicated. Some shields their father had taught them, a number of jinxes. Nothing too complicated. Finally, Molly showed up, bleary-eyed and hair in knots at half-five.

Together, they practiced with the dummies, then each other. Offense. Defense. Charms.

The usual.

They took the mick out of Molly, pretending that she'd only turned thirteen again until she hexed them both onto their backs.

After, it was fiddle time until half-six, when they crept back to the common room. All very routine.

All very normal.

What was less normal was the sudden interruption in the middle of History of Magic.

McGonagall swept through the door without ceremony. "Excuse me, Professor Binns, but I will be needing the Prewetts."

Old Binns didn't even stutter—kept droning on.

"Bring your things," McGonagall directed quietly.

Fabian frowned as he gathered his books.

They weren't in trouble—her eyes weren't nearly wired enough, and she had her chin tucked a bit. Besides, they'd not gotten in any rows yet that day.

Was something the matter?

Molly—had she gotten into a scrape?

It wasn't until McGonagall used his first name in the hall that he realized the direness of the situation. "Fabian—" she said, then paused and cleared her throat. "Gideon, there's been an attack at the Ministry."

And the rest of it was just hollow echoes, after that. Uncle Ignatius, twisting his hat in his hands in the Headmaster's office, Molly's outcries and questions, the whoosh of floo fire after floo fire, and the stale, dingy lighting in the Mungo's ward.

Fabian was a rock in the flow of a terrible river.

Ice rushing over him.

Father and Mother laid on two beds.

It was a new curse, they said.

They were doing all they could, they said.

The Minister was alright, they said.

"Don't know—" the healers muttered. "Never seen anything like it."

Father and mother laid on two beds, encased in bubble charms.

Mum had a smattering of grey over her right hand—like she'd dipped her hand in the floo soot after washing up. She spoke quietly with a Healer, voice pinched and tight.

And Father—he was coated in the stuff. But as they scrubbed it off, the skin underneath stayed the same shade.

His dad was groaning. Like he was in pain.

And then it all went quite blurry, for no reason.

Fabian didn't feel a thing.

"We'll sort it," the healer murmured, pressing them towards the door. "Don't you worry."

Bit late for that.