Categories > Books > Harry Potter > With the Last of This Day's Sun
/Resistance/
I am shocked and I seethe
I don't want to believe
No More
No More
No More!
He drops a coin into the wishing fountain as he passes, melting and blending into the crowd. He has perfected the art within the past year, and can move through untouched, unseen, his head down, vivid hair dulled by muggle dyes rather then magic. He needs no disguise for his face; time and small wars have brought maturity, hardened some of the softer lines.
He seats himself on the fountain, just another nameless face out for a stroll among the elite.
He watches the children at the river's edge, surprised that they still play here. Their parents shoo them away from the water and they rush up the still warm banks, laughing and shrieking. He smiles and it feels strange, the tightening of muscles across his mouth.
Turning back to the throng of well dressed people, he watches them making their way to the grandiose Hall across the street from the fountain. They glitter like jewels in the last rays of sunlight coming over the water.
It is sunset. Dusk. A flash of reflected sunlight comes from an alley corner and he acknowledges it with a scratch of his head. Time. They'd received word from a resistance corps in the heart of the high society arena, and decided small reconnaissance team would be best before commitment.
Itching, on the back of his neck, where the fine hairs are standing straight in alarm. Someone is watching. Someone's eyes are on him.
He raises his arms above his head in a long stretch, knowing George will see it from his point on the roof of the building left of the Hall.
Eyes narrowed, he searches for the source of the itch and meets a gaze that he hasn't seen since before the night of the blood moon.
Her eyes are still deep brown, and her hair still a wild mass, but sleeker than it once was. She is pale, and glowing, and perfect, and on the arm of a tall man in black. He recognizes her companion. His features are harsh, his skin pale, the only change in him appears to be the silver slivers that shimmer in and out of his long hair.
He looks for Hermione's gaze again, but she has given her attention to someone he can't see; there's a flicker in Snape's eyes and he nods very slightly.
A tug on the sleeve of his shirt. A voice in a hissed whisper.
"Mr. Wheezy."
Eyes like tennis balls, a tea cozy for a hat...a maroon sweater now made up of more patches than original cloth.
"/Dobby/?"
The elf flashes a smile that disappears almost instantly as he glances around him. "Mrs. Snape is sending you this letter; she is telling Dobby to deliver it quick and return to the Manor. Here, here." He shoves a piece of parchment into Ron's hand and with a pop is gone.
A quick glance up reveals that the mass of people has moved inside the hall, only a few latecomers are left to straggle up the steps.
He spares a surreptitious glance, unfolds the parchment between his knees. He knows the writing.
Meet me tomorrow, 8 a.m. Abaddon Square Street Market.
He folds the note, slips it into his inner jacket pocket, pauses to pull out a cigarette and match. Standing he curls his hand around the flame, flicks the burnt out twig into the fountain and walks past the alley the light had come from earlier. He hears Fred scuttling off into the darkness, and knows George won't be far behind.
Back in the anonymity of their headquarters he shows the note to the others, relays his plans.
"You're crazy-" This from George.
"Absolutely fuckin' barmy." From Fred.
He grits his teeth. "Hermione would never-and you know that."
"You saw her with your own eyes, Ron-entering the snake pit-on Snape's arm no less."
"I can't believe you George-"
"Fred."
"What?"
A sigh. "I'm Fred, he's George." He points across the partition to the twin who waggles his fingers in a wave. Ron's brows knit together.
"Who cares? Look, I'm going to the Square tomorrow. Alone. Ah-" he cuts off Fred's unspoken tirade with a slash of his hand, "I know Hermione...she's got a reason..." He makes eye contact with both of his brothers before leaving the room.
"Think he's still in love with her, then?" George asks, eliciting a snort from Fred.
"Think Snape enjoyed making us clean bat shit out of the Potion's room second year?"
I am shocked and I seethe
I don't want to believe
No More
No More
No More!
He drops a coin into the wishing fountain as he passes, melting and blending into the crowd. He has perfected the art within the past year, and can move through untouched, unseen, his head down, vivid hair dulled by muggle dyes rather then magic. He needs no disguise for his face; time and small wars have brought maturity, hardened some of the softer lines.
He seats himself on the fountain, just another nameless face out for a stroll among the elite.
He watches the children at the river's edge, surprised that they still play here. Their parents shoo them away from the water and they rush up the still warm banks, laughing and shrieking. He smiles and it feels strange, the tightening of muscles across his mouth.
Turning back to the throng of well dressed people, he watches them making their way to the grandiose Hall across the street from the fountain. They glitter like jewels in the last rays of sunlight coming over the water.
It is sunset. Dusk. A flash of reflected sunlight comes from an alley corner and he acknowledges it with a scratch of his head. Time. They'd received word from a resistance corps in the heart of the high society arena, and decided small reconnaissance team would be best before commitment.
Itching, on the back of his neck, where the fine hairs are standing straight in alarm. Someone is watching. Someone's eyes are on him.
He raises his arms above his head in a long stretch, knowing George will see it from his point on the roof of the building left of the Hall.
Eyes narrowed, he searches for the source of the itch and meets a gaze that he hasn't seen since before the night of the blood moon.
Her eyes are still deep brown, and her hair still a wild mass, but sleeker than it once was. She is pale, and glowing, and perfect, and on the arm of a tall man in black. He recognizes her companion. His features are harsh, his skin pale, the only change in him appears to be the silver slivers that shimmer in and out of his long hair.
He looks for Hermione's gaze again, but she has given her attention to someone he can't see; there's a flicker in Snape's eyes and he nods very slightly.
A tug on the sleeve of his shirt. A voice in a hissed whisper.
"Mr. Wheezy."
Eyes like tennis balls, a tea cozy for a hat...a maroon sweater now made up of more patches than original cloth.
"/Dobby/?"
The elf flashes a smile that disappears almost instantly as he glances around him. "Mrs. Snape is sending you this letter; she is telling Dobby to deliver it quick and return to the Manor. Here, here." He shoves a piece of parchment into Ron's hand and with a pop is gone.
A quick glance up reveals that the mass of people has moved inside the hall, only a few latecomers are left to straggle up the steps.
He spares a surreptitious glance, unfolds the parchment between his knees. He knows the writing.
Meet me tomorrow, 8 a.m. Abaddon Square Street Market.
He folds the note, slips it into his inner jacket pocket, pauses to pull out a cigarette and match. Standing he curls his hand around the flame, flicks the burnt out twig into the fountain and walks past the alley the light had come from earlier. He hears Fred scuttling off into the darkness, and knows George won't be far behind.
Back in the anonymity of their headquarters he shows the note to the others, relays his plans.
"You're crazy-" This from George.
"Absolutely fuckin' barmy." From Fred.
He grits his teeth. "Hermione would never-and you know that."
"You saw her with your own eyes, Ron-entering the snake pit-on Snape's arm no less."
"I can't believe you George-"
"Fred."
"What?"
A sigh. "I'm Fred, he's George." He points across the partition to the twin who waggles his fingers in a wave. Ron's brows knit together.
"Who cares? Look, I'm going to the Square tomorrow. Alone. Ah-" he cuts off Fred's unspoken tirade with a slash of his hand, "I know Hermione...she's got a reason..." He makes eye contact with both of his brothers before leaving the room.
"Think he's still in love with her, then?" George asks, eliciting a snort from Fred.
"Think Snape enjoyed making us clean bat shit out of the Potion's room second year?"
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