Alastor "Agent 04041953GU" Gumboil (loose_cannon) wrote in blurred_lines, @ 2008-09-05 15:16:00 |
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Entry tags: | ! [1979-09] september, alastor gumboil |
Who: Alastor Gumboil
When: 5 September, 1979. Lunch time
Where: Godric's Hollow
What: Al's having a bad day.
Rating: PG-13ish?
Status: Complete!
Alastor had been having a bad week. There was no way around it. Everything was hard right now, and having to wake up to go to the Werewolf Services office again was not improving things. But before he'd left, Desmond had promised a good lunch - perhaps a visit home for mum's cooking. The older man had the day off and had still been in his pyjamas when the brothers gave a quick embrace before Al stepped outside to apparate to the Ministry. The meeting had taken longer than he'd wanted, more filling out paperwork, pictures and all the stuff he assumed was about to be very routine. It was nearly lunch time before he was finally let go. He still hurt, his movements stiff and slow as he tried not to hurt himself. It was better, but he suspected he would hurt like this for a while. He apparated to what had just about become home over the last week. Immediately, he knew something felt wrong. He was in the side yard, but the hairs on the back of his neck stood straight up and his heart was inexplicably pounding in his chest, a bass drum in his ears. His mouth went dry and he slowly made his way around to the front of the house. His instincts weren't often wrong, even before the attack. And they proved themselves again. His stomach rolled over as he eyed the door, smashed in and barely hanging onto the hinges. And in large letters around the frame, "No werewolves in Godrics Hollow!" He felt the colour drain from his face and before he was properly aware of what he was doing, he was sprinting through the door and into the house. "Des?" he called, his trembling as his senses took in his surroundings. Everything was trashed, tables pushed over, broken glass crunching under his shoes as he moved, through the house. In his hurry, he tripped over a broken chair leg and fell forward, glass from a picture frame digging into his palms as he tried to catch himself. Al had seen a lot of bodies in his time with the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. But he often found a way to separate himself from them, at least on the scene. There was time for being shocked and scared, but it wasn't while one was on the job. But he wasn't on the job. He didn't even have a job. And the shock hit all at once, as he pushed himself to his feet and looked around the room he'd fallen into. There were burning letters on the walls, spelling out multiple slogans - "Harbouring a werewolf is like harbouring a Death Eater"; "Werewolves are murderers"; "No homes for child killers". And in the middle of the room, dangling three feet from the ground, hung Desmond Gumboil. At first, Al could only stare, taking in the angle of broken bones, missing teeth, bloodied and beaten face. And then all at once, he was shaking and stumbling backwards again. He managed to trip over the same chair and only just caught himself on the wall behind him. Glass dug deep into his hands, but he didn't feel a thing. He stumbled down the hall, unable to see clearly as tears clouded his vision. All his thoughts were fragmented and incomplete - except for one. That it was his fault. That he shouldn't have come and that his brother was dead because he hadn't thought that being here would put him in danger. His fault. And even as he picked up his journal to find help, in the very back of his head, amongst all the swirling emotions, he almost hoped whoever had done this would come back to finish the job, so that no one else would be hurt because of him. |