Who: The Brothers Prewett Where: Their perfectly charming little house When: 2nd Feb 1979, circa 5:45pm Rating: PG Status: Incomplete (threaded)
There'd been little point hanging around at the library once the dust had settled and the Ministry's skein of trained situation-managers had descended on the place like a blanket-bearing, statement-taking second wave of assault. When Gideon had left, the last few refugees were being prised out of their safe corners of the library like unwilling oysters from their shells while Lestrange waited pointedly to lock his precious books in for the night.
Gideon's usual route home suffered a number of detours around puddles of rubble and barricades behind which knots of official types were being officious. The sun was hanging onto the horizon by its fingernails when Gideon mooched up his street, idly rubbernecking at the mess that had been made of the townhouses on the corner as he knocked open their front gate and glanced up at the house.
And then looked again. Well shit. Something had stove in the corner of the upper storey where Fabian's room was.
Letting himself in, Gideon called, "What have I told you about having wild parties while I'm at work?" He slung his bag down on the hall table, and bent down to say hello to the cat, who was winding itself frantically around his ankles. (Dog-smell couldn't be too bad, then, or maybe the cat was just traumatised enough not to care.)
No response. Gideon straightened up with an armful of cat and wandered to the foot of the stairs. Looking up with a frown, he called, "Fabian?!"