Alex Weasley (notyourfred) wrote in breaking_point, @ 2010-02-26 00:40:00 |
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Entry tags: | *complete, 2025 02, character: fred alex weasley |
RP: Alex
Who: Alex Weasley
Where: Ron and Hermione's place
When: 25 February, 2025, after dinner
Rating/Warnings: none
Summary: Alex adds to his collection
Alex left the house after dinner, wrapped in the dark cloak and black jumper that Grandmama had given him for Christmas. It had been among the things Professor Corner had sent from his trunk to tide him over. He really hadn't needed shopping, it was Roxanne who'd lost her clothes, books, wand. All his things were safe at school, save a few clothes he was close to outgrowing anyway and a handful of books. The Charms book from Uncle Percy. A shelf of silly stuffed animals. A desk full of notes and old essays.
None of that mattered anymore.
There wasn't a house. Wasn't a mother. He'd be returning to school. It would be just like it hadn't happened, except he knew that it had.
Alex made his way across the garden, kneeling in the grass and pulling things from his pockets. A small jar. A roll of parchment. A knotted handkerchief. A layer of ashes covered the bottom of the jar and he opened it carefully, touching the dusty inside with one fingertip.
He'd burned the little journal with Mandy, putting the ashes of it into the jar along with scraps of paper he'd added with wishes, plans, dreams. Fears. Hungers and needs. He picked up the tiny scroll. It was covered closely on both sides with his scrawling writing, where he'd poured out his grief over his mother, his home, his grandfather and uncle. Alex touched it with his wand, watching it begin to burn, then tucked it into the jar, watching it as it reduced to ashes to join the rest.
Somehow it seemed right for these things to mix. To meld. A need to drink mixed with his grief. Alex began to untie the handkerchief, tipping it carefully over the smoldering ash in the jar, letting the handful of soil filter into the jar as well. Alex capped the jar and held it in one hand, stuffing the handkerchief away, then looked at the layers of ash and soil. It was a good place to trap things like grief, and fear, and need.
He got slowly to his feet, tucking the jar back into his cloak pocket. He folded his hands, linking his fingers, one thumb rubbing over the silver ring he now wore. His mother had worn it for as long as he could remember; someone had given it to her and she'd had to wear it on her middle finger, it was so big. He'd been afraid for a moment that his father would refuse, when he asked for it, but then he'd offered it over in his palm. It fit Alex's slim finger perfectly.
He turned his face to the darkening sky, finding constellations she'd helped him learn, and watching the rise of the nearly-full of the moon, and he couldn't help but smile.
"I love you, Mum," he whispered, then turned and headed back into the house.