Eddie Carmichael (edasich) wrote in disorderic, @ 2018-02-25 16:19:00 |
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Entry tags: | eddie carmichael |
WHO: Eddie Carmichael, various
WHAT: A few scenes from growing up
WHEN: 2006, 2012, Today
WHERE: Various
2006 "...Anyway he found their hiding spot and he knew he didn't have time to wait for backup because they were inside 'mpersing their hostages and he had to save them." Eddie blew on his chips so they would cool down enough for him to eat one. He was supposed to be sat in the back in the breakroom to eat his supper, but it was boring back there and the Wyvernians never seemed to mind when he came out into the pub. Besides, Mam was downstairs doing inventory and what she didn't know wouldn't hurt her. "Oh yeah?" the old witch asked, amused by the little moppet who'd taken up residence at her table. She was called Ruby and she was nice. "What happened next?" "He snuck in and almost got up to them but they spotted him and it was a big fight," Eddie continued through bits of fried potato. "It was him against like four of them and he got all of the hostages out and killed all the bad guys but it was too much for him and he died." "Your dad sounds like a real hero, Eddie." A snort of laughter erupted from the bar behind him, but Eddie ignored it. "He was. They had a big ceremony and they gave my mam a medal and she's gonna give it to me when I'm seventeen, she said." Another guffaw, louder this time. A regular belligerent called Everett taunted over to Eddie. "Wasn't he a comic book artist last week, your dad?" "Yeah," Eddie said, binding the lies together. He turned in his chair to face the man, chips all but forgotten. "He drew them based on his adventures, like." "Merlin, Everett, let the kid have his stories," Ruby said. "He's not hurting anybody." "It's not stories. My dad was a great Auror," Eddie insisted hotly. "Kid, I knew your mam well before you ever came along. There's plenty a blokes could be your dad and not one of 'ems an Auror who took any Death Eaters down with 'im." "Fuck off," Eddie scowled. “Get a little tequila in her and I could be your dad.” Everett laughed heartily and Eddie was on his feet, kicking the man in the shins as hard as he could. “Ow! You little pisser.” Before Eddie knew it, he was hauled up by the front of his shirt until Everett had him face to face. His legs dangled wildly below him and he felt scared. “Geroff me! Lemme go!” “You little brat.” Everett’s face was close, seething and taunting and reeking of whisky. “Didn’t your father ever teach you not to—” “Let him go or I’ll have your eye.” The voice was calm, but the wand at Everett’s temple meant business. Everybody knew not to fuck around with Phinneas, the pub’s proprietor, when he meant business. Everett glared at the man but released Eddie, who dropped quickly out of sight of the adults. “Good,” said Phinneas. “Now, I think you’ve had enough for one night, Everett. Don’t you agree? Now, Eddie…" But Eddie had already grabbed his comic book and run out the door. 2012 "Maybe Eddie'll know." "Carmichael? He's from Knockturn Alley, what could he possibly know?" "Yeah, he doesn't even know who his dad is." "Probably some mudblood who took one look at him and ran the other way." "Wait, he's from Knockturn? Is that why his bags always look like such shit?" "I heard everybody there's got scrofungulus." "I heard everybody there's a bastard." "Nah, not everybody. Just Carmichael." Eddie's quill broke under the pressure he exerted on it, pretending not to hear the cadre of Pureblood assholes behind him. He shouldn't let it bother him. They weren't even being original. A lack of creativity on their parts, really, and he'd show them when he aced the next Transfiguration exam and they all failed it. Still. He put up with their abuse for another minute or so, biding his time until the right opportunity presented itself. Tripe, the leader of their little gang, could dish it out but never, ever take it, so what was coming next would be all his own fault, anyway. When the timing was just right, Eddie spun around in his chair to address the group, who looked startled at being overheard. "Look, mate, if you need help with the assignment, just ask. Have you got your crayons? I'll try and make it simple enough—" "Oi," the boy seethed. He pulled out his wand and trained it on Eddie, who put his hands up in mock surrender. "Don't talk to me like that you—" "Mr. Tripe," came Professor McGonagall's perfectly-timed response. "Just what do you think you're doing?" "He said—" "I don't care what he said, Mr. Tripe. You don't raise your wand against another student. I'll see you after class." The bullies grumbled but shut up for the moment; they would move on to someone else soon enough. As long as they left Eddie out of it, he didn't really care. 2018 Eddie's arms ached from the day before. It turned out, getting caught under a crumble of falling bricks in the middle of a giant fight in Diagon Alley wasn't all it was cracked up to be. No lasting damage, nothing even broken, he'd be fine in a day or two if he applied the bruise paste properly, but until then, he still hurt. He wondered about the vigilante he'd helped, the Death Eater he'd confunded. It couldn't have been a Lestrange or a Malfoy, so the risk that the man recognized him was probably slim, but he wasn't sure about the vigilante. It worried him, a little. He couldn't exactly let it get out that he'd sent a spell after a Death Eater. Eddie spent his whole life avoiding fights. He wasn't keen to start getting involved now. He was as safe as anyone could be—vigilantes had no reason to go after him, he wasn't upsetting the Ministry, and Lestrange wouldn't let the Death Eaters hurt him. Still, being Rabastan Lestrange's son didn't stop bricks from falling down on his head. The dueling lessons he'd agreed to were an excuse to spend time with his father, to try to impress him, but maybe he needed more than that after all. The world was a dangerous place. He went over to his bookshelf, the shelf reserved for the gifts and curses he'd received from his father and his father's friends. The figurines of Leonidas Ironclaw and Tristan Vipertooth stood proudly, but next to them sat the nicely-folded shirt from Christmas Eve, the now-harmless quill from the Malfoys. The sheath holding the dagger that Bellatrix made Robin give him. Eddie took out the knife to inspect it. It was a good knife, Robin said. One of the best in the shop, and deeply cursed. He gripped it in one hand and then the other, feeling its weight and its power. Bellatrix wanted to teach him to fight with it, and it seemed inevitable, didn't it? He was almost a Lestrange, after all. Sooner or later, he would learn it, whether he wanted to or not. He may as well learn from the best. |