layla 'double betrayla' fairbourne (boundless) wrote in disorderic, @ 2017-11-13 10:37:00 |
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Entry tags: | layla fairbourne |
WHO: Layla Fairbourne.
WHAT: Boggart delivery and a large side of guilt.
WHEN: Monday, 13 November. Lunch hour.
WHERE: Francine’s flat. :(
Layla absolutely did not want to do this. Francine’s flat, despite being more than familiar to her, was eerily silent as Layla traversed the living space towards her best and oldest friend’s bedroom. Cold and uninviting, as if the flat itself sensed Layla were here on a darker, more sinister business. It simply felt wrong despite the fact that Layla had spent hours upon and hours here laughing and bantering over who knew what. Layla absolutely did not want to do this, but Layla also felt she didn’t have a choice. Not after Selwyn had sought her out with a plan originally, nor after she talked to Lestrange to ensure that nothing worse was orchestrated for Francine’s ill-guided, public defiance. Like Cruciatus, Lestrange’s favourite toy. The door to the bedroom creaked open, but Layla stood wrestling with herself — frozen — in the doorway, seemingly unable to continue. It certainly didn’t matter that Francine was cross with her. That fell flat and provided no motivation here because ultimately they’d been friends far too long, were too close, to let anything drive Layla to do this to her. But what choice did Layla have? She entered the bedroom, then, which was equally cold and devoid of life. Mostly. There was a flash of movement from Francine’s nightstand, and the lump in Layla’s throat jumped higher, lodging itself and threatening to rob her of breath entirely. It wasn’t like she hadn’t known already that Francine kept pictures of her mum on her bedside, but somehow that’d escaped her stupid Death Eater brain. Irene Goldstein, oblivious to what had happened to her in the present, smiled and waved cheerily at her. Suddenly, Layla’s stomach felt like it had been shaken upside and wanted to spew. She wrenched her eyes from the photographs on the nightstand to the closet. Fuck this. She reached into her robes, and felt her wand. Her fingers tightened around it. How easy would it be to just apparate out, to say screw it to both Selwyn and Lestrange, and pretend it had been done? Easy. She knew it would be easy, but then she also knew how it would end for both of them, once Lestrange found out. When Layla withdrew her hand from her robes she wasn’t clutching her wand. In her hands a small, latched wooden box shook and rattled ominously. Even as Layla opened the closet door the boggart-in-a-box continued it’s rampage and clamour in an attempt to get out, mirroring the erratic beating of Layla’s fracturing, betrayer’s heart. With the task done Layla shot one more look at the closet, and then the pictures on the nightstand noting one of her with Francine as well, and then prepared to disapparte. Where she’d then spend the rest of the day pretending she wasn’t on the cusp of a breakdown over what she just did. That she didn’t just set up her oldest friend — who she’d just admitted deeper feelings for — for some psychological torment. That she didn’t want to spirit Francine away from every Death Eater ever… nevermind the irony there. Fuck this. But despite overwhelming sense of guilt, the suddenly heavier weight of the Dark Lord’s mark on her forearm chillingly reminded Layla Fairbourne that it was too late to back out now. |