simon. (armour) wrote in prewargames, @ 2019-05-30 21:28:00 |
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It had been seventeen years since fleeing England, but Bones still received the Daily Prophet every day. He had watched from afar while the Dark Lord rose again. It appeared to be sudden and unexpected, but he knew better than that. Bones was well acquainted with the Ministry's bad habits. Denial was a dangerous game to play and the Ministry had lost that gamble. Voldemort had won in his second chance, and Bones wasn't sure about going back. It was only today, reading his family name in the paper that he knew he had been wrong. They should have returned earlier, and his hesitation may have cost his sister-in-law her life. When Rook returned home, Bones was packing. Moving about the rooms erratically, he grabbed everything that might be important and tossed it into the bags he had prepared--one for Rook, one for himself. Perhaps he shouldn't have been hasty, but he knew his son. Rook would not be able to sit back and ignore this problem, much in the way that Bones himself couldn't. What remaining family they had were at risk, and he wasn't going to make this mistake again. "We need to talk," he said when the door closed, not looking up from his task. He knew the sound of his son's footfalls, memorized the long strides and heavy vibrations on the floor from his work boots. It gave him comfort when Rook came home late at night after a long shift. It was why he didn't fear the presence now. He knew who it was. |