Charlie Weasley has no clue what you're on about (dragoncatcher) wrote in regulation, @ 2008-07-14 03:33:00 |
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Entry tags: | charlie weasley, narrative |
Who: Charlie Weasley (and Mircea and Willoughby)
Where: The Burrow
When: Sunday night, late
Rating: G
Status: Closed, complete.
Charlie closed his journal and set his quill down on the table. Mircea, sitting on the floor by his feet, looked up and barked once in inquiry. Charlie realised his hand was shaking a little in a way that vaguely reminded him of Bill's tremors. That unnerved him and he willed his hand to still. It did: perhaps the only thing that was ordering itself according to his wishes right now.
Willoughby scrambled into Charlie's lap and pulled the journal away with his mouth to make room for a quick triple turnaround and a lie-down. Charlie started to take the book back but ended up staring at it as it bounced off the sofa and fell onto the floor covered in dog spittle.
The book contained more notes to himself than he liked to think about: a record of his life over the last several years. Evidence of all he'd done in good times and bad. The thought chilled him. He'd all but declared himself a traitor to the Order, and the journal contained a record of his dealings with Snape: the only man who'd ever left the Order by any means other than death.
Charlie knew the penalty for treachery to the Order. He'd executed it himself in the war.
With the measures Tonks was going to be taking under Kingsley's instructions once the fallout from his rebellion was over, Charlie couldn't assume anything was private and secure any more. And he'd ciphered with the old Order cipher out of habit. Moody's key wasn't good enough any more.
He dislodged the little white dog from his lap, ignoring the whine of protest, and bent to pick up the journal. Closing his eyes for a moment, he made his way over to the fireplace and tossed the journal in. A quick spell brought the fire up a bit and the journal popped and crackled as it was rapidly consumed in the flames, much more quickly than was right or natural.
There was an inquiry from the kitchen, and Charlie called back, "Nothing, Mum, I was just poking up the fire. I'm a bit cold, that's all."
The scent of burning leather, parchment, and magic was stronger than he expected, and Molly poked her head into the living room to see what had happened. "Oi, I'm still clumsy. I think I dropped my journal."
She tsked and came back to help him to the couch with all the years of experience borne of aiding Bill. It wasn't as if she couldn't tell when her boys had overextended themselves. A couple of minutes later, Charlie was tucked in with a warm blanket that Molly had knitted herself several years ago and dogs to hold it tight around his feet. There would be another journal; she'd get him one tomorrow.
"Oops," said Charlie, and closed his eyes to drift off to sleep.