returntosand (returntosand) wrote in regulation, @ 2008-08-07 18:12:00 |
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Current music: | "Nantes"- Beirut |
Entry tags: | bill weasley, charlie weasley |
Who: Bill Weasley, Charlie Weasley
What: Bill writes another story and has a sleep, followed by a serious fraternal conversation
When: August 7th, late afternoon- evening; August 8th, morning
Where: The Burrow
Rating: PG-13 for language, mostly
Complete
3:46 P.M., GMT
One day, the mouse awoke to the sound of the offertory choir. It was a familiar interruption from his morning doze, but why today-
Bill lay across the couch in the Burrow, writing and listening to the Wireless that was on in the kitchen, but he put down his pen and considered covering his eyes with the damp cloth across his forehead. He was tired of listening to the uninterrupted stream of modern jazz, but he did not get up to turn it off. The journal on his lap seemed suddenly loathsome. Bill knew himself to be a poor writer, that he had written creative pieces in Hogwarts as a relaxation technique only and had stopped because he realized he had more talent for academic pursuits than for artistic ones.
But there was no one here to read what he wrote, though Percy had nearly caught him in the act earlier. Percy. What the hell had that been about?
Despite the ache in his limbs, he was not tired enough to fall asleep, so he took up his pen and told himself that there was nothing shameful about writing for pleasure.
but why today the occasion seemed particularly relevant, the mouse had not yet found out. It had been a few weeks since it had arrived at the church, and it still had not gotten used to life in the new environment. It dreamed of its home at the school, but it knew that it could not return in its current condition. Its front paws were too badly damaged.
The mouse crept along the rafters as the service ended, intent on foraging in the church garden for roots and tasty berries. It sniffed the floor curiously as it sat in the corner of the antechamber as it waited for the occupants of the church to filter out of the chapel. Then, it scampered down the side steps to the garden heavily, jumping hard from its hind legs while landing with an awkward rolling motion on its front paws. It was about to head into the garden when it suddenly stopped and sniffed warily. The gardener was about.
Hiding beneath a weed, the mouse waited for the old, crippled, and ill-tempered man to pass, but it felt the thunder of light footsteps coming up the path along the side of the church house. It was a human pup, quite young and several heads smaller than the gardener. The mouse watched the encounter.
The little girl held her fist out to the gardener, but the mouse did not spy what she held.
"I don't go in there, lass," the gardener growled, "Everyone knows that."
This statement apparently did not resonate with the girl, who continued to hold her fist out, though more shyly.
There was a silence, before the gardener said more loudly, "Go on. Shoo. Get out of here."
"Mum says," the little girl protested quietly, "That everybody has to take it, and if you don't you're being bad."
The gardener took a step toward her, leaning on his shovel. "Are you trying to save my soul?"
"What?" the girl asked him, peering up at his lined face. "What's a soul?"
"My- oh, nevermind." The little girl held a little snitched bit of the Eucharist out to him, which he accepted.
"You eat it," she said with shy happiness.
The mouse watched the man look from the wafer to the girl, before he bit into it. His jaw quivered, and he had trouble keeping it in his mouth, but he finished it and was rewarded from a grin from the girl, who put her hands behind her back, toed at the dirt, and then ran back the way she'd come.
"Thank you," the old man called feebly after her, but his voice was thin and did not carry very far.
The mouse eyed the fallen crumbs hungrily, but did not dare move into the open until the gardener had walked around the church and started down the country road to his own farm. Then the mouse crept forward and took the fallen pieces of the Eucharist in its paws and ate. Though it had little taste, the mouse found it the most warming food he'd ever eaten.
When it climbed back into its hole in the rafters that night, it did not notice the gloss to its fur or that it had taken much less effort than usual to scale the pipes up to the roof in the walls as it returned to its nest.
4:30 P.M. GMT
Bill set the book aside, exhausted. He'd hoped that he'd be awake when Charlie came back because he felt reasonably better than the day before- the hallucinations had passed, but his lids drooped heavily and the cooling charm Molly had cast at the hottest part of the day had made the room quite comfortable. Soon, he was snoozing again.
10:30 GMT
That night, Bill woke when the candlelit floor lap in the sitting room was beginning to flicker out, and stood shakily to limp to the bathroom. After washing up, he returned to the living room to resume his slumber, but he noticed a few slices of bread on the table by where he'd been sleeping. Molly sometimes would leave him something when he left dinner, so he ate drowsily before he lay back down. He slept solidly that night, and did not wake to take the pain potion that was left for him.