She wasn’t sure how long she’d been on the floor in the hallway of her flat. It had been long enough for Dedalus, Brad, and Elphias to come to her door, trying to bang it down but with no response from her. Long enough for the teapot she’d put on to start shrieking in the background, only to begin to shake and boil over onto the floor of the kitchen. Max had been let out early this morning, when she’d gotten the paper, and had stopped his whining to come, having given up on catching his owner’s attention.
How long ago had Augusta come and taken Neville away? How long ago had it been since Emmeline had picked up the Prophet and read, in blaring bold letters that Frank had been attacked and committed to St. Mungo’s, the severity of his injuries unknown at this moment?
Augusta had basically told her that he wasn’t coming back. Emmeline could barely remember the woman bursting into her flat, or what she had said, but the stern words she did recall included the fact that Frank wasn’t coming back. He wasn’t dead, but he wasn’t coming back. Emmeline had little time to process anything when Augusta swooped Neville up and proclaimed that it wasn’t safe for the boy to be around any former Order of the Phoenix members, even Emmeline. The war would never be truly over, so Neville had to be kept away from anyone that could bring trouble. And--that was it. She was gone, and she’d taken Neville. Emmeline had tried to stop her, her eyes were red and her face blotchy from the tears she’d sobbed as she tried to convince Augusta to let her take Neville, but it was to no avail. That was it. He was gone, Frank was gone.
She’d tried to make it back to the kitchen, to owl Caradoc who would probably have no idea of what was going on; the prophet wasn’t sent to her old home, his hiding spot, to avoid suspicion, so how could he know? How could he know what had happened without her telling him? Emmeline had tried to make it to the kitchen, to at least get her journal, but she’d stumbled into a side table and had dropped to the floor, unable to force her legs to move. She sat awkwardly between the legs of the table and stared into the darkness of her flat, wondering what on earth would ever be able to make her want to move again.
How long ago had Augusta come and taken Neville away? How long ago had it been since Emmeline had picked up the Prophet and read, in blaring bold letters that Frank had been attacked and committed to St. Mungo’s, the severity of his injuries unknown at this moment?
Augusta had basically told her that he wasn’t coming back. Emmeline could barely remember the woman bursting into her flat, or what she had said, but the stern words she did recall included the fact that Frank wasn’t coming back. He wasn’t dead, but he wasn’t coming back. Emmeline had little time to process anything when Augusta swooped Neville up and proclaimed that it wasn’t safe for the boy to be around any former Order of the Phoenix members, even Emmeline. The war would never be truly over, so Neville had to be kept away from anyone that could bring trouble. And--that was it. She was gone, and she’d taken Neville. Emmeline had tried to stop her, her eyes were red and her face blotchy from the tears she’d sobbed as she tried to convince Augusta to let her take Neville, but it was to no avail. That was it. He was gone, Frank was gone.
She’d tried to make it back to the kitchen, to owl Caradoc who would probably have no idea of what was going on; the prophet wasn’t sent to her old home, his hiding spot, to avoid suspicion, so how could he know? How could he know what had happened without her telling him? Emmeline had tried to make it to the kitchen, to at least get her journal, but she’d stumbled into a side table and had dropped to the floor, unable to force her legs to move. She sat awkwardly between the legs of the table and stared into the darkness of her flat, wondering what on earth would ever be able to make her want to move again.
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