eleanor gwendolen ollivander, gideon edward ollivander, and 3 more like this
Post by Galen Francis Ollivander on Apr 15, 2024 18:23:35 GMT -7
INSPO TRACK: BURN IT DOWN - DAUGHTER.
WARNINGS: ARSON
━ there's a hole in the earth here. ━
The aftershocks of 'crucio' were foreign to a Squib. Frankie didn't even know what an Unforgiveable was. His knowledge of magic was that of a ten year old, vague and impressionistic. He sat in some nameless pub, and he downed enough vodka to rub the edges off the world around him. And yet, he could still feel it. Like a toothache, but so much worse. The smell of his own vomit lingering on his clothes and in his hair where it had gone tacky. His hands shaking with every glass thrown back. The booze used to numb Frankie's aches and pains, but it wasn't helping this time. It was just making it harder to stand up straight. Vomiting in to the gutter outside of another pub, Frankie took the Knight Bus after he'd been thrown out on the echo of a cruel laugh.
Frankie's concept of time was skewed. He came to in fits and starts. He shouldn't have been alone, but he had insisted. Escaping the cloying aftermath of that curse like a scuttling gutter rat. He couldn't stand to be around their magic, not a single one of them. It had made him feel sick, like every brush of that metallic aftertaste a finger along his spine, a hand reaching out for the skin around his throat - waiting to squeeze. He didn't know when or how, but one moment he was slumped against the glass of the bus window and the next he was standing at the mouth of Diagon Alley. The familiar cobbles slick under his feet, the dark creeping and so complete that for a moment he felt as if he had gone blind. And yet, there it was, the shoppes all in a row and quiet as a mouse at this time of night. Like a mouthful of crooked teeth.
Frankie bobbed and weaved his way toward some unconscious destination. A mashed up packet of cigarettes in one cut up hand, one filter sticky between his lips as he puffed and puffed until he had to stop and lean against a shop window just to wheeze for a handful of minutes. His tongue was fat and numb in his mouth, but it still hurt every time he took a draw. He must have bitten it back at the house, when it had happened. Stepping back with a cough, Frankie looked up and let his mouth go slack as he saw the sign of the shop he'd been leaning against. 'Quality Wands at Ollivanders!' a poster declared in the window mockingly, a little animated holly wand swishing with an arch of sparks as it spelled out that phrase again and again on a mindless loop. At first, Frankie thought it a cosmic cruel joke to show him this awful, cursed place when he still felt Ronnie's magic whipping the skin from his body and remaking him a lesser man. And then he thought, like a match catching light, that he was exactly where he was supposed to be.
He had broken into the shoppe before, it took very little time for Frankie to find a hunk of wood from a nearby cart and send it over hand into the glass of the door. Frankie didn't pause to think, the cigarette bobbing between pursed lips, as he reached a ragged hand into the hole and undid the simple, archaic deadbolt. Once indoors, he let that smell infiltrate his senses. Wood shavings, pine needles and sharp, one-of-a-kind glue. He stood there, a shadow in the dark, the ghost of a king in a world that had once been his own to conquer. Like bile, his anger bubbled at the back of his throat and he opened his mouth to let out a scream. His throat coarse and sore from the screeching he had done before, it was a ragged, quiet thing that ended with a sob. His head dropping and eyes blurry with tears that stung like salt in the corner of his eyes. Behind the blur, he was aware of his cigarette burning to ash where it had fallen from his open mouth. The tiny glowing head flickering before it went dead among the shards of glass. Frankie stepped over it to enter the shop floor, where he took only a moment to catch his uneven breaths before he went into a frenzy of movement.
It felt like forever, but when Frankie stopped his rampage through the workshop he was standing in a haze of no more than a few minutes worth of damage. His body was raked with tremors and there was a sticky substance all over his hands and arms. The sharp smell of potion bottles stinging his nostrils as he swiped his arm over his mouth and stepped back, almost tripping as he surveyed the damage. His chest heaved and heaved, and he found that crumpled cigarette packet and took out a fresh stick with his teeth. His silver lighter emerging from the pocket of his jeans. It took four tries of a shaking thumb to get a flame, pad slippery and callused. He stared at it for a long time, hypnotised until it set fire to the paper of his cigarette and it burned uneven down one side and singed his finger. He barely flinched, not really present to feel anything more than that cold anger as he closed the lighter with a flick of his wrist.
Taking a draw and letting his eyes adjust, Frankie dropped his gaze to the puddle of liquid he was standing in. A sea of coloured glass shattered at his feet and floating in the mess of it. It was some kind of preservation fluid, he might have thought, responsible for the smell that nipped the inside of his nose. Frankie could almost catch his own reflection in the dark liquid if he stared long enough. It wasn't enough, he thought bitterly. She would just wave her wand again and set everything to rights. It wasn't fair that all he had was a mouthful of sharp teeth and she had a fucking nuclear weapon in her hands. He couldn't beat her, he couldn't even really hurt her. What was a cruel word to a heartless woman? Frankie stumbled back another step, his cheeks stiff from tears he hadn't known he had shed. He rolled that lighter around in his palm; over, and over, and over again. Plagued by that room, by that fucking curse and her face just as she had cast it. Murderous, but also so fucking smug. Like she had known just before she had cast that it would kill him.
The lighter made a snicking sound in the silence as Frankie lit it again, flame catching on the first try this time. He dropped his chin to look down at it, cigarette wagging in his peripheral vision as he drew in and in until his lungs screamed. He took another step back, moving toward the door as he stared at that flame dancing in the dark. It was burning his finger then, but he didn't flinch this time. Didn't let it go out. Instead, Frankie plucked the cigarette from his mouth with his other hand and he flicked the ash onto the floor, and he decided that if he couldn't kill Ronnie, he'd certainly take the one thing from her that she couldn't take back with the casting of a terrible curse.
The silver casing of the lighter glinted as made an arc through the air from Frankie's hand. He tossed it carelessly, like he was flicking more ash on to the ground. The flame stayed lit as long as the top was open, orange flickering angrily as it drifted and landed in that pool of dark, ominous liquid. Nothing happened at first, or so Frankie thought. And then, quick as a flash, as the filament of a bulb bursting into life, the flames erupted and consumed the puddle. It seared Frankie's face and forced him back into the broken doorway. An arm thrown up and blistered by the sheer force of the blaze. He backed out of the door and landed on his arse at the stoop of the shoppe. Where once darkness had reigned, Ollivander's Wand Shoppe was lit from within by a blazing fire. Frankie stumbled to his feet and felt his breath catch in panic. His eyes roving over the flames as they ate the wooden insides like a hungry animal. Frankie felt something under the panic, something sick with satisfaction as he turned and took off into the dark. Behind him, that same animated poster curled as it burned, the swishing holly wand reduced to cinders on its final loop of 'Quality Wands at Ollivander's!'.
WARNINGS: ARSON
━ there's a hole in the earth here. ━
jan 3rd 2029, dead of night.
SOMEWHERE, a very long time ago, Frankie was just a boy who loved magic as much as he loved football and games of chappy with his mates around the village. It was like a dream now that he was much older, that version of himself. The one where his parents were proud of him, where he knew what it felt like to be around them and not feel so fucking ashamed of himself. That feeling had stuck even after he had left. The ache of missing something he hadn't known was gone until he'd seen that awful look in his mothers eyes. Poked and prodded by healers, diagnosed and re-diagnosed until finally the penny had dropped and the reality had set in. Like a pebble thrown into a lake, it had ripples of repercussions. What was a wandmaker without a wand? Frankie supposed that version of himself died about then. Everything else was 'after'. In the wake of all that pain, the stripping of his person, even the air was kindling. The aftershocks of 'crucio' were foreign to a Squib. Frankie didn't even know what an Unforgiveable was. His knowledge of magic was that of a ten year old, vague and impressionistic. He sat in some nameless pub, and he downed enough vodka to rub the edges off the world around him. And yet, he could still feel it. Like a toothache, but so much worse. The smell of his own vomit lingering on his clothes and in his hair where it had gone tacky. His hands shaking with every glass thrown back. The booze used to numb Frankie's aches and pains, but it wasn't helping this time. It was just making it harder to stand up straight. Vomiting in to the gutter outside of another pub, Frankie took the Knight Bus after he'd been thrown out on the echo of a cruel laugh.
Frankie's concept of time was skewed. He came to in fits and starts. He shouldn't have been alone, but he had insisted. Escaping the cloying aftermath of that curse like a scuttling gutter rat. He couldn't stand to be around their magic, not a single one of them. It had made him feel sick, like every brush of that metallic aftertaste a finger along his spine, a hand reaching out for the skin around his throat - waiting to squeeze. He didn't know when or how, but one moment he was slumped against the glass of the bus window and the next he was standing at the mouth of Diagon Alley. The familiar cobbles slick under his feet, the dark creeping and so complete that for a moment he felt as if he had gone blind. And yet, there it was, the shoppes all in a row and quiet as a mouse at this time of night. Like a mouthful of crooked teeth.
Frankie bobbed and weaved his way toward some unconscious destination. A mashed up packet of cigarettes in one cut up hand, one filter sticky between his lips as he puffed and puffed until he had to stop and lean against a shop window just to wheeze for a handful of minutes. His tongue was fat and numb in his mouth, but it still hurt every time he took a draw. He must have bitten it back at the house, when it had happened. Stepping back with a cough, Frankie looked up and let his mouth go slack as he saw the sign of the shop he'd been leaning against. 'Quality Wands at Ollivanders!' a poster declared in the window mockingly, a little animated holly wand swishing with an arch of sparks as it spelled out that phrase again and again on a mindless loop. At first, Frankie thought it a cosmic cruel joke to show him this awful, cursed place when he still felt Ronnie's magic whipping the skin from his body and remaking him a lesser man. And then he thought, like a match catching light, that he was exactly where he was supposed to be.
He had broken into the shoppe before, it took very little time for Frankie to find a hunk of wood from a nearby cart and send it over hand into the glass of the door. Frankie didn't pause to think, the cigarette bobbing between pursed lips, as he reached a ragged hand into the hole and undid the simple, archaic deadbolt. Once indoors, he let that smell infiltrate his senses. Wood shavings, pine needles and sharp, one-of-a-kind glue. He stood there, a shadow in the dark, the ghost of a king in a world that had once been his own to conquer. Like bile, his anger bubbled at the back of his throat and he opened his mouth to let out a scream. His throat coarse and sore from the screeching he had done before, it was a ragged, quiet thing that ended with a sob. His head dropping and eyes blurry with tears that stung like salt in the corner of his eyes. Behind the blur, he was aware of his cigarette burning to ash where it had fallen from his open mouth. The tiny glowing head flickering before it went dead among the shards of glass. Frankie stepped over it to enter the shop floor, where he took only a moment to catch his uneven breaths before he went into a frenzy of movement.
It felt like forever, but when Frankie stopped his rampage through the workshop he was standing in a haze of no more than a few minutes worth of damage. His body was raked with tremors and there was a sticky substance all over his hands and arms. The sharp smell of potion bottles stinging his nostrils as he swiped his arm over his mouth and stepped back, almost tripping as he surveyed the damage. His chest heaved and heaved, and he found that crumpled cigarette packet and took out a fresh stick with his teeth. His silver lighter emerging from the pocket of his jeans. It took four tries of a shaking thumb to get a flame, pad slippery and callused. He stared at it for a long time, hypnotised until it set fire to the paper of his cigarette and it burned uneven down one side and singed his finger. He barely flinched, not really present to feel anything more than that cold anger as he closed the lighter with a flick of his wrist.
Taking a draw and letting his eyes adjust, Frankie dropped his gaze to the puddle of liquid he was standing in. A sea of coloured glass shattered at his feet and floating in the mess of it. It was some kind of preservation fluid, he might have thought, responsible for the smell that nipped the inside of his nose. Frankie could almost catch his own reflection in the dark liquid if he stared long enough. It wasn't enough, he thought bitterly. She would just wave her wand again and set everything to rights. It wasn't fair that all he had was a mouthful of sharp teeth and she had a fucking nuclear weapon in her hands. He couldn't beat her, he couldn't even really hurt her. What was a cruel word to a heartless woman? Frankie stumbled back another step, his cheeks stiff from tears he hadn't known he had shed. He rolled that lighter around in his palm; over, and over, and over again. Plagued by that room, by that fucking curse and her face just as she had cast it. Murderous, but also so fucking smug. Like she had known just before she had cast that it would kill him.
The lighter made a snicking sound in the silence as Frankie lit it again, flame catching on the first try this time. He dropped his chin to look down at it, cigarette wagging in his peripheral vision as he drew in and in until his lungs screamed. He took another step back, moving toward the door as he stared at that flame dancing in the dark. It was burning his finger then, but he didn't flinch this time. Didn't let it go out. Instead, Frankie plucked the cigarette from his mouth with his other hand and he flicked the ash onto the floor, and he decided that if he couldn't kill Ronnie, he'd certainly take the one thing from her that she couldn't take back with the casting of a terrible curse.
The silver casing of the lighter glinted as made an arc through the air from Frankie's hand. He tossed it carelessly, like he was flicking more ash on to the ground. The flame stayed lit as long as the top was open, orange flickering angrily as it drifted and landed in that pool of dark, ominous liquid. Nothing happened at first, or so Frankie thought. And then, quick as a flash, as the filament of a bulb bursting into life, the flames erupted and consumed the puddle. It seared Frankie's face and forced him back into the broken doorway. An arm thrown up and blistered by the sheer force of the blaze. He backed out of the door and landed on his arse at the stoop of the shoppe. Where once darkness had reigned, Ollivander's Wand Shoppe was lit from within by a blazing fire. Frankie stumbled to his feet and felt his breath catch in panic. His eyes roving over the flames as they ate the wooden insides like a hungry animal. Frankie felt something under the panic, something sick with satisfaction as he turned and took off into the dark. Behind him, that same animated poster curled as it burned, the swishing holly wand reduced to cinders on its final loop of 'Quality Wands at Ollivander's!'.
