The Sugar Quill
Author: DarkWitch (Professors' Bookshelf)  Story: Reflections  Chapter: Default
The distribution of this story is for personal use only. Any other form of distribution is prohibited without the consent of the author.





He looked in the mirror.  It was the same old reflection, shadowed now by the glow of the single candle on the mantelpiece.  Blue eyes.  Red hair.  Horn-rimmed glasses that shone glaringly even in the dim light.  Pale skin, dotted with freckles, which showed the strain of the late night, the emergency meeting, the fear and the confusion and the arguments that had marked the night just passed.



It's not so bad to be alone.  If anyone knows that, I do.  Twenty years have taught me that if you can't rely on yourself, you're lost.  So it doesn't really matter much whether anyone else sees things your way.  Not when you get down to what's important.



The emergency meeting at the Ministry had ended less than a half-hour before.  He couldn't remember ever being this tired, not deep down in his soul.  Even though the fear hadn't begun until it was all over and everyone—almost everyone, he corrected himself with weary meticulousness—was safe, it had drained him.  He knew, in his head, that he had to get some sleep.  He knew the coming day would be no less exhausting than the past several hours had been.  Yet his mind, which had always before been his pride and his most cherished asset, betrayed him.  It simply would not rest.



Voldemort is back. 


Fudge was wrong.


Dumbledore was right.


Ron and Ginny could have died.


I never would have gotten the chance to say good-bye.



The thoughts ran through his head in a frenzy of repetition, a kaleidoscope of words that would not stop whirling, no matter how he fought to still them.  He hadn't been present during the battle.  He was slightly ashamed that he was glad of that fact.  It wasn't that he didn't think he could acquit himself well in a fight.  Regardless, he knew that his strengths lay in other areas.  He could fight, but he wasn't a fighter by nature.  He was a detail man.  A planner.


He walked over and sat down on his one decent chair, which he'd bought before his duties at the Ministry prevented him from having time for furniture shopping.  His brother and sister might have died.  He couldn't seem to get that thought out of his head.  The knowledge pounded there like a drum, relentless and wild.  He shook his head, trying to clear it.  He wasn't surprised when his head only ached more violently when he was done.



They might have died, and I never would have had a chance to say good-bye.  Hell, it might have been my parents.  Or Bill, or Charlie, or the twins.



At the thought of the twins, his eyes narrowed slightly.  They had never been close.  The twins thought him stuffy, self-righteous, and self-important.  He thought them completely immature, shiftless, and an embarrassment.  That didn’t mean he wanted them dead.  He didn't want any of them dead.



Mum and Dad are wrong.  Bill, Charlie, and the others are wrong.  I know they're wrong.  Fudge was correct not to announce that Voldemort was back until he was sure.  Potter's word wasn't enough to change the entire Ministry policy concerning Voldemort.  He was a fourteen-year old Wizard with a history of attention-seeking and rule-breaking.  Hardly a solid foundation for a decision as important as whether to announce that Voldemort had returned.


Mum and Dad are wrong.  Bill, Charlie, and the others are wrong.  But I almost lost Ron and Ginny.  And I might have lost them all.  Is knowing I'm correct enough to keep me going if I do lose any of them?  Can I live with myself if I lose them, knowing I could have healed the breach between us and didn't try?  Is being right worth losing them all even more than I already have?



He looked longingly at the bottle of Firewhiskey on the kitchen counter, just barely visible from where he sat.  He remembered buying it just after he'd moved into the flat, because his mother had always claimed it was a good thing to have around, just in case.  He looked around and suddenly noticed that a lot of things in his flat seemed to be arranged the way they were at the Burrow.


The sofa was a hand-me-down from the flat's previous tenant, its dull green velvet threadbare in places.  It wasn't what he'd consider his favorite.  He'd planned on replacing it soon after moving in.  His job had prevented him from having the time to shop for furniture, but even so, the sofa had grown on him.  It was a bit long in the tooth, true, but it was comfortable.  Homey.  Far more so than his one good chair, which had cost a month's salary and was rarely used.


The bookshelves were crammed full of books, most of them secondhand, all of them often-read.  He'd considered, many times, straightening them up.  The shelves were overloaded and cluttered.  He'd prefer it if they were neater, more orderly, but somehow he never seemed to get around to straightening them.  There was a strange comfort in the cozy disorder of them.  He thought that if he ever actually straightened the shelves, or got more to disperse the clutter, he'd miss the way they had been.


The kitchen counter was spotlessly, precisely neat.  The small table he'd managed to cram into the corner was overflowing with parchment and old quills, a book or two, piles of posts he'd yet to find time to answer, and the wrapping from his mother's Christmas parcel last year.  Ever since the incident of the jumper, which he'd returned in  fit of rage that now embarrassed him, he had tried to throw out the bright wrapping paper, but hadn't been able to bring himself to do it.  The clutter on the table had grown around it.  He hadn't been able to clear that away either.  The sight of it eased his heart somehow. 


His clothes were always put away neatly, hung or folded or set aside for cleaning.  Just as they had been at home.  But the dresser top had, over the months, acquired its own layer of clutter.  There was a Quidditch magazine in the corner.  He'd bought it on impulse, joking to himself that he'd been so used to Ron and the twins leaving them around the Burrow that it wouldn't quite be home without one.  But he'd found himself looking through it a few months ago.  He decided now that it was no coincidence that the Chudley Cannons were on the cover.  It was a piece of home, even if it had never seen the inside of the Burrow.  He might not have realized that when he'd bought it, but it was difficult not to notice, now, that it still sat on the dresser top.



I'm right.  They're wrong.  Is that worth the price we're all paying?  Maybe I shouldn't have to be the one to apologize.  Does that mean that I can't do it anyway?  Wouldn't it be better than being alone?


There's nothing wrong with being alone.  Not if you can rely on yourself.  Nothing's more important that that. 


Not even being lonely.



As an argument, it wasn't very convincing.  Not now, when the knee-trembling realization that his younger brother and sister might have died hours before was still rolling through him in waves.  Not now, when he knew that his parents and brothers, not too very far from where he sat now, were feeling the same thing.  Not when he'd never felt so alone in his life.


He couldn't take it anymore.  He headed for the kitchen and the whiskey bottle.


He drank silently and steadily, out of the bottle, until the waves of fear had stopped their rolling, and the loneliness had been blunted by alcohol.  Until the regrets and the recriminations had ceased their repetition, and were no more than whispers.  Until his mind had managed to convince itself that the close call with his younger siblings hadn't been so close after all.  Until the voice in his head that insisted that he put aside all that he'd worked for to put things right, no matter who had been to blame for the breach, fell silent.


The fire flared up and he looked over to see Fudge's head in the flames.  He slid he bottle of Firewhiskey out of sight and went over to the hearth.  A few moments later, the fire flickered out and he sighed.  He left the bottle where it was and headed to his tiny bathroom to shower and change.  There was another emergency meeting.  He had a job to do, and he couldn't ignore it now.  Not when the situation was so critical.  Not when he was needed.


His head clearer, he picked up his wand off the dresser top and caught sight of the copy of Quidditch Illustrated, the Chudley Cannons beaming at him, a few of them waving.  One of them had bright red hair, just like Ron's.


With a pang, he turned his head away and Disapparated.



Author's note: Original content ©2004 by DarkWitch; story based on content and situations created by J.K. Rowling, and no infringement of any and all copyrights held by her is intended. 








Write a review! PLEASE NOTE: The purpose of reviewing a story or piece of art at the Sugar Quill is to provide comments that will be useful to the author/artist. We encourage you to put a bit of thought into your review before posting. Please be thoughtful and considerate, even if you have legitimate criticism of a story or artwork. (You may click here to read other reviews of this work).
* = Required fields
*Sugar Quill Forums username:
*Sugar Quill Forums password:
If you do not have a Sugar Quill Forums username, please register. Bear in mind that it may take up to 72 hours for your account to be approved. Thank you for your patience!
The Sugar Quill was created by Zsenya and Arabella. For questions, please send us an Owl!

-- Powered by SQ3 : Coded by David : Design by James --