MollyWobbles

Spoons (xvi)

Auld Lang Syne

Playlist:
1. "Auld Lang Syne" by Johnny Irish Murphy

[CW: brief mention of muggleborne death]

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Part IV: Spoons (xvi)

Fabian

January 1, 1970, 3:21 a.m.

Sleet poured down on the cottage in torrents, and the gathering within was winding down. Reggie was painting Olive. Dearborn had lost a bet to her on the outcome of the last Chudley Cannons and Appleby Arrows match, and she'd demanded payment on canvas so her owl (an ancient, grey thing she'd mischievously named Crup) would have someone to chat with while she was at the castle's pitch. While placing some finishing varnish, Reggie had cheekily offered if Fabian might want him to add anything to the one hanging in Maestro's.

On another day, he might've found it funnier.

But he didn't have enough words today to deal with it. His innards were still scrambling to line themselves back into place after their auror shift.

"No, thanks," Gideon jumped in, smirking. "We'd go broke if we had to pay your rate each time we got a scratch."

Reggie laughed.

Fabian slipped out onto the porch, then walked for the fence. Sitting alone out here likely wouldn't help the state of his mind. But it'd be worse if he tried to chat about nonsense.

A lilt of fiddle rang out, and then a second.

Fabian didn't have the energy to pick it up or join them.

There was a part missing to the Auld Lang Syne, but the boisterous shouting from the other guests covered it. Fabian let the sleet pound over the crown of his head.

They'd found another muggleborne that morning—well, the day before, technically. Another one of those bloody dark marks over the flat.

Whole family, just—gone. Whole family. Mum. Dad. Kids. Wiped out.

Suffice to say, he wasn't in a festive place, mentally.

The sleet struck over his face and arms.

Fabian thought about it hitting him white and grey, and running into the slush red. Like it might pummel the blood free that clung to him even after he scourgified it away.

"I'd hoped we might play a few rounds of Quidditch," Olive said. She had to raise her voice to be heard over the storm as she walked over. It drenched her hair, her wind whipped skin, her freckles.

Fabian brought his butterbeer bottle to his mouth and watched her.

"I doubt anyone will want to in these conditions," she said, lowering her volume as she neared his side.

Fabian looked away. "Probably for the best."

Faint glimmers from the main strip of Hogsmeade village shown over the ridge of trees.

"Gideon said you had a rough time today," Olive said.

They weren't doing this bit tonight. If they did this bit, he'd crack like a stale peanut and their little game of pretend would fall apart.

Because you couldn't tell a person that every time another muggleborne went missing, or you found a muggleborne in a scrape with a death eater, or worse, a body that had been a muggleborne, you thought of them and worried so much you often got sick. That was not a casual thing to say to a person—good friend or no.

He couldn't look her in the eyes and tell her that sometimes, the only thing that could get him to don that grey in the morning was the knowledge that there might be one less Death Eater out to get her by the end of the night.

That was not a friendly feeling. That was a big feeling. One he'd done a remarkable job of acknowledging and dismissing.

Because even if she fancied him back (which she probably didn't, after everything that'd happened in seventh-year), she would end up in trouble because of it.

Fabian was very good at his job. Very good. When Fabian and Gideon regularly took missions the others didn't simply because if someone else went, they wouldn't walk out alive.

Him and Gid were quite good at walking out alive, and with a Death Eater or two in hand.

If Fabian associated with anyone in that manner on a significant level, they'd become an instant target.

He wouldn't do that to her.

He was a Prewett.

"I'll manage," Fabian said.

The storm had rinsed the highlights in her hair to a darker shade—cinnamon brown to black tea.

"So, Timothy wasn't here," he said lightly.

He must hate himself, if he was asking this.

She shrugged. "He wasn't a good fit," she said. "He never liked any music but his own."

Fabian snorted. Sod was a pianist, but he couldn't be a good musician if he didn't bother to listen for the music coming from elsewhere.

Fabian collected sounds. Harvested them at every opportunity.

"You didn't bring Miriam, either," she said. "Is that already through, then?"

Fabian lifted his brows and took another swig. "Eh. Wasn't a long-term thing. Ran its course."

He'd seen her twice.

No—three times.

"That's right," Olive said. She leaned on the little fence surrounding her front yard and smiled. "The great Fabian Prewett doesn't do long term."

Knives, that.

"No," Fabian drawled, vanishing his empty bottle.

Olive braced her chin on her hand. Tipped her face towards him and smiled in a small, amused way.

His hair was plastered to his brow.

The sound rolling through his chest cracked like lightning and rumbled like thunder. A great, sweeping protest.

Fabian Prewett did long term.

Just not in the way she was thinking. Fabian's long term was watching on the side, keeping an eye on things. Making sure the little cottage stayed properly cozy and safe and a thousand miles away from his daily routine.

"No," Olive repeated. She lowered her arm to rest it along the dark, horizontal wood beam. The sleet picked up, and she hunched a bit tighter despite her sturdy cloak.

Fabian stuck his left foot onto the bottom rung, then stooped to lean that elbow onto the fence a bit closer to hers as he turned slightly towards her. "You should go inside," he said quietly.

"And miss the show?" she said, smirking at the sleet drowning the woods.

A little shiver rippled through her.

Fabian pulled a languid, shallow breath in, attempted to brace himself, then shifted to step behind her.

He took her upper arms in his hands.

A half-foot of space stood between his chest and her back.

"You'll get cold," he said.

Olive's reply was soft and resolute. "I don't care. I'd rather be out here."

So Fabian stepped a bit closer. Draped his arms around her shoulders, just under her chin.

"Do you ever feel alone?" Olive whispered.

Yes.

The space between them was reduced to inches—two or three—but he kept them there. Even when she reached up and clasped her hand around his forearm. She did it almost absent-mindedly, and Fabian closed his eyes at the way it pulled under his sternum.

It was painful. But holding her like this was far, far better than carrying her on his shoulder, in a slick, pine box.