salvation - f.weasley

Obliviate

This chapter slightly mentions topics such has psychological control, abusive home and violence.

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the great gig in the sky - pink floyd

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When Fred Weasley arrives in front of Grace's childhood home, a chill runs through his spine. He holds her hand a little tighter and glances around nervously.

The house sits alone on a hillside, with mountains in the distance and the sea. There's nothing else nearby except an old truck and weeds growing wild.

The house itself has faded blue shutters that look almost gray from the consequences of times, and Fred spots a small hole in the roof. He swallows hard, imagining Grace growing up in this place, so isolated, so alone.

He looks at her and sees her face shift, fear tightening her features. She freezes for a moment, her eyes glued to the front door, then quickly scans the surroundings. For just a moment, she seems to relax.

"His car's not here. Let's go," she whispers firmly, her voice steady but tense. She moves toward the door, her steps quick and determined, and Fred follows, feeling his own stomach twist with worry. He realizes, as she opens the door, that he's been holding his breath.

Grace pushes the door open, stepping into the dark house, with Fred close behind. Inside, everything is shadowy; the blinds are drawn, and the flickering kitchen light barely works.

As he follows her, the first thing he notices is the smell—strong, stale whiskey hanging thick in the air. It is mixed with a dampness that seeps into the walls and clings to his skin. The silence is heavy, but he hears the low hum of a television nearby. It's a huge TV, its size out of place in the small room.

But more than the smell, the damp, or the old and broken furnitures, what really hits him is how empty it feels. There's a sadness here, a heaviness. No photos hang on the walls, no decorations or signs of life. It feels abandoned, like a place no one's truly lived in for years.

A voice from somewhere in the house breaks the silence. "Gracie, dear? Is that you?"

Grace flinches at the sound of the voice. She doesn't hesitate, though—she runs down the hallway, her footsteps echoing as she shouts, "Mum!" before her voice fades into silence.  Fred hears her mother's quiet reply and the soft thud of them embracing, an unspoken weight in the moment.

He stands still, unsure of what to do. Should he stay by the door? Follow them down the hallway? Should he keep a lookout in case her father returns? Nothing feels right, and the silence presses down on him.

Finally, he takes a deep breath and moves down the narrow hallway. The walls are bare, like everything else in this house, the wallpaper peeling, torn in places. He shivers again.

At the end of the hall, he finds three doors. The middle one is open, revealing a dingy bathroom with mold creeping up the ceiling. He tries the door on the left, finding himself in what he assumes is Grace's bedroom.

He steps in, feeling his chest tighten.

There's only a bed. A simple, sagging wooden bed, tilting slightly from a broken leg. The room is freezing, the air thick with dust and cold. Nothing on the walls. The wallpaper is faded, a childish pattern of swans barely visible.

Then he notices something on the back of the door. He takes a step closer, running his fingers over the bits of paper stuck there—old posters, faded photos. A tiny Harpies banner, a picture of Grace with Ania and Roger, an old photo that he assumes is her mother when she was younger. He even spots a Chocolate Frog card of Circe, its edges worn.