InsaneJournal

Prompt - Letter/Augustus Rookwood
Request from: pornography

request one here



There was a knob pressing into his back--a hard, brass knob to one of the cupboards under his sink in his kitchen. It pushed right against his shoulder blade, so hard he was probably going to end up with a dark bruise there soon. But he didn't quite care, at this moment. Slumped up against the wood of the cabinet, he found that bruises were the last thing plaguing his mind.

In his hand, he held a letter. The owl who'd delivered it was long gone, long enough for him to have read the letter, poured a glass of firewhiskey for himself, downed the drink, smashed the tumbler against the other wall of his kitchen, and fallen against his sink to where he was sitting now. The letter was still in his trembling hands, crushed and crumpled from the tightness of his grip. His adam's apple bobbed up and down as he worked to choke down a dry sob that was threatening to escape his throat.

They were dead.

He pressed the palms of his hands against his eyelids, felt his elbows digging into his knees almost painfully. How had this happened? How had he found himself here, on the floor of his kitchen, crying and holding this blasted fucking letter? Somewhere, the line between what he'd pretended he wanted and what he actually wanted had been crossed. Somewhere, he'd started fucking caring about the people he was supposed to care the least about.

His palms were wet now. He could feel it, but he didn't move his hands away yet. He couldn't. There was something blissful about the pressure against his eyes, the darkness behind them, that made him believe that this was some sick joke. But as he pulled his hands back and his tear-blurred vision focused back onto the letter, Augustus let out one anguished, ragged sob.

"Fuck," he said, and that too was almost a sob in and of itself. They'd been his friends, and this was how their friendship had ended. Katie especially, but Andrew too, and Cillian. Cillian had only been a child. Was it worth it? He thought to himself. Had it ever been worth it? Had it ever, for even one moment, been worth all the lying and the pretending and backstabbing? He didn't even know what he believed in anymore.  He'd been playing the part of the double agent for so long that it'd seemed a game to him--not something that could hurt anyone, and never something that could hurt them. But they were gone now, and who was responsible but his own family, the same people he'd grown up with, babysat, shared motorcycle rides with...agreed to spy for?

He pushed himself blindly upwards, grabbing the island in the kitchen as if it was his last anchor to sanity. He reached for another tumbler, and with the sickening crash and morbidly beautiful explosion of crystal, it joined its brother's fate across the room. "FUCK!" he screamed, louder this time, and he bent halfway over the island, pressing his forehead against the cold tile. Images came unbidden to his mind--their wedding, Katie in white and looking so fucking happy and Andrew looking like he'd be sick with excitement, the complete goddamn love for each other plastered all over their faces. Katie and Jake going on their first date, the way Jake's face had shone when he'd got back, the way it had lit up every time he talked about her. Andrew, and the way his lips would curve up into an excited, genuine grin whenever he had a new discovery about Muggle culture to share. The way he looked at his wife and child and his eyes softened. Cillian, as a baby, so tiny his hand was smaller than Augustus' pinky, all red and wrinkled.

They were gone. He pressed his lips together in a desperate attempt to stifle the sobs that were trying to break free. A hand, the hand holding the letter, moved across his body to clutch at his chest. Rowena, it felt like his very heart was being torn out. This was what they meant by 'heartbreak', then.

Fuck. Augustus forced himself up, un-crumpled the letter in his hands, and tore it to pieces. It hurt too much to look at, it forced him to face the truth. The tattered pieces of parchment fluttered onto the tile, and with one last look he turned away from them, walking into his room to drown his emotion with alcohol. He didn't sleep soundly that night, or any other night up until his sentence to Azkaban.