just my luck ;; essie

[trace dawyne hawkins]

There was little that Trace enjoyed about summer. It started with the first few suffocating days when his mother gushed over him because he was finally home, falling gently into a pattern where he was not allowed to go out of the house without spoken consent of his parents, and to return home before curfew. He was sixteen, and he had a curfew. Trace didn’t see much justice in it, specially when he was more than capable of taking care of himself. His wand was his weapon, as much as his fists, and he would not hesitate to use magic upon muggle if it were necessary – to him, safety first had been drilled into his veins by his obsessive father. Trace understood the fear that had his parents looking over him like a young fledging, but that did not mean he found pleasure from it, or enjoyed it.

Maybe he would have survived this summer without complaint if it hadn’t been for the Potter’s murder. His parents, who enjoyed the leisure of the Daily Prophet, had positively freaked, his mother sobbing into his chest and begging him never to return to Hogwarts while his very irritated father paced up and down the hall, placing calls to his friends in other parts of the world, wanting immediate relocation. It had been too much for Trace, who had exploded out of his shell that he retreated to while in the company of his parents, and positively ordered them to stop this bullshit, or they’d be losing him too. While it flustered his father, it was enough to keep them quiet for the next few days – at least until the mass killings in Diagon Alley had brought on another “family discussion”.

So this time, returning to Hogwarts had more the usual relief of using wand work. There was relief in escaping his parents too. He knew that there were whispers of another Dark Lord, and fear of another Wizarding War – he knew, without thinking, that the last time he might possibly see his parents would be the time they dropped him off at King’s Cross Station, his mother holding her soft silk handkerchief to her face while his father stood grim and rigid. Only the fear in his eyes alerted Trace of the sacrifice his parents were making for him.

Now, sitting in the fading light of the sun in the courtyard of his school, he felt the raw ache in his heart that called for home. Leaning back against the trunk of the tree, he blocked out the emotions whispering into his heart and to his mind, focusing instead on the crooning of the birds, the feel of the dry grass beneath his hands. The wind was soft and chilly, carrying with it the subtle scent of mud. This would be his home soon.

[/blockquote][/blockquote]