August 22nd, 1890 — Evander Darrow's Home, Irvingly
Evander Darrow J. Alfred Darrow

Death was normal. She'd read that in a book once in the month after her father's passing. She'd checked out a book all about death, believing it would bring some sort of explainable comfort. There was an afterlife, she'd always been told, and she was sure both Papa and Mama were together in it, waiting for the day she joined them. But even hours of reading did not make experience death firsthand anymore difficult. Charity always wanted to appear strong, to appear put-together, because it was not very proper to cry and she didn't want to give anyone a reason to believe she was too much to handle. She was an orphan—she couldn't afford to.

The moments after the incident were filled with overwhelming confusion and panic. The seats rattled under their bottoms as the sound of screams and pounding footsteps from the box next to theirs filled the air, and Uncle Alfred had pulled her in the opposite direction. She remembered being confused by the sudden outburst, and then the fear had set in. What if they were next? What if the bludger went rogue? She didn't know much about rogue bludgers, but she knew they existed, which was enough to trigger her anxiety.

They'd—somehow—made it home unscathed, and in the time it took to return to Uncle Evander's Irvingly home Charity had reigned in her emotions and replaced them with a tight-lipped smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.

"Uncle Evander, you'll never guess what happened," she said the moment she set eyes on her other uncle, who had seemed reluctant to see her go hours ago. "We almost died."

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Alfred had a healthy interest in Quidditch, as anyone with even an ounce of patriotism might during the World Cup season. He was hardly a fanatic, which meant that as they had watched the match get increasingly violent he had been thinking less of the game logistics and more about how he would explain this to Evander, when he inevitably had to drop Charity back off and tell him how their outing had gone. At least he could blame the shattered kneecaps on the Moroccans, which exempted him from any share of the blame. The bludger that had blown into the box near them was different — there was no shifting blame for that one onto the dubious foreigners; this was just a part of Quidditch, and he would get criticized for taking their niece to such an inherently problematic sport in the first place. It was also absolutely impossible that Evander would fail to hear about it, which meant it would probably be better if Alfred told him himself.

Apparently Charity had other plans. Alfred had been quietly mulling over how to broach the subject to his brother and hadn't been paying her much mind as they'd flooed away from the stadium, but this statement sent quite a shock through him. It was certainly not what he'd planned to start the conversation with. "Charity!" he said, but stopped there. It wasn't as though he could argue with the statement. The murderous bludger being in the same town as them meant that it would have been too close for comfort for Evander, so trying to argue that they weren't really in danger would be pointless. Presumably the stands should have been protected against this sort of thing, but if there was some degree of insecurity at the box where the woman had died, who was to say that their seats had been any better protected?

  

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MJ made the most Alfredy of sets and then two years later she made it EVEN BETTER

The last game on British soil had been quite enough to give Charity a taste of quidditch, he had thought. It had also been more than enough quidditch for him, at least for one season. Accordingly, he had made no mention of the finals, nor a move to buy tickets for it; but Charity, even after the last, seemed unaccountably interested in the whole thing, and he was trying not to be unduly strict.

This had been something of a compromise, then - let Alfred take her, and let her enjoy it if she could - and perhaps at home he would worry less than when he was sitting beside her watching people do foolhardy flying stunts and beat one another about in midair. Hopefully Charity’s interest was merely another facet of her general curiosity, and not a sign that she would day be tempted to take up a career in sports. (If one could call it a career.)

He was in a better mood by the time they returned home, far more relaxed than he had been this morning, and glad - as always - that she was home in one piece.

Evander was rather bemused by her opening statement, and folded his newspaper away as he got up. “I’m sure it felt like that,” he said sympathetically, trying to be reasonable while his brother was still here to mock him for worrying. He glanced briefly at Alfred, trying to silently inquire over Charity’s head whether everything was quite alright, whether it had all gone smoothly. To their niece, he added, looking for an explanation: “The stands are rather high up - and I know the players can get quite violent sometimes. Did someone else fall off their broom this time?” Surely it had not been so bad as that.

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Uncle Evander was right—it did feel like that. She cocked her head to the side, wondering what he'd put in his tea that allowed to face such news with such repose. Had he not heard what she said? They'd almost died. As Uncle Evander moved out of his chair, Charity took a seat on the adjacent couch, allowing her to look between her inquiring uncle and the shocked expression on Uncle Alfred's face.

"The stands were very high up. I don't think I've ever been that high up before," she agreed, remembering how she'd pestered Uncle Alfred to sit at least three rows up so there was no chance she'd fall over the railings. The old woman next to her had made a comment about how the rails were likely protected to prevent anyone from falling out; even if she'd been right, there'd been nothing from stopping a bludger from flying in.

"Nobody fell off their broom, thank goodness. How awful it would have been to watch that!" she carried on, bouncing her heels on the couch front as she recounted the harrowing tale. "Someone did hit a bludger into the box next to us, and let me tell you—it was horrific. The screams were just terrible. I think someone died. What do you think, Uncle Alfred? Do you think someone's died?" she asked conversationally, turning her eyes from one uncle to the other. The screams still echoed in her ears... or was that hearing damage from the crowd? She wasn't sure.

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Alfred's thoughts seemed to separate and run parallel as his brother and niece exchanged words, so that he was thinking two things simultaneously. In the first place, Evander seemed to think she was joking and hadn't taken what she'd said at face value, so maybe there was a chance for him to step in and control the flow of the conversation. On the other hand — very high up?! Merlin, if that was what occurred to Evander when he thought of danger at Quidditch matches, he was in for quite a shock. Alfred wondered briefly but quite seriously if his brother was up for it, or whether his constitution would buckle under the weight of the news. Perhaps if they were lucky he would only faint; if not, his heart might give out and Charity would have to pack up her things and come live with him.

Then Charity piped in and he realized with horror that she didn't know yet. He'd caught the announcement as they'd stopped the match, just before they'd reached the floo to go, but he hadn't had a chance to talk to her at all about what had occurred. He didn't want to tell her here, in front of Evander, but he couldn't lie to her; she'd hear about it sooner or later, unless they locked her in her room for a week, in which case she'd figure it out on her own.

"Yes, I think so," he told her quietly and dispassionately. To Evander, he added in a matter-of- fact way, "They stopped the match, and we left. I don't know whether they'll resume or not."

  

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MJ made the most Alfredy of sets and then two years later she made it EVEN BETTER

He had always appreciated Charity’s matter-of-fact tone, more comfortable with it than the violent mood swings of some children, but every word of this tale inflected it with undue horror. Worse - still worse - Alfred, even with Evander looking at him with desperately widened eyes, could say nothing to diminish the tale. Yes, I think so, he said, in an uncharacteristically deadened way.

They had stopped the match. A bludger had hit -

“Someone’s died?” Evander repeated, as his heart struck up a beat so unrhythmic he thought he might be dying. “You mean a spectator? In the stands?!” (It sounded thoughtless, coming out that way, as if it would be any less a tragedy if it were a player - but Evander had no sympathy for anyone who chose to practise a career in the range of bludgers in the first place, so this was a great deal worse. It might have been anyone -

What they were saying was that they could have died. They hadn’t, and something remained rational enough in his mind to say that he should not make things any more fraught by overreacting to the news, but - there was nothing rational to say to this, so all he could do was cover his mouth with a hand in dismay and pray that neither of them had seen it too closely.

Or that neither of them had been hurt. He surveyed them both with a wordless, wild-eyed stare, just to be sure they hadn’t been attacked by the bludger too.

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Charity's initial reaction was Why wouldn't they resume the match?, but her second, more disappointed reaction was, I suppose I won't get to see the match finished. It was a sorry way to round off her first real experience with quidditch following the match earlier in the summer that Uncle Evander had dragged her out of the moment the play got a little too violent for his tastes. Despite the sport's violent reputation, she supposed people didn't usually just die.

"What an exciting way to die, though," she said aloud, though it was more to herself than either of her uncles. Death permeated her thoughts, and had ever since her father's passing, and on a number of occasions she'd considered what would bring about her own death. Part of her would like to go peacefully in her sleep, or—no, she'd prefer to die of consumption. It was romantic and dramatic. She would not be opposed to dying in a quidditch pitch if it would ensure her name was remembered, though, even if the stands were smelly and probably dirtier than the underside of her Uncle Evander's front porch.

"I once read that people have died in quidditch before," she commented, referring to the book on quidditch history that she'd checked out from the library. "Players have fallen from their broomsticks, and some have disappeared entirely. Do you think this will end up in history books?" she asked, glancing between Uncle Evander and Uncle Alfred.

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Alfred shot a sideways glance at his niece after her first comment, Evander and his likely distress momentarily forgotten. Exciting. What a thing to say. She was a child, of course, so that was why; it didn't seem real to her. Not a real person, nor a real thing. He'd been the same at her age, and remembered playing pretend and faking some very exciting deaths at the end of long adventure scenes. Charity was an orphan, though — it felt as though she should have known better. She knew firsthand how permanent death was. Was she trying to be intentionally provocative? Was this a way of coping, distancing herself from the trauma of it?

"There are lots of exciting ways to die," he said passively. He'd decided it would be best to react this way, not hysterically — and anyway, Evander might get hysterical regardless. "But I don't think that's much comfort to the people who knew her and have to go on after she'd gone. Your grandfather was eaten by a dragon," he added pensively, wondering if she knew that. Maybe not; he wasn't sure whether Evalina would have been likely to talk about it. It was hardly the only 'exciting' death Alfred had witnessed, of course. He'd seen more than his fair share, which was in part what had made his book so sensational.

"People usually want to hear that it was quick," he told her. "So quick that it wasn't painful. Which I imagine it was. Better than falling off a broomstick, I think. But probably not one for the history books," he added, addressing her question.

  

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MJ made the most Alfredy of sets and then two years later she made it EVEN BETTER

What an exciting way to die, though, was apparently the thought on Charity’s mind. Evander gripped the mantelpiece to keep himself upright, shooting Alfred a look of consternation as if to say what on earth is wrong with our niece?! but his brother was already peering at her probably with the same question.

For a split-second he was pleased Alfred was still here in order to help him deal with this - Alfred had taken her to the match this time so privately Evander could, if he wanted to be slightly irrational but make himself feel better in this guardianship, bestow a little of the blame on his brother - but as the conversation went on, in its detached and inordinately morbid way, Evander’s eyes only got wider.

People usually want to hear that it was quick... Had he forgotten that Charity’s own father had practically just died?!? And in just as aggressively traumatising a day - and perhaps an injury - as this. Evander was hardly a master of tact but discussing the pros and cons of how to explain away a death in terms of painful, exciting and/or likely to MAKE HISTORY?

His head was so dizzied by this Evander was convinced he had never been closer to fainting. He didn’t let go of the mantelpiece, just to be safe. “There is nothing exciting about dying.” he interjected to the both of them through gritted teeth. (To feign a semblance of calm, ostensibly, although he was increasingly sure he was the only sane human in the room.) “And this is hardly an appropriate discussion to be having right now.” Or... ever.

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The following 1 user Likes Evander Darrow's post:1 user Likes Evander Darrow's post
   Cassius Lestrange

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Death by disease, death by stampede and death, by quidditch match. There was a lot of death to ponder, but it had not come to Charity's attention that her grandfather had died by dragon. She looked up at her Uncle Alfred, eyes wide and curious, as if she was ready to unpack that story right here and there. Unfortunately for her, until her uncles decided that this was not the time to be telling stories, and Uncle Alfred's explanation was interrupted by Uncle Evander's interjection.

"Everyone dies, though," she disagreed with a frown, in what would be her first time talking back to her uncle. "At least people will remember you if you die in an exciting way." She didn't remember her Mama. She had died unremarkably, and from what her Papa had always said, overnight. Papa had gone differently: his death was violent and dark after a tragic event, and she would always remember seeing him die. But it wasn't his insistence that death wasn't exciting that soured her expression, but the suggestion that it was not an appropriate topic of conversation.

"That's the same thing my neighbors said when I told them how my Papa died. The solicitor said that, too, now that I think about it," she complained, glancing between her uncles. "Why can't we talk about it?"

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If Charity had asked this question when the two of them had been out together, on the sailboat or at the Sanditon or even at the Quidditch match, Alfred would have answered her by saying we can, of course we can. Given the context, though, he knew this was likely to be a step too far. This wasn't a line he thought he had permission to cross in Evander's home, particularly when Evander was her actual guardian — and especially when his brother was probably still upset with him for accidentally taking Charity to a Quidditch match where she'd have a front-row seat to carnage like that.

He didn't think, however, that leaving it solely for Evander to address was for the best. Particularly when it was sort of his fault they were having this conversation in the first place, since he'd taken her to the Quidditch match, and particularly since Evander was... Evander.

"A lot of people don't like to talk about death because it makes them sad to remember people they loved who aren't around anymore," Alfred told her. "And sometimes people don't like to talk about it because they're afraid of what it will be like to die. And it's usually not very nice to make people talk about things that make them sad or afraid," he continued. He might not have been one for following the rules of conversational etiquette since he'd returned from abroad (particularly in conversations with Evander), but that was by choice, not through ignorance; he understood the utility of acting in a way that made others comfortable most of the time.

"Death makes us sad," he admitted to Charity, with only a brief glance at Evander. "Because we both miss your mother. And our parents. But it's normal to think about death, and have questions about it. And," he added a little hesitantly, with another look towards his brother, "This is probably the best place to ask questions like that."

Hopefully Evander wouldn't blame him for the suggestion — but if she was going to either ask the two of them or some strangers, neighbors, or the solicitor, he thought Evander would agree the former was preferable no matter how uncomfortable it made him.

  

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MJ made the most Alfredy of sets and then two years later she made it EVEN BETTER

Charity began to argue with him, and a flurry of agitation rose in his chest; he might not have been successful in suppressing the shouting he wanted to do if Alfred had not stepped in - much more patiently.

Still propping himself up with an arm on the mantelpiece, Evander let his head fall into his hand, choosing to quietly massage his temples rather than interrupt. There was nothing he felt capable of saying, for that matter - even if he had wanted to, the words would have stuck in his throat. He would have blocked out the conversation entirely, if he could, but he had always been too studious a listener to not pay attention if something was being said - and Alfred was speaking for both of them here, with we miss your mother. And our parents.

There had been a moment, in that half a decade of Evander’s life entirely derailed by death after death, his father’s, sister’s and mother’s in quick succession, when he had had to face the news of Alfred’s presumed death too. Years had blurred together with all that grief, a life led in a daze and that solid certainty at the core that he had very much been left alone. How strange it was to have Alfred standing here again, Evander acknowledged for the thousandth time, as if he had not spent so long trying to mourn his brother with the rest.

Moving on entirely was impossible, though, even if there was no chance of Charity’s family coming back to unravel her grief; besides, where he had been an adult, settled enough in life even if he had had no one, she had not even that security or experience in age as she had watched her parents on their deathbeds. How sorry her state was, to only have them left as guardians - it was not a great deal better than nobody, was it?

He felt Alfred’s glance flicker towards him at the talk of Charity airing her questions about death, if she wanted to, and - though there was nothing in the world he would rather talk about less - Evander waved a hand to reassure her that she could, if she liked, if she must. Only Alfred would have to answer her questions still, because his mouth was too dry for words.

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The following 3 users Like Evander Darrow's post:3 users Like Evander Darrow's post
   Cassius Lestrange, Charity Lloyd, Reuben Crouch

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Of course death made people sad. There was no doubting that. Her little red brows knitted together in frustration as she tried to find the words to express how she felt, and despite her advanced readings and her grammar practice, and everything she'd done and studied to convince everyone around her that she was worth teaching, Charity found herself unable to pinpoint a word to describe how she felt. Frustrated was not the proper descriptor, and confused was too broad in its meaning. Sad was simple, plain; it didn't fit the feeling of grief that was mixed with the longing and the hopelessness and also a little anger. She was angry, not just with her uncles for treating death like a taboo, but also with everyone's inability to read her thoughts and just get it.

She was offered an chance to ask her questions, and for a moment that deep, dark emotion swelled within her that nearly prevented her from accepting the opportunity. She took a breath, though, and the tension melted away, little by little, until she could find the one question in a sea of other, less important questions—a question that had bothered her for a long time.

"Why does everyone say that I'll be with Mama and Papa again one day? I'm not a baby. I know I won't be. People don't come back," she lamented, her brows still knitted, partly to keep herself from getting emotional. "If they really believed that, they wouldn't be sad about death. They'd look forward to it." It was one of those adult contradictions that she hated. Charity would love nothing more than to think that, too, but never had she ever seen a dead person come back to be with their loved ones. Not really. The sentiment made her feel like she was supposed to hold onto them because she would see them again, but she was also never supposed to talk about them. It hurt her heart. She didn't like feeling that way.

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Not pulling any punches, was she? Alfred had not expected talking about death with a child to be easy, but neither had he anticipated that they would start straight away with her denouncing the concept of heaven. Was that even what she was doing? It occurred to him that her phrasing wasn't the most clear. Maybe she simply didn't understand what people meant when they said that, and no one had ever clarified for her.

Alfred hesitated. He had no idea whether or not Evander had been taking her to church. It might have been best to defer to Evander on the subject of heaven, so that Alfred didn't accidentally indoctrinate her on a philosophy the rest of English society would deem savage, but... well, it was quite evident that Evander was not currently up to the task. Alfred found a seat and chose his words carefully, looking mostly at his hands.

"Some people say that because they believe it will really happen. They think there's a part of a person that goes somewhere else after they die, and they meet up with everyone else who's already died. And they think it'll make you feel better to think about that. That you won't miss them as much if you can see them again someday." He paused and looked at Charity for her reaction, then at Evander to see if he showed any sign of being ready to interject just yet. When no interruptions came, he admitted, "I don't believe that. But I think the things people leave behind when they die — memories and stories — are more important than the part of them that goes away."

  

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MJ made the most Alfredy of sets and then two years later she made it EVEN BETTER

If he had been quite himself, if he had not been blindsided by this whole conversation, Evander might have managed to interject. He fancied he would have recited those traditional views in a little more encouraging a fashion than Alfred had, but he could barely pull two words together about heaven - or indeed ghosts, or any sort of afterlife - before Alfred no doubt cemented Charity’s views with his own. Evander suspected their niece looked up to Alfred with enough awe to swallow his opinions, no matter what they were.

If he were being honest with himself, he might have admitted that he agreed, but - well, he would still sit in church from time to time and recite a prayer to hedge his bets. There would be no wild declarations of belief or unbelief from him, at any rate.

He cleared his throat. “You know you are at liberty to... ask us about your parents, if there are things you would like to know or don’t remember,” Evander added uncertainly, after Alfred’s last. There was not a moment Evander had seen her in which she did not seem a curious child - she bombarded Miss Clearwater with questions, from all that he had heard - but these were so often about her studies. About the present, not the past. And Evander had hardly been going to dredge up the past unprompted, not when recalling half of it did nothing but depress him; but he supposed Charity might consider it the way Alfred did.

He attempted a smile. It felt forced and faded fast, but his tone had settled into something more ordinary by then. “If you like. After all, we did know your Mama quite well.”

And he supposed he would much rather talk about their sister’s life than her death.

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Uncle Alfred was no authority on life and death, but his explanation seemed as good as any—and in a way, she agreed. Memories and stories were important, which she supposed was why thinking of Mama made her sad. There were so few moments they shared together that she could remember. She sat silently with a frown on her face, her fingers fumbling together in a way that mirrored Uncle Alfred.

"Well I have so many questions," she said finally, in response to Uncle Evander. "I don't remember my Mama, and I'm... I'm afraid that I'll miss her more if I know more. Everything would have been easier if she hadn't left us." Just where she'd gone would forever be a question in her mind. Into the ground was certain, but where else? Heaven? The air? Was she really still there, and would Charity really ever see her again? It seemed unelikly.

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