![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
fireredspearGreat Hall, Morning OWL mail
[It's the Monday after the quidditch match, when he feels really well rested and recharged, if not a bit gloomy. He spent the Sunday in, doing relaxing stuff, like he always does the Sunday after a game, but usually until now, that also meant pleasant company and a little loving, but he ain't got that anymore, right? Time to move on.
Or so he thinks, right until the moment when the morning mail arrives. Unexpectedly, a letter lands right in front of him, making him blink twice, but when he inspects it, it's like a rope tightens around his heart. There is no sender on the envelope, but he's recognize that playful, quirky handwriting anywhere. He opens it carefully, his hands shaking just enough for the paper to tremble softly, as he starts reading.
And as he reads, several different emotions wash over him in quick succession. First there's a sense of relief, worry and relief again, as he reads the reasons, the explanation. Months he'd been agonizing over what he did wrong, whether it was something he said, that made her pack and leave, because what else could it possibly be? Family issues have not come to his mind and he kicks himself hard. Second there's apprehension as he reads further, because it seems there's something else, another reason he's receiving this letter. And lastly shock, when he reaches the last paragraph. Shock, combined with exaltation and at the same, despair.
Father. He's going to... father.
The joy the message brings him soars in his heart, only to be crushed by the despair of not being able to be there, possibly not even getting to know his child.
He takes another look at the envelope, because maybe there was a sender, he just missed to see it, but there is none. No trace of where the letter came from, nowhere to go, or even respond. The knowledge that she didn't even want to hear a reply crushes him. He has no way of reaching her, no way of telling her it all will be alright. All he can do is silently bear this knowledge.]
Through the day, anywhere (practice, office, elsewhere, hoops)
[The rest of the day is somewhat a blur. Barely something registers through the haze in his mind, or the emotional roller coaster he spends the day riding. During practice he's either unfocused, or snappy, in some moments unnecessary strict, at others unreasonably lenient. When there's nothing going on, he can be seen sitting somewhere, with his head between his hands. The second the day reaches it's end, he locks himself in his office and can't be seen for the rest of the evening.
Only those who visit the pitch at the late hours would find him, sitting in one of the hoops, balancing his weight on the thin ledge, bottle of whiskey in hand, from the broom parked right next to him a full basket of bottles hanging.]
((ooc: For reference, he's gotten this letter.
[It's the Monday after the quidditch match, when he feels really well rested and recharged, if not a bit gloomy. He spent the Sunday in, doing relaxing stuff, like he always does the Sunday after a game, but usually until now, that also meant pleasant company and a little loving, but he ain't got that anymore, right? Time to move on.
Or so he thinks, right until the moment when the morning mail arrives. Unexpectedly, a letter lands right in front of him, making him blink twice, but when he inspects it, it's like a rope tightens around his heart. There is no sender on the envelope, but he's recognize that playful, quirky handwriting anywhere. He opens it carefully, his hands shaking just enough for the paper to tremble softly, as he starts reading.
And as he reads, several different emotions wash over him in quick succession. First there's a sense of relief, worry and relief again, as he reads the reasons, the explanation. Months he'd been agonizing over what he did wrong, whether it was something he said, that made her pack and leave, because what else could it possibly be? Family issues have not come to his mind and he kicks himself hard. Second there's apprehension as he reads further, because it seems there's something else, another reason he's receiving this letter. And lastly shock, when he reaches the last paragraph. Shock, combined with exaltation and at the same, despair.
Father. He's going to... father.
The joy the message brings him soars in his heart, only to be crushed by the despair of not being able to be there, possibly not even getting to know his child.
He takes another look at the envelope, because maybe there was a sender, he just missed to see it, but there is none. No trace of where the letter came from, nowhere to go, or even respond. The knowledge that she didn't even want to hear a reply crushes him. He has no way of reaching her, no way of telling her it all will be alright. All he can do is silently bear this knowledge.]
Through the day, anywhere (practice, office, elsewhere, hoops)
[The rest of the day is somewhat a blur. Barely something registers through the haze in his mind, or the emotional roller coaster he spends the day riding. During practice he's either unfocused, or snappy, in some moments unnecessary strict, at others unreasonably lenient. When there's nothing going on, he can be seen sitting somewhere, with his head between his hands. The second the day reaches it's end, he locks himself in his office and can't be seen for the rest of the evening.
Only those who visit the pitch at the late hours would find him, sitting in one of the hoops, balancing his weight on the thin ledge, bottle of whiskey in hand, from the broom parked right next to him a full basket of bottles hanging.]
((ooc: For reference, he's gotten this letter.
