The Faces of Worth Dying For — Molly Weasley
The clock over the home fireplace was the centerpiece of the home, whether it seemed like much or not. Three of the four hands pointed towards home, while one still did not. That one had Arthur’s handsome face on it, his bright-red hair drawing her eye, as she checked for what seemed the millionth time on his progress. Still set at London, not even traveling yet. She sighed quietly. It wasn’t that she minded taking care of the home or the children while he was gone. Quite to the contrary, she was doing what she had always wanted and what she loved – caring for her family as best she could. How could she have done anything else with a maternal instinct like her own that made her want to fix every broken person she encountered? But she did dearly miss the man who still gave her butterflies with a wink of his eye. Besides, he should have been home hours ago. Whatever could be keeping him? […]
The Faces of Worth Dying For — Poppy Pomfrey
Poppy was very committed to her job. She didn’t believe in doing anything half-arsed, which was why – even on her weekends off, she was likely to fuss around checking that her replacement was competent rather than doing what most young women her age would do – which was dash out and have a bit of fun. Today, for example – was meant to be her weekend off. However, her replacement was running late and with a couple of students lying in bed, Poppy didn’t want to leave them unattended. […]
The Faces of Worth Dying For — Lucius Malfoy
[…] Voldemort’s arrival was unlike any Lucius experienced. He was the master of this house — now Voldemort was the master of it and all things in it. Bellatrix’ insanity, the rapt attention of all others, his own breath. As his sister-in-law quivered before the man, Lucius erected himself in the polished chair. It had been comfortable once — he could remember when. Now he felt perched on display. His cold, slate gray eyes focused on the discoloration on Bellatrix’ arm. His was alabaster white — clean of all intrusion but he could almost feel the spot itching where it would be by the end of the night. His mark; his brand.
The Faces of Worth Dying For — Lord Voldemort
[…] There was something in capturing a moment that quickened the rate in which the Wizard’s heart raced. The moment when he would stroke his finger ever so gently against the blackened mark on someone’s skin, the moment when he was lovingly addressed as the Dark Lord or even when the fear accompanying his adopted name crippled the common so much so that the only solution was to dodge around it. The moment when he would take his seat and his most faithful would look upon him, enraptured by even the stilt breath clinging to his lips he hadn’t even parted to speak yet. He loved to live in the moment. No amount of time spent in endless planning for his future; the future of the World, would erase the pleasure that a fleeting moment could bring him. But then again, there was disappointment as well. Disappointing moments, disappointing people.
