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Gideon Prewett wasn’t one to think things through. His father told him he had the heart of Godric Gryffindor beating in his chest. It should have been a blessing, but when the world is dark and grim, bravery isn’t the best road to survival. He feels their deaths with his whole body. Every time another member–another friend–dies at the hands of those fucking bastards he can feel his heart ripping at the seams. Like it can’t hold in the grief. It beats hard and wild, pumping energy through his veins that scream at him to slit their goddamn throats. But before he can even move a hand will settle on his shoulder, a silent instruction. Don’t. Because when Gideon can’t think, Fabien will for him, and Fabien always makes the right decision.
So it’s unfortunate then that the moment Gideon’s wife crumples to the ground Fabien doesn’t have an answer. It’s unfortunate then that when Gideon’s wife is hit with the killing curse–they were just out getting coffee–that Fabien is flooded with enough rage to fill up the both of them. It’s unfortunate then that Fabien is the first brother to fight back.
It’s five versus two. Gideon can’t see properly. Tears are blinding his sight, and the world doesn’t feel as solid as it usually does. Fabien is looking at him, yelling something. He looks scared. Gideon fires off another jinx. The incantation passes through his mind silently. He keeps forgetting why he’s fighting in the first place, and he has to remind himself he’s doing this because his wife is dead… but he frowns. No, that can’t be why… that doesn’t sound quite right. If Anne is dead who is going to take care of the children? Anne always reads them bedtime stories, she uses voices and everything. Gideon can’t do that… he would just feel silly.
Searing pain in his side draws a ragged scream out of him. He looks at the wound, a ghostly apparition of a knife is dragging itself into his flesh, causing very real slashes oozing with very real blood.
“ Protego .” He mutters with a grimace.
A clear bubble of safety erupts from his wand, causing the knife to be flung aside and evaporate. The pain clears his head all at once, and he wishes more than anything to return back to blissful denial. He’s fighting desperately for life, but he’s unsure if he wants to live at all anymore... He feels warm blood seep out of his body, and he’s not exactly sure if how he’s still standing upright. But righteous fury pushes him onwards. He sprints towards someone, he’s wasn’t sure who–they all look the same in their black billowing cloaks. And in a truly brazen display of stupidity, tackles him to the ground. It was barely a moment until he feels a spell strike his back. His body goes rigid, and then suddenly limp. All he can think about how chilly it is. He really hopes Anne brought her jacket. If she caught a cold they would all catch it…
He was only 33 years old. The only small consolation of his death was that he was not forced to see his brother die too, mere minutes after.