Absit Omen RPG
Role-Play Boards => Hogsmeade => Scotland => Kaldfjord => Topic started by: Ignan Storm on May 03, 2021, 03:17:11 PM
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Once all the students were accounted for, and the day’s events were recorded, the Deputy Head at last retired from one of the longest Saturdays in recent history. The March sun had already set, and he forwent the walk home to Hogsmeade in preference of the floo from the staff room fireplace. His wishes for the evening included his dear wife, alcohol, a bath and perhaps even retiring early to bed. The only other way to improve the day was to have single-handedly apprehended whoever or whatever had posed as a first year.
What was he meant to say to Johann, that he was a fool to continue trusting Feliks? The boy had keen influence over his cousin, who was set to become the boy’s stepparent next month with the impending wedding. He could deal with the boy, but he was split between wishing to clash the skulls of the two Gryffindor girls together or wishing their assailant had buried them after all. What was it about Spring in Hogsmeade?
His stomach gave the usual lurch as fireplaces raced past his view, and then at once he was stepping out onto the familiar hearth of their tiny cottage. He had been expecting darkness, or near enough, and an absent wife, but on this rare occasion she had found time to stop working and return home before him.
Miranda was installed on the sofa, Lawrence their nameless cat lazing against her curled legs. There was a glass of wine in her hand, which indicated she was midway through unwinding after leading the hospital, and there was no crisis in progress. There were all the signs she might even be in a good mood.
“You’re back already,” he expressed, pleased, though he sounded weary. He stepped forward and leant over to greet her properly. His long, dark outer cloak was unusually caked in dried mud, and smelled strongly of woodsmoke. His boots bore new scuffs, revealed as he had scourgified the mud from them in the castle, and his left hand knuckles were freshly grazed.
“Apologies. I am later than I said.” He stood straight again and undid his cloak from his shoulders, gathering it over his arm. Beneath were ordinary, black wizards robes, with long sleeves and roman collar. A compromise with the weather and spending the day watching over students in the village, warmer than he might wear during the week. He caught sight of the mud on the tails of his cloak as he carried it back across the heath to hang at the foot of the stairs, hoping Gerda would note and deal with it in the morning.
“Eventful Saturday?” He asked, eyeing the open wine bottle. “Is there any left, or should I get a second bottle?”
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As the fireplace burst into life, Miranda looked up from her book. She’d anticipated Ignan to come through the front door rather than by floo, and the fact that her husband was stepping from the fireplace was, by itself, abnormal. The smell that came with the wizard simply served to stir her curiosity. As he leant over to kiss her, Miranda’s eyes scanned the mudded cloak down to the scuffed footwear.
“It’s fine.” She waved his apology, dark eyes scanning his face. She’d not eaten yet without him. Gerda had prepared a stew which had been left in the kitchen maintaining a steady heat until the couple were ready to eat. In truth, she’d been rather distracted by the wine and the final book in the Elf on Fire trilogy which, despite Gerda’s disapproving glanced at the cover, had nothing to do with Elves aflame.
“Clearly not as eventful as yours.” The healer raised an eyebrow at her husband before untangling her legs from the cat and planting her feet on the floor. “You look dreadful.” It may not have been a question but it expected an answer in response.
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“Thank you.” Ignan replied, as if it were a compliment. Coming from Miranda, some might say it verged on one!
Another glass joined hers on the table, and began to fill with wine. Simultaneously the recipient sank down on the armchair gratefully. His nose caught the smell of cooking and his stomach protested the long day.
“Two girls were lured out of the village about lunchtime,” he explained wearily, “it could have been worse, but I followed them.” The wine glass slid quietly to his end of the coffee table, where his grazed hand collected it.
He looked to Miranda, weighing up how best to phrase the next bit without inducing a panic he could have ended up dead. Ever since he’d come between a fatal curse and its intended recipient, he had been kept on this side of the curtain by novel magic involving runes carved into his flesh. Miranda, a widow before they met, did not wish the title twice, and Ignan was in agreement.
“They are fine enough, but whoever wanted them didn’t go down without a fight.” He took an unusually large swig of wine and appeared to glare at the furniture opposite, whereas it was partly a ploy not to make eye contact.
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It was near impossible for the Head Healer to switch off from work when she was home, especially when it wasn’t even a full year since she’d almost lost her second husband to a vicious attack. As such, seeing him return home so weathered set her on edge. Miranda, already now sat up straighter on the sofa, glanced down at his grazed hand then across his face. He’d been in a duel, and her stomach found itself knotting uncomfortably. Ignan, a former auror, could handle himself well, but, unfortunately, others could do better.
“Without a fight.” Miranda repeated quietly, dark eyes studying her husband’s face. He was purposefully avoiding her gaze. Perhaps she should have asked how these two girls were, but instead her mind was rushing through the thought of Ignan ending back in a wand fight and not coming out the other side. It was silly, she knew. He was sat right here with her.
“Have you been checked out?” She knew the answer, but she asked anyway. Ignan was an awful patient and his wife was probably the only person that could force him to submit himself to a medical check. “You weren’t hit, were you?”
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“No… on both accounts.” The reply was a little more forceful and then relented, allowing himself to meet Mira’s worried gaze - if only to avoid being prodded. “Whoever it was took cover and took more interest in the girls and hindering my pursuit. I gave them good reason to think I was not alone. I’m fine.”
He realised his hand, having gestured with it. “It’s just from after, I had to get down to them in a six foot hole.” He purposefully moved the offending hand out of sight and continued with the wine, taking another generous swig, and slid his boots away from her gaze for good measure.
“Whoever it was knew what they were, came prepared for werewolves,” he continued, more verbose than he might ordinarily be, but the whole situation was gnawing at his conscience. “They brought tenacious twine, intentional.” He lowered his glass and glared at the furniture again, brow furrowed.
“But if that wasn’t enough,” an index finger extended from the wine glass which now contained more air than wine. “They took the face of Feliks Spectre - Balfour’s unexpected son.” With that, he finished the glass.
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Not checked out but not hit. Miranda wanted a look at the runes, her irrational mind suddenly believing them to be at risk. Perhaps it wasn’t irrational considering no one really knew how long they might work for or what might affect them. The uncertainty was something she spent most of the time trying to forget, but a moment like this only dragged it back to light.
“They what?” Miranda’s expression had changed from concern to disbelief. “You’ve informed the Ministry? And Balfort?” She took a swig of wine and leaned forward, elbows resting on her knees. “It’s a pretty sick statement, no? Use the face of Almasy’s son when terrorising werewolves?” She pushed herself to stand, but felt the knot in her stomach pushing away any possible hunger that she may have felt before.
“What was their aim? This, imposter. What exactly did you foil?”
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“They what?”
“Mm.”
“You’ve informed the Ministry?” He nodded. “And Balfort?” Not the time to correct her.
“Greyfriar’s taken care of that.” He rubbed his lined forehead and sat back in the armchair. The wine sat in his empty stomach and would hopefully bring a gentle numbness to his aches.
“It’s a pretty sick statement, no? Use the face of Almasy’s son when terrorising werewolves?” Miranda asked. Ignan hummed agreement. None of it sat well with him.
“What was their aim? This, imposter. What exactly did you foil?”
“That, as yet, isn’t entirely clear.” He raised a finger, pale blue eyes staring off to the other side of the room. “Though nothing good would have become without my interruption,” he assured his wife, turning his intense gaze back on her a moment. “No good Samaritan lures lycanthrope children from safety, disarms, hexes their mouths shut and surrounds them in tenacious twine.” This was beyond anything he’d been accused of in the past towards recalcitrant Hogwarts students, even beyond the corporal punishments Durmstrang had permitted when he was a boy. Then again, werewolf children would not have been there.
“It was without doubt related to their status as werewolves,” he vocalised his thoughts, “but if one wanted to abduct them, one would have disarmed and knocked them out. If one wanted to kill them, then there were simpler and more efficient ways.” Many more. “No, the intention was to torture.”
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Miranda might insist that after many years working in St Mungo’s, she was shocked by very little. Unfortunately, the cruelty of other witches and wizards rarely failed to surprise her. There was doubtlessly no time in modern history when werewolves were not treated like lower class citizens and persecuted. That was bad enough in itself, but to purposefully intend to torture them? It made her feel sick.
She’d stood to check her husband over, but as he spoke, Miranda crossed her arms awkwardly, feeling the knot form in the pit of her stomach.
“@*%.” Swore the witch, her mind running over the trauma the children must have experienced. It didn’t do them well, either, to dwell her thoughts on what may have happened had Ignan not shown up to protect them.
Having already been married to a wizard who’d thrown himself into danger on a daily basis, Miranda had entered her marriage with Ignan fairly certain that she wouldn’t have to worry about any regular peril he might encounter. What harm could untrained children do? She had, it seemed, been wrong.
“From what you say, the aurors don’t stand much chance in catching them.” Unspoken, was her belief that even with a name and a face, that group of so called dark wizard catchers didn’t have a chance.
“The students have been checked, yes?” Ignan wasn’t a fool, Miranda knew that. But she used it as a lead in to her own concerns. It was, after all, almost a year since he’d almost died in this very room. “Let me check you over.” Miranda reached over, taking his wine glass to place on the coffee table. She then knelt in front of him. “Settle my paranoid mind?”
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“From what you say, the aurors don’t stand much chance in catching them.”
He nodded, agreeing, and exhaled. She didn’t have the highest opinion of the aurors, and they had been a day late and a knut short when it had come to the unwanted interruptions from Musgrave.
“The students have been checked, yes?” He glanced up, straight into the face Miranda wore when she was on duty. Business, but led by care and concern. She confiscated his wine glass. “Let me check you over, settle my paranoid mind?”
She wouldn’t let him off if he said no, he’d bet a galleon on it. Also, he knew better than when to say no to his wife. Today had been more than a bit of exertion, and apart from hexing the students into next week, he didn’t get that much time in the field. He’d refuse to say that age was slowing him down, so he’d blame it on the fact he’d come back from the brink of death.
The silver-haired wizard gave another long exhale, keeping her gaze. Finally he blinked, conceding.
“Alright,” he grumbled, “as long as I get to finish the wine, after.”
Though, perhaps better on a full stomach.
End