To Hell and Back | C&E
@themoralthief
Staring down at the parchment, reading and rereading the scratchy script, he had blinked, clenched his jaw, peered up at his red yarn covered investigation wall, and left HQ with a thought. The only time Edgar had felt this kind of dread was when Alastor had told him that Doc was missing. A “drop everything” message was bad. It was ALWAYS bad.Â
He did it anyway. It was second nature by now, to stop everything and come running whenever Alastor called him. It wasn’t enough to just be a soldier in this war, Alastor needed more for him, and he wanted him to know that he was good for it. Even if Caradoc’s abduction had consumed every part of his life not devoted to the WCU or the Order.Â
When he’d apparated at St. Mungos he’d asked the receptionist for Ted, knowing that if Alastor was here they were together. A floor was given, a room number listed, and Edgar had sprinted in the given directions, heart pounding with the distant worry that it was Amelia in that bed. Merlin, he should have sent her a patronus, an owl, something. He should have checked if she was safe. With every step through the nexus of hallways he prayed it wasn’t his sister he was running towards.Â
Alastor was waiting for him outside of the room, arms crossed and grim faced.Â
“Amelia?” he asked, breathless, heart pounding.Â
He shook his head, reassurance in his gravely set features. Alastor placed a large hand on his shoulder with a muttered, “She’s fine, Bones. She’s safe.” The Auror gave that news a second to set in before he punched him in the gut. “It’s Doc--”
“You found him?” His focus snapped toward the hospital room, to the closed door, blocking whoever was inside from view. Alastor’s hand on his shoulder was all that kept him from shoving the door open and seeing for himself who was waiting on the other side. Doc. Fuck. He was alive. He knew it. He’d known it all this time. Edgar hadn’t given up on him for a second.Â
Alastor’s grip on his shoulder tightened enough to draw Edgar’s gaze up to his dark eyes. His jaw was tight, his brows narrow, there was an inexplicable weight to his gaze as he said, “He was left for us. As a message.”
It didn’t matter. He didn’t care. Doc was alive and Edgar couldn’t hear the rest of what Alastor was saying, not until he saw the man for himself. His best friend had been missing for months. How he’d come back didn’t matter. Just that he was.Â
Alastor must have realized that nothing he said would stick until Edgar saw Doc for himself. The door opened and Edgar cursed viciously. He glared back at Alastor with a demand, a string of questions he couldn’t fully answer because Doc had been death warmed over when they’d found him, and he hadn’t revealed much since getting here. He’d paced and cursed and scrubbed at his face, not able to look away from the beaten and bandaged blond laid up in that bed while Alastor explained everything all over again. Muttering something about needing to speak with Scrimgeour, Alastor had left and shut the door behind him.Â
After minutes or hours spent pacing and cursing and swearing to leave the Rebellion in ashes for this, Edgar’s rage had burned itself out. He grabbed the chair from the wall and dragged it over to Doc’s bedside. Plopping himself down in the uncomfortable seat, he stared at his mummified friend and gritted his teeth.Â
“I’m not going anywhere,” he swore, knowing that Doc probably couldn’t hear him. “I couldn’t protect you before, but I’m protecting you now. Anyone wants to hurt you, they have to come through me.”
Hours passed and Edgar slumped under the weight of his relief in having his brother back, and his anticipation of Doc opening his eyes, coming to, and seeing that he was safe. As time passed his eyelids grew heavier, and Edgar shut them for just a moment. Arms crossed, chin on his chest, he closed his eyes, and listened to the steady rasp of Caradoc’s breathing, comforted by the fact that he was alive, even as rage for what he’d experienced set his blood to boil.
