@ofrosier august 19th, 1979. nearing midnight, east london.
They move a moment late. Only a moment is necessary.
Burst of pale light and there’s a moment of heat, damp warmth spreading from their collarbone outward; no impact and laceration run to the bone. Their hands twitch; attempt of a spasm, left arm raising to press against the wound. Careless. A stain that already begins to bloom, comes away hot on their palm. Inconsequential. They raise their wand, heedless, motion unshaken. An arc of green light that holds steady even as their vision doesn’t- until the muggle-born’s partner shoves her out of the way, momentum sends them both crashing to the ground. Dazed, alive. Yet. A reprieve where it is offered.
Nothing is ever quite that simple. Rodolphus stumbles, weightless; the first sign. Their skin too cold in this clammy body, unpleasantness where the wet stain of blood spills over. The second. And suddenly they’ve become lightheaded. Sulphur for air. Choking on it. Petals of darker black unfurl on their chest, but in what places the heart careens the poison wakens.
Vision blurs. It’s not the mask. A burning sets in the blood. Nothing comes modulated; a distortion of view, vision, piece of feeling found in a dream.
Breathe.
(Rodolphus stills, fingers darting to press against the edge of a wall. Chalk sigil drawn into the brick. Algiz, for protection. Sowilo, guidance- something strange about that, meaning hidden, twisting in the back of their thought. Three layers thus far. Anti-apparition wards bound up in a notice-me-not, a hundred metres in radius from the center. Closer, a thicker miasma of repelling charms. All for defense.
Weighing their options, a brief glance to their companion. They can go further yet (odd pull, guiding them forwards, intangible)- but a step further turns to be the wrong action. There’s a soft hum in the air, a snap of elasticity. A second set of wards activating. Realization between the width of a breadth, careless.
Perhaps they’ll have to fight their way out after all.)
Eyes slipping shut. Silence. Every other sound muted. Patterned patter of fox paws in the distance. Rattle of a dust-bin an aeon and an alley away. Sound of a ricocheting heart in their mechanical chest. Dreamlike. No thought, only the serrated edge of feeling. Jaw locked and rust staining their mouth, wet trail of it slick down their chin. Dripping. Black and bitter, clever trick of the dark.
They stumble, fall to their knees. Ungracefully; the pain a canvas, body and air unmoored, uncertain of its property, lines blurred that must never have been drawn. Where the man begins and the tremor of air ends, sound and pain-hazed thought. Stumble of a step, two, back hitting concrete- momentarily hidden. Momentarily. Rosier left alone- (elusiveness of thought, trying to reach a step ahead, two, ten- arriving at that blank, tearing slate of pain, no workaround, no clever flaw). Breathe.
