The Moral Thief

get down to business, yeah?

He sat where he always did when he watched over Doc, guarded him and prayed on every passing turn of the second arm that today would be the day he finally woke up. Slouched in the chair near the head of Dearborn’s hospital bed, Edgar’s feet were kicked up onto the mattress, one ankle crossed over the other as he read the book propped up on his sternum.

This was where he’d been for the last five days, not moving unless Moody told him to clear out and sleep in an actual bed. He’d have told Moody to sod off, but the threat of him summoning his sister –the cavalry– had been enough to make him sigh in distaste and grumble the promise to be back in a few hours. Knowing that he’d call him if there were any changes had also helped get him out the door.

There hadn’t been, though. Not in days and days. Caradoc was still sleeping like a fucking princess and Edgar had read every goddamn magazinge, tabloid, old news paper the hospital had to offer. He’d even read Rita’s articles, Merlin help him. So, while “The Exorcist” was a bad choice, he was starved for an alternative.

The scratchy sound of Doc’s raspy voice ripped Edgar’s focus from the page onto the man beside him. His every instinct was to jump out of his seat, grab Doc by the face, and stare into those blood ringed blue eyes, undecided between laughing or cursing, or some other inarticulate sound. Instead, surprise, incredulity, complete and utter shock had frozen him to the spot and all Edgar could do was gape.

A second turned into ten, a minute, before he blinked, shook his head, and drawled out, “With better hair, I hope.”

He snapped the book shut, moved his boots from the edge of Doc’s bed to plant them on the floor, and turned his body to face his not-as-dead-as-he-looked best friend. “What am I doing here,” he repeated, choking on a laugh that was either wary or insulted, or the most crushing kind of relieved.

Edgar shrugged, half cocked grin finding its way onto his face. He rested his elbows on his knees, the book dangling from his hand as he held Doc’s gaze, muttering, “You know, I actually got turned around trying to find the cantine. Decided to hole up in here because, hey, odds are they gotta feed you eventually, right? Just been biding my time until then. Can I have your pudding cup?”

He lifted the book and lightly thwacked it on the only spot of Doc’s arm that wasn’t bandaged. “I’ve been keeping your comatose ass company, you fucking tosser.” Edgar stood up from his chair, tossed the book onto the table beside his hospital bed, and strode over to the jug of water the nurses kept fresh for visitors. As he filled the cup, he said, “Not that all that beauty sleep’s done you any favors,” and walked it over to Doc.

Licking his lips as he regarded the blond, Edgar remembered the handsome face, the sparkling blue eyes and the way they crinkled at the edges when he laughed and smiled. Clenching his jaw, he carefully slipped a hand under Doc’s nap and helped lift his head with a muttered, “Here,” and watered him like an oversized houseplant.

“Easy,” he said, mindful of how much water he was drinking, of how fast and when to stop so he didn’t cough it out before he could actually swallow it down. Their eyes met and his brows bent in question. ‘more?’ When Doc was done the cup went to the table and Edgar moved the chair closer to the bed before reclaiming it.

As he got comfortable in the chair that made every effort to make it impossible, Edgar barked a laugh at Caradoc’s question. “Am I good,” he said, shaking his head, grinning a mirthless smile as he stared quizzically at him. “Yeah, Doc. Couldn’t be better. How about you?” Beaten to shit, violated and tortured, he suspected he knew the answer to that question, but if either of them should have been asking it it was him. The one who hadn’t been abducted by Death Eaters and tortured for months. Months. Was he good? Peachy keen, thanks for asking.

“Well, I have better hair. I couldn’t tell ya what you have...” He replied with a soft chuckle, that quickly turned into a rough cough. Both were absolutely the ‘slide over the hood of an old muscle car to get to a perp’ type. They’d most likely stumble over each other to get there first.

The ghost of a smile lilted the corner of his broken lips at his friends running commentary. “You can have my puddin’ cup, so long as you feed me the liquids through a straw when I need a feed.” He was surprised his jaw wasn’t wired shut with how broken it felt. He had no idea how long he was out of it, he was just so damn glad to be awake.

He winced at the thwack of the book, his grin breaking the surface at Edgar’s annoyance. “I bet that was riveting for you. Enjoy watching my beautiful face while I sleep? All peaceful and shit?” He had no idea how he looked, just how he felt and could only imagine... “What? You saying you wouldn’t date me lookin’ like this? I’m heartbroken.”

The warmth of his hand as it slipped behind his neck registered through the pain medication, slicing through the fog of his mind. He groaned as a head filled with lead was lifted from the pillows but relished in the cool flow of water as it hit dry lips. He had no idea how long it’d been since he’d enjoyed something a simply beautiful as water. 

He lapped at it like a dog. An what a dog he was, now. Pushing that thought from his mind, he focused instead on the hazel eyes boring into his own. The way the luminescent light overhead reflected off of irises of green and brown. There was something so calming in them, an ease washed over him as he sucked back the cool liquid.

The only thing that slowed him down was the soft voice of the man hovering over him. Concern ever present on his features as he asked the question in his gaze. His own answering ‘yes’. He hated how pathetic he felt, unable to lift a hand to do it himself. It drove him nuts, but he pushed those thoughts aside, too. This was Edgar. The man who had seen him at his best- and his worst over the last ten years. They had no secrets, nothing left untouched between them.

If anyone was going to look after him right now, it was the man whose eyes promised peace and a future. He groaned when the glass was taken away, first from the loss of the liquid- the guy felt like he hadn’t had clean water in months... likely because he actually hadn’t. But also from the pain that racked through cracked and broken lungs after the slugging of the liquid had ceased.

The smile that appeared on Edgar’s face had him wanting to widen his own. If his face didn’t feel like it would fall off at the act, he likely would have. “Everything’s comin’ up Roses, Bones.” He replied lazily, trying to shift in the bed but struggling. “Why the fuck do they make these things so small?” He asked on a guttural groan. “How long do I have to stay here?” 

He thought about leaving, about returning to HQ and his expression fell. It took all the effort he had but the wizard managed to move his hand enough to wrap it around the forearm still hooked behind his neck. “Moody? Did he use the serum? I didn’t give anything up, Bones. Not a damn thing.” Tears welled in his eyes, a weakness he couldn’t seem to stop as he searched for answers from the other.

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.

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.

Alastor was waiting for him outside of the room, arms crossed and grim faced.

“Amelia?” he asked, breathless, heart pounding.

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.

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.

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.

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.

“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.

He had no idea how long he’d been out, not completely. It’d been a few days at least, a week? Who cared. He vaguely remembered being roused awake by Moody, remembered the clear liquid that hit his cracked lips before the questioning started. It was standard issue, nothing he hadn’t done himself before. 

It was veritaserum, flavourless, odorless, utterly unremarkable. It was as if the drops that hit him were water- only, they had the power to see the truth in anything. It was the only way he’d get clearance back into the Order, the only way that Moody would know he could still be trusted. It didn’t matter what Fenrir had done to him; Caradoc Dearborn remained unbroken.

When his mind finally registered his surroundings, the dim silhouette of a figure parked in a chair beside him had the newfound wizard fighting to raise his consciousness to the surface. He knew who it was before the lens of his vision had even zoomed into focus. 

His mind wondered over his body, taking current stock of the damages. He didn’t quite feel like death any more but he wasn’t exactly warmed up. What was warm… was the guy who had perched himself beside his head. He attempted to crack a lid, but his eyes felt like they’d been covered in lead.

It was a good minute or two more before he was able to pry them open, marginally so. A quick glance up told him where he was… he recognised the stark unfamiliarity of St Mungo’s. Lord knows he’d visited here enough. 

Lips parted in an attempt to say hello to an old friend but all he managed to do was cough, the act causing a fresh, shooting pain to run up his chest. “Starsky & Hutch, back at it again.” There was success in his speech but it was marginal, the words slurred and drawn out. “What’re you doin’ here?” 

He groaned as the feel of lead on his chest intensified. He wouldn’t have wanted it any other way, couldn’t imagine waking up to anyone else by his side. If only he could just move his god damn hand, reach out and grab him... anything to reassure him of the other’s presence. 

After the last two months, it was exactly this moment that had kept him going. The knowledge that he’d find his way back to Edgar eventually... and the Order. Whether it was by his escaping, or finding them all in Heaven when it was time, they’d be re-united again. Fate was just a benevolent spirit that had granted him his one wish, sooner than planned.

D O S S I E R: S T A T S

NAME: Caradoc Dearborn AGE: 37 STATUS: Taken FACE: Chris Hemsworth HOUSE: Gryffindor CLASS: Pure Blood Werewolf AFFILIATION: Order of the Pheonix POSITIVE: Charismatic, Endearing, Compassionate NEGATIVE: Reckless, Arrogant, Impatient OCCUPATION: Trader/Thief

“ I’d burn this city but you can’t burn this hell ”

D O S S I E R: B I O G R A P H Y

Caradoc grew up in the world of the Pure Blood Elite. His family had always associated with the richest of rich, and belonged to them too. He, however, never did- try as he might. A lion born into a house of snakes, he was an outcast. As the years rolled by, Caradoc realized that his life was a lie. His parents view on the world was tainted with a prejudice he simply could not share. He fell into the “wrong” crowd early on, a group of misfit kids with a knack for finding trouble. Discovering a flair for the entrepreneurial, he began trading contraband of the harmless sort, muggle items and other small things. Soon after he expanded into judicious theft, finding that the role of Robin Hood suited him. In his final year at Hogwarts, he was disowned by his family after taking things a step too far, and subsequently cut off from the world he had been raised in, and left to fend for himself. He graduated with high marks but carried a chip on his shoulder for the way he was cast aside, like an unwanted toy, rather than a son. It wasn’t long before his passion became a profession, and he fell deep into the black market of the wizarding world, where, once discovered, a kindly auror took him into the fold, rather than locking him away… until he went missing, two months ago. He was kidnapped by one Fenrir Greyback, and he’s just been discovered dumped on the Ministry’s doorstep. Only, the time away had changed him, and not just mentally. Now? Caradoc wished the wolf had killed him… 

D O S S I E R: C O N N E C T I O N S

Edgar Bones: They met before joining the Order, one lonely night at Rosmerta’s bar. Like kindred spirits in the night, they bonded over their wayward lives and rebellious natures. It’s been ten years since that night, and they’re as close as ever.

Igor Karkaroff: Caradoc trusts the man as far as he can throw him; but he certainly comes in handy. Igor has access to things that Caradoc struggles to acquire elsewhere, and though he’s a link to a life now lost to him long ago; he’s willing to do whatever it takes to get the Order what they need.

Kingsley Shacklebolt: As a young auror on a mission to discover the source of some rather surprising items that had been turning up, Kingsley caught Caradoc with a flat full of erumpent horns and other less common, but equally dangerous explosives. Rather than brand him a criminal, the auror saw a bit of ingenuity in the boy, as well as his potential usefulness in the future. So instead of turning him into the Ministry, he recruited him in to the Order where he felt his passions and skills could be put to better use.