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Enjoying a Leisurely Day Off
Topic Started: Sep 13 2011, 12:40 AM (396 Views)
Veronica Banks
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Strolling through the sunlit streets, Veronica glanced around the small crowds of students wandering around enjoying the day of freedom. It was something she could appreciate. It felt a decadent and she felt a little guilty but it was her first day off in weeks. Her supervisor at the hospital had insisted that she needed to have at least one day off. She’d been working long hours every day for the last few weeks and though she was reluctant to admit it, she was burning out.

And that was how she found herself in the warm afternoon sunlight along with half the student from the illustrious school. A relaxed smile lifted the corners of her mouth as she strolled into Gladrags to browse through the lovely new fashions that were much too frivolous for her tastes. Just because she spent most of her time in scrubs, didn’t mean she couldn’t appreciate the rich fabrics and styles.

Besides which, Gladrags was also home to Ellsabeth Jenkins. A brilliant seamstress who could take in several robes for Veronica. The stress of the last few weeks had been rough and Veronica’s clothes were all but hanging off her.

As the bell above the door tinkled to announce her arrival, the elderly witch behind the counter looked up with a broad grin. Her steel gray hair was twisted up into a rather lopsided knot that bobbled around as her head moved. It was quickly apparent to all, that it was a wig. And an ill fitting one at that. As the little woman hopped off her tall stool, the wig swiveled slightly on her head. The short cut fringe was now on an odd angle, sloping down over one eyebrow.

“Healer Banks! Finally pried yourself away from that dreary old hospital, did ya?” Her cheery tone carried through the empty store.

“Hello, Ellsabeth,” Veronica smiled politely as the short woman made her way around the counter to greet her with an awkward embrace.

“Merlin’s sakes, child, you’re all skin and bones!” Ellsabeth spoke in a disapproving tone as she stepped back. Her hands still holding Veronica’s forearms. “You are never going to land a man when you look like a damn skeleton.”

This conversation was standard procedure every time she stepped foot in Gladrags. Ellsabeth was a dear friend of Mrs. Haversham’s and she had taken it upon herself to worry over Veronica at every given opportunity. It was heartwarming and yet, at the same time, incredibly frustrating.

“I’m not looking to ‘land a man’, Ellsabeth.” Veronica began but Ellsabeth was already onto the next topic of conversation. The woman was a born talker.

“Let me guess, you need some alterations done.”

Veronica grinned sheepishly and nodded. She reached into her bag and pulled out two robes. Black, multi functional robes that would be appropriate for any work related meetings or even more casual events as well. And though she didn’t dare think it, there was a part of her that realized that they’d be useful for the funerals that were soon to start. England was at war now. Every attack resulted in deaths and mortal wounds. It would only be a matter of time before she’d be required to attend a funeral of someone she knew. Someone she cared about. A shudder ran through her thin frame as Ellsabeth took a closer look at the robes.

“Ah yes, lovey, I can have these fixed up for you in no time.” With a quick look up, her wig spun precariously back on her head. The fringe now settled uneasily on the top of her head while the knot rest on her left shoulder. Veronica stifled a smirk as she tried not to stare at the now shiny bald head almost completely revealed.

“We got some lovely new frocks in last week. You should go try the slinky black one. You’d have men lined up around the block to spend a bit of time with you.” Ellsabeth commented as she shuffled back to the small alterations room she had in the back.

Veronica couldn’t help but chuckle as she began to look through the racks of clothes. She had time to kill, so why not do a bit of shopping? She found the ‘slinky black’ dress in no time. It was scandalous. It was a floor length sequined evening gown with a halter top. The plunging neckline only paled in comparison to the back of the dress which would have likely shown off the top of her butt. Even the long flowing skirt was revealing, with a thigh high slit up both sides. Veronica was fairly certain she would have her choice of men in this gown. And every single one of them would be offering to pay her at the end of the night. No, she’d stick to more conservative outfits.

After a few minutes, she’d selected a small handful of clothes and brought them to the tiny change room. She slipped off the thin sweater as she reached for the decadent indigo blouse that had caught her eye. Her hand had barely skimmed over the satiny fabric when a thunderous noise echoed throughout the shop. The earth seemed to shake beneath her feet.

Forgetting that she was wearing only a thin silk camisole and jeans, Veronica pulled out her wand and burst out of the changing room. The sun seemed to have disappeared from the sky. It was only later that she realized that it was actually thick black smoke wafting past the windows that blocked out the bright light.

“Ellsabeth?” She called out to the back as she moved toward the front windows cautiously. She couldn’t see much outside but there was movement through the smoke.

“Land’s sakes, child, what the devil was that?” Ellsabeth stumbled out of the back. Her wig was completely turned around and knot now rest on her forehead, She looked like a deranged, plump unicorn. Any other time, Veronica would have chuckled, but for now it was all she could do to breathe a sigh of relief that the older woman was unharmed.

As her eyes turned back to the window, something was suddenly propelled into the window sending a spray of glass throughout the shop. The body of a young girl was hurled into Veronica’s arms and the pair tumbled backwards to the floor.

The hard wood floor collided with her back and the girl landed solidly on her chest, knocking the wind out of her. She could feel dozens of tiny cuts and scrapes burning painfully on her exposed skin. She somehow managed to keep a firm grasp on her wand. Something she was extremely grateful for seconds later when a tall thin man stepped into the empty window frame. His scraggly blond hair stood up at alarming angles and his dark eyes were almost black as cold delight and cruel amusement danced over his features.

He hopped down onto the floor by her feet and laughed as she scrambled backwards. Her free arm wrapped protectively around the shaking girl. Without a word, he lifted a foot and swung toward the child. Instinctively, Veronica curled around the girl, putting her own back in the path of the heavily swung boot. An explosion of pain erupted from her lower back causing her to grunt against it. She pushed the girl behind her.

“Go to the back.” She whispered and without waiting to see if the girl did as she asked, Veronica turned back toward the blond man. Without hesitation, she lifted her wand and fired off the strongest stunning curse she knew. The effect was instantaneous and rewarding as she hit the man square in the chest with a brilliant blue spell. He flew back a few feet and into a wall. Yet even after he hit, he didn’t fall. His head fell forward, and he didn’t make a noise, but he stayed standing against the wall.

It took a few seconds for Veronica to realize that he’d been impaled through the shoulder on a large iron coat hook. It was what kept him on his feet when he should have fallen.

She could feel the bile rise up in her throat. She’d sworn an oath to do no harm. Her main goal in life was to heal. And now she’d done this. No matter who he was, she was duty bound to help heal him.

“Ellsabeth! I need help. I need clean material and any type of healing potions you have!” She called out as she moved toward him. He still didn’t move, and by now she could see the bloom of scarlet seeping into the fabric of his shirt. She knew she had to get him off the hook, so as she neared him, she moved the thin shirt aside to see the wound. He’d live, provided they could stop the bleeding. Using all of her strength, Veronica wrapped one arm around his waist and her other hand moved behind his injured shoulder. Her fingers were quickly soaked in the sticky warm blood.

She tried to move smoothly but he was too heavy. Too awkward in her arms and she jerked forward, there was an ungodly squelching noise as the hook pulled free.

And then he woke.

Veronica knew instantly that he was awake because his uninjured arm tightened around her neck. Gripping her in a vicious headlock, she was suddenly without air. She reached up to claw at his arm but he did nothing but growl in her ear as she struggled against him. The stench of stale beer and body odor filled her senses making her eyes water even more. Yet she couldn’t break free.

“No one touches one of Reed’s loyal followers without paying the price. Once I kill you, I’m going to finish what I started with the schoolgirl and possibly have a go at the little dwarf woman.” His deep voice was filled with a sick pleasure at the thought of killing and torturing them all. “You should be grateful that I’m letting you die so quickly.”

But it wasn’t relief she was feeling. It was pure unadulterated terror. Her body was weakening, and she could see spots floating in front of her eyes. Her hands clawed wildly at his arm. Her lungs burned with the desperate need for air.

Another flash of blue lit up the shop and both Veronica and the man were knocked back to the ground. His grip had finally loosened and she scrambled blindly away from him. Dragging in huge gasps of smoke filled air caused her to cough violently as she spun wildly to look at the source of the spell. Ellsabeth stood in the doorway of the back room with her wand up. Her wig lay on the floor beside her. Her bald scalp gleamed in the dim light.

Veronica couldn’t speak. Her eyes filled with real tears now, she got to her shaky feet and stumbled over to the short woman. Throwing her arms around her, she gave herself a few moments in the shaky embrace before pulling herself free.

The young girl stood nearby, watching. The bloody scratches on her face and arms stood out vividly against the paleness of her skin. Veronica moved closer to inspect the wounds. After a cursory glance around, she picked up a scrap of bright pink material and bound it over the worst of the cuts on her forearm. It would need to be cleaned properly but there was no visible debris in the wound so she’d be okay for now.

“You alright?” She asked, her voice was a raspy croak. The girl nodded. The tears shining in her eyes never fell. She was a tough one, Veronica thought with a smile. “What’s your name?”

“Lynne.” The dark haired girl began in a halting voice. “I’m sorry about the window. I… I… they just attacked us. There were so many of them. They were blowing up stores and I saw them … kill Arianna… just kill her.” Still no tears fell, they wobbled precariously on her lower lashes but somehow, she managed to hold it together. With a gentle hand, Veronica patted the girl’s shoulder and turned back to Ellsabeth.

“We need to gather up as much material as you can spare. Cotton preferably. Nothing synthetic and nothing rough. We’ll use them for bandages. Hogsmeade is under attack. People are going to need our help.” She headed back out to the store front and found her wand on the floor. She picked it up and glanced out the window.

“Ellsabeth, can you find something to block off the window? And Lynne, if you can tear off strips of fabric that we can use for bandages. We also need lots of clean water, and any potions you have. Anyone who comes in I want you to bandage the wounds as long as there is nothing in it. Stop the bleeding. I’ll take care of the rest when I can.” She took a deep breath as she watched outside for signs of movement. There were several bodies strewn about but no dark wizards moving about. “I’m going to bring back anyone who needs our help.”

Without waiting for an argument, which would have surely come from Ellsabeth, Veronica darted out the door and across the street to a teenage boy who was bleeding profusely from a cut on his forehead. She knelt by his side for a few seconds before assessing his injuries. Without waiting too long, she sent him to Gladrags for help.

Keeping her body as low as possible, Veronica glanced both ways down the cobblestone street. The place she had been enjoying the bright sunny day off only an hour before. Now there was devastation and darkness. Not exactly the day off she had in mind. The thought merely flitted through her mind before she moved toward the next body. From the sounds of the battle that she could hear bouncing off the buildings, it was going to be a long grueling day.
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Malcolm Turner
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It would have been inaccurate to say he’d planned it.

He hadn’t. Not really, anyway, though it couldn’t be denied he’d considered his death a million times - had, in fact, thought of little else lately, dreamed of every manner of last exhalations and ceasing pulses and stopping, stopping, just stopping, wouldn’t that be something...

But they’d been fantasies, nothing more. A place his mind could drift away to when the world got too quiet, too close, too real. Almost comforting, in a way. Don’t worry, there’s always this.

Besides, Mal hadn’t exactly been one for planning lately. Planning required forethought and presence of mind, the ability to work through details, sort out potential obstacles and navigate a path around them. An awareness of reality. Something he no longer seemed to have. Recent events had killed that part of him so thoroughly he was more somnambulist than man now, a walking automaton, dead-eyed and distant and mechanically going through the motions of his twisted little life. He couldn’t have planned something if he’d tried.

It was all getting a bit pointless, really.

There were things he was supposed to be doing, he knew, a goal at the end of all this bloodshed, but it was getting hard to remember what it was, which side he really played for – if it had been the good that had made him kill her, or the bad; if there was even a difference anymore – and everything blurred so dizzyingly, and it made him sick, and it made him bleary, and he couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember the last time he could hold his head straight or heave himself upright. He couldn’t number days or the bottles that had touched his lips. The hours passed in silent mourning.

He was slipping. That much he did know. Going a little madder with each passing sunset. Things that never used to take much effort at all took so much now. Walking. Listening. Breathing. In and out, he’d tell himself, but it was like wading through a current, like being relentlessly tugged at by an unseen hand, weighed down, but not having enough energy to care, like utter apathy, but physical, like exhaustion, but different, like his hand ghosted through everything he tried to touch, but not quite like that, either. It was erratic and elusive, ten thousand things at once, essential pieces of him scattering off in every single direction, making him hollow, but it was so dense and heavy and dragging him down, too, and he got this feeling sometimes like he was trapped and screaming and thrashing and lashing out, but it was wrapped in layers and layers of indifference, like gauze, so there was a part of him that was panicking, always panicking, but he couldn’t access it. Because the rest of him wasn’t reacting to anything at all.

The rest of him just… didn’t care.

The effect was numbing. It wreathed him in a dark so thick the world couldn’t get at him anymore, a barrier in and of itself – impossible to tell whether it was protection or a prison. Maybe it was both. Maybe neither.

It didn’t seem to matter much, anyway. Nothing really did now that it felt like he was somewhere underneath the world, or just at right angles to it, so close, but miles away, here, but distant, alive, but already dead.

Time’s a funny thing when you’re going mad. Sometimes it’s so near you can almost reach out and touch it, just a little, just at the edges, feel its breath and syncopate your heart to each second’s passing, until you almost become it – until you are a measure of minutes and hours and shadows and sunrises. Mal had known, when he’d gotten into this, that if he, through some miracle, survived, and the war was won, there would still be life to live when it was over. That he’d have to carry around this guilt in his stained hands for what could be decades yet to come, and that he’d have to face it alone, every day, hour after unforgiving hour, for as long as he lived. It hadn’t seemed quite as real back then, when he was still young and foolish, or as long, simply a lot of numbers that did not add up to time.

But they added up now.

He could already anticipate the unbearable weight of them, because he felt them now, and now, and now, in ones, twos, and threes, too close, these knocks on his heart, more reminders of how cavernous it really was – the echoes were deafening – and there were years… years of this to come, if he survived, a great, gaping maw of time, and oh gods, oh no, too much, oh no, no, no.

And sometimes?

Sometimes he wasn’t aware of time at all. Sometimes he could not tell, upon waking, whether he had slept for a day or a minute. Sometimes he wasn’t sure how old he was until he looked in the mirror, surprised, in a muted kind of way, to discover he was not as stooped and gray and fading as he felt. Days passed without him regarding them at all, and when he heard the click of a door swinging shut, he’d blink, confused to find himself standing in his flat, a slant of moonlight shining through the dingy windowpane beside him, not knowing where he’d been for the past few hours, not certain he wanted to.

So strange, this ebb and flow of moments. How he could feel each individual second of them like a knife plunged into his chest one day, and not even be aware of their passage the next - so unaware he’d often find himself in unexpected places, not knowing what had led him there, how many hours had passed by without him realizing.

Today was one of those days.

He heard the crunch of gravel beneath a boot, a piercing scream just ahead somewhere, blinked himself awake, and suddenly there he was in a burning Hogsmeade – cloaked and cowled with wand in hand as time leapt back to choke him.

It was that sudden. Everything pitched into focus – sharp and bright and mercilessly clear. He was near a wall, observing the street-turned-battlefield, where thick, black smoke muffled the unceasing sounds of hexes, curses, and screams. Where every shift in the air revealed patchwork glimpses of carnage—rag-doll remains of crumpled bodies, threads of crimson vining from throats and wrists and temples, blood-spattered ground underfoot, the color of rust. Everywhere. Like the earth itself was bleeding. Like the war had cut some vein of the soil, severed some deeply buried, integral artery in the dirt.

It wasn’t even right to call it a battlefield. Because it wasn't the blood of the earth that stained the soles of his shoes; it was the blood of children, innocents, young men and women ill-equipped for such a ruthless ambush, in a place they’d believed was safe from such unthinkably dark doings. They ran and screamed and stood stunned into stillness, tragically conspicuous in their garishly colored scarves and badges – bright, easy targets. Not a battle. Not even close.

A scourge. A massacre.

A reminder that a war isn’t fought by old men with their ideals and great intentions. A war is fought by the generation that will inherit its outcome, and these students, these young, young, so appallingly young, unprepared victims… they are that generation.

To think, it was only the beginning.

Mal choked back a cough (not emotion, he told himself, he couldn't afford that), trying not to breathe too deeply. The air was getting thicker by the minute and tasted of soot, coating his lungs with every inhalation, but he was aware enough now to know he’d need to stay as silent and unseen as he could. He’d had more eyes on him ever since that night in Reed’s circle (a week ago, a month, he didn’t know – only that it had happened, it happened), the event tangling him even further and more inescapably in the dark wizard’s clinging web. No doubt that had been his goal. To draw them all so far in there’d be no hope of freedom. No hope of anything. No hope at all.

Mal supposed congratulations were in order.

Or he would have, anyway, if something else hadn’t chosen that exact moment to alter the course of his thoughts. Alter the course of his life, really, but he wouldn’t know that till much, much later.

Ahead, through the haze of destruction in the streets, in little, blazing bursts, he could see the wands of Reed’s mercenaries burning green at the tips. For a moment, he allowed himself to be captivated by the killing glow, the way it reflected off the smoke in the air, a neon spark of light in the gloom, amplified, scintillating; like a glimpse of an oasis after days of dry heat, unbearable hours of scorched skin and a parched tongue, and suddenly there was this deep, instinctive, human need inside him, sinews that ached for it, synapses firing off in rapid, frantic bursts after days of inertia, immediate, fierce, burning – this, this, this is what I want. No more waiting. Now. Now.

It carried him away. Too tempting to ignore, knocking back sense and logic, thoughts of duty, of the future, pulling him down, down to a place so deep he couldn’t find his way out. The same place he’d settled so terribly, comfortably into these past few days (weeks, months); a place so twisted, so polluted, so dark, so wrong, that any faith was something, any light was blinding, numbing, needed – even one that blazed like emeralds.

And that was it. Right then.

That was when he knew he was going to die.

There would be no better time. No better opportunity. They could write it off as an accident, another casualty of war. Curses soared errantly here, and smoke obscured every movement, and it would be so easy, so effortless, so nothing, just finding the right moment, that’s all (and he knew all about moments, didn’t he?)

So easy. Easy as three, two, one. A countdown to replace the tally. An end to the adding. Wouldn’t that be something?

It was the first lucid thought he’d had all month.

After that, he was flooded with them.

Only they were memories this time. Recollections of brighter days. Whatever little light he could latch onto, now that he knew the end was near, and it didn’t matter if he couldn’t handle them.

Usually, there is a terrible quality in remembering things that made you happy before - before is such a defining word, and after is even worse, and Mal had gotten very good at discerning between the two. He was made of afters, after all. All the good, the lovely, the hopeful – those were things behind him, had been for some time, and usually it hurt too much to linger long on ghosts. They were too real, too close, and he’d have to push them down deep again like coffins in graves, neat rows of fresh upturned earth, burying burying burying. Something he was used to by now. Good at. His head was a cemetery.

And yet, there was something almost nice about them now, as he watched the green light up the gray. Something that comforted just a little. Not enough to erase the ache, of course, but enough to make him almost fond of it.

So he allowed it this time. He reminisced. In pieces, shards—flakes of ash. Dying remnants of his burnt husk of a life.

He remembered falling snow and white hills and laughter. Skipping stones across the lake he used to swim in every summer, and how the world went quiet for a while when he’d drift upon his back to watch the clouds pass overhead in lazy, pillowed drifts, casting the shadows that cooled him.

There were scents, too. The crisp, cool damp after an autumn rain, and Mason’s house – warm, like blankets and laundry and cinnamon – more the smell of home to him than his own had ever been, where the air was always stagnant, always bitter. Further back, in the far reaches of his memory, he could recall thick, flowery perfume (lilies—they’d made him nauseous ever since) and tobacco – one of the only associations of his mother left to him.

He wondered where she was now. If she was still alive. If she ever thought of him at all.

He wondered if anyone would get word to his father, after it was done. If the man would care or even be alert enough to process the words your son is dead, I’m sorry.

He wondered if Mason and Effy would ever forgive him. Or if it would be a relief, somehow. An exorcised ghost.

He hoped it was. He hoped they got out. Found a way to be happy. Smile again, like they used to.

Merlin, he missed them. Had never missed them more in his entire life than he did right now, in this moment. He missed things that used to be. Things he never had. Maybe that was how he knew it was really the end. Maybe this was his heart’s way of telling him it was time to say goodbye, we had some laughs, not nearly enough, but it was something, and it’s time now. It’s time.

So he cut them short, the memories – abruptly and unnaturally, a jagged, appropriate end – and let the silence furl around his thoughts again. But it wasn’t quite silence; it was a hush, a calm before the storm, and for a moment it simply waited, tapping its fingers against his skull.

Well? it asked.

He craned his neck around the corner, sweeping the scene with a swift, calculating gaze. It was one of the less chaotic of the town’s besieged streets, but it was still alight with intermittent flashes of spells, just enough movement through just enough smoke to make it believable, and if he was patient…

Almost on cue, McKellen emerged at the end of the lane, hurling nasty-looking curses at anything that moved. He wasn’t lingering, cold with that confidence most of Reed’s inner circle had, like an executioner doing his duty, getting the job done, nothing more. Some of the braver ones fired a shot or two back, but they were easily deflected, easily countered, and that was that. Onto the next.

Mal watched him almost hungrily. Probably would have kept at it, too, if a flash of gold hadn’t moved just at the edge of his vision - distracting and persistent. Not far from him. A woman, it looked like, though he’d nearly categorized her as a student, at first – she was smaller than average, young, from what he could tell through the burning air, but she moved with an adult’s swift assurance, and as she flitted from first one fallen body to another, he realized what it was she was doing.

Checking for wounds. Feeling wrists. Necks.

Had to be a Healer. Someone with training. She was too efficient. Too impressively calm.

She was also a sitting duck.

Hell, he thought. McKellen would tear her apart before she even saw it coming. Mal moved his stare to check the man’s progress again, relieved to find he still had a ways to come, yet.

Her, then. She’d be his out. Better than he’d hoped for, really, if he thought about it. It’d be nice to do one last good thing before he went. Something noble. Or that’s what he could tell himself, anyway. It wouldn’t come close to righting all his wrongs, but… maybe she’d live if she ran in time, and maybe others would live because of it. Maybe it’d form a chain. He’d save her, she’d save someone else. Handfuls of them, if he was lucky. Handfuls of people who could have a bit more time, go on to do those stupid, menial, wonderful things that make up a life. Smile. Laugh. Hold a hand. Share a meal. Sing happy birthday to someone they loved. Another year to breathe in.

It felt right, somehow. A choice that rather felt like fate, like it was meant to happen. He was meant to be back here, in this place that had once held so much laughter and meaning and hope. And when the time finally came... when he launched himself off the wall... he was meant to take these steps. He was meant to place himself in this woman’s path, meant to raise this arm as if at some distant foe—a spell he wouldn’t use on his lips and the first crackle of the one McKellen had already cast in his periphery… and if he turned, just there, just a little, just in the distance, for one fleeting, flashing instant... he was meant to see Hogwarts again.

Hogwarts, one last time.

Time, his heart echoed.

When he hit the ground, it felt like home.
Edited by Malcolm Turner, Oct 7 2011, 03:02 AM.
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Veronica Banks
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This was all just so senseless. All this death and destruction. So heartbreaking. What kind of person could do this to another human being? Did they have no souls? No hearts? These were innocents being slaughtered. And to what end? What possible purpose could their deaths serve? Children and the elderly, unprepared men and women who had done nothing wrong. They were just more victims of Reed’s pointless war.

And it wasn’t just the destruction that was happening around her that was causing Veronica’s heart to ache, it was what would come after the battle. The parents who were going to be told their sons and daughters, who had been doing nothing more than enjoying a rite of passage – a weekend trip to Hogsmeade – were dead. It was the families who would be forever shattered by the loss of a loved one that caused immeasurable sorrow in Veronica’s heart.

She’d lost her own mother far too early in life and she knew the pain these families would endure. All because of one man’s arrogance. Reed. Gods, how she hated that man and his followers. Those spineless fools who blindly followed a madman’s orders. Couldn’t they see that they were nothing more than tools for Reed to use at his amusement? He’d toss them aside just as soon as they’d served their purpose. They were disposable pawns in this vicious game.

She reached down to close the eyes of an unmoving young Hufflepuff. Drawing in a slow, steadying breath, she reached down to brush a strand of chestnut hair out of the girl’s face and ran a tender hand over the still warm cheek. Gods, the poor thing was so young, so helpless against these heathens. She never even had a chance to begin her life and before it could truly begin these …monsters had snuffed it out without thought or remorse.

The flood of anger that filled her was enough to make Veronica move to the next still body on the edge of the street. A young man with shaggy strawberry blonde hair and a smattering of freckles dotting his pale cheeks. She gently pressed two fingers into the side of his neck and felt a steady pulse. While he was unconscious, Veronica did a quick survey of his injuries.

A long shallow cut above his right eyebrow leaked blood down into his hairline, and several minor cuts and contusions were found all along his forearms, but it was the gash on his side that caused her a bit of concern. It was deep and bleeding heavily. She cast a few temporary healing spells that would hold him until he could get to Gladrags. She’d tend to the wound properly in a bit. After his skin had knit back together, she cast an evenerate spell on him and gave him instruction to go back to the shop where Ellsabeth would take care of him until Veronica could return.

As the man got unsteadily to his feet and moved quickly, Veronica sat back on her haunches. She lifted a blood streaked hand up to brush back her blonde hair which was coming loose of the clip that had once secured it back off her face. The absent gesture left a small gruesome smear of blood across her forehead.

For a moment, a wave of hopelessness washed over her. There were so many who’d already fallen, and yet, she could still hear the blasts and shouts as battles continued to wage on all around her. She couldn’t get to them all, she knew that, but it didn’t make it any easier to accept.

She stood again and began to move toward a small figure sprawled out on the other side of the street. Perhaps it was the tiny blonde figure with a blue tie that captivated her thoughts. Or maybe it was all these thoughts that were filling her mind that made her careless. Made her lose focus on her own safety, but whatever it was she had left herself vulnerable.

She spotted the man not too far down the street. He was tall with short cropped grey hair. His face half covered with an impeccably groomed beard. His blue eyes sparkled cruelly as he leveled his wand at her. She stood motionless for a fraction of a second. Staring blankly at him, she saw the flash emanate from the tip of wand but before she could react another figure moved. One of his cohorts, obviously intent on casting a spell of his own at someone else, stepped between them. The spell hit him square in the chest and he collapsed lifelessly to the ground.

The solid thud that his body made hitting the hard cobblestones was what made her move. She quickly apparated herself out of the space. The familiar pressure gripped her as she saw the first man cast another spell at her, but she was gone before it could hit her.

She reappeared behind the grey haired man and immediately cast a strong stunning spell that knocked him flying forward. His head cracked violently off a thick stone wall and he too slumped to the ground. With her wand held at the ready, Veronica looked around for more of Reed’s men. She saw no one else. She neared the man who’d attacked her and spotted the crimson pool forming beneath him. His unseeing eyes stared at her as she passed him. No need to check his vitals.

He was dead.

She had killed him.

She felt a wave of nausea strike her. She’d sword an oath to heal, not kill. Despite the fact that he was one of Reed’s men, she felt remorse over his death. Everything about this felt wrong.

Her intent had been to go back to the young girl she had been initially going to before these two had happened upon them. She knew in her heart that the girl was dead, but she had to check. Yet as she neared her accidental savior, she found she couldn’t just walk past.

Though it may have been unintentional, he had just saved her life.

She stood beside him for a few moments, torn between what to do. Stay and help him if she could, or let him die in the street. He was one of Reed’s followers. One of the bad guys. Everything in her told her that she should keep walking. Help the innocent victims. If it weren’t for this man, she’d be one of those victims. One of the dead. However, if it weren’t for this man and his compatriots, she wouldn’t have been out in the street trying to save wounded children in the first place. Her life wouldn’t be at risk.

She set aside that circular line of thought and crouched cautiously beside him, she held her wand ready in the hand furthest away from him. Her knees protested as she sank to the stone street. The man lay on his side, his long dark curls fell over his face. Lifting a hand, she brushed aside the surprisingly soft hair to find the thready, weakening pulse in his neck. As she felt it, she swiftly brushed aside any and all doubts about helping him. He was her patient now. She quickly assessed the damage the spell had caused.

Luckily, for him, it hadn’t been an Avada Kedavra curse, however at first glance, Veronica knew it was something she’d never seen before. One of those damned curses that had been stumping the most skilled Healers in St. Mungo’s.

His skin was an ashen hue, his lips and eyelids held a faint bluish tinge. He was cool and clammy to the touch. He was breathing however, short, shallow breaths but it was enough for now. She carefully rolled him over onto his back so that she could see where the spell had hit him. The dark material of his shirt and cloak hid any apparent signs of the spell so she opened the cloak and tugged open the shirt to reveal his chest. She noted the particular shade of bruising that stained the firm muscle.

This wasn’t good. She needed to get him to Gladrags. She needed to get to the medical supplies. She cast a quick spell to levitate his heavy frame and with her wand directing him, she paused at the blonde girl first and felt for a pulse and sighed. She’d been right, the girl was dead.

Moving quickly through the war torn streets, Veronica navigated the unconscious body easily into Gladrags. Ellsabeth and Lynne had been busy. The entire shop had been turned into some sort of impromptu healing ward. Rows of injured people lined the floor, each sporting bandages that were in a variety of colours and styles. Everyone looked like they were casualties at a fashion show massacre. The thought alone put a small smile on Veronica’s face.

She guided the man’s body into the back and into the tiny office Ellsabeth had back there. She gently directed him onto the small sofa and quirked a brow. He certainly didn’t fit in this office. The bright pink and green paisley sofa was a good two feet short for the man’s tall frame. His black clothing looked wildly out of place in the bright colours of the room.

Lynne came into the office. The young girl seemed to have calmed remarkably well and was handling the situation with a level of strength that some healers seemed to lack. Veronica was impressed. She reached down and plucked the man’s wand from him before heading toward Lynne at the door. She sealed the room and cast several strong locking charms on the door. She wanted to help the man but she was no fool. He was a dark wizard and she had just brought him into a shop full of injured and weak people who were still in shock. She was taking no chances.

“Lynne, no one is to go in there but me. Understood?” She rest a gentle hand on the girl’s shoulder. Lynne nodded quickly, though her eyes widened slightly and she peered curiously at the window of the door.

“Can you come take a look at Scott?” Lynne finally spoke, worry marring her tone. Veronica nodded and followed the girl to the shivering figure of a young Hufflepuff.

“Can you go find Ellsabeth, and see how much floo powder she has on hand?” Veronica asked in a calm tone. “We’re going to need to get some of these people to St. Mungo’s and that seems to be the only route available to us at the moment.”

As Lynne hurried off, Veronica began checking the boy over. Casting several healing spells and readjusting a few bandages. Scott would be among the first to get to the hospital. He wasn’t in great shape. He’d been hit by a spell that seemed to be slowly freezing him from the inside out. Veronica moved him closer to the fireplace and conjured another blanket for him. She made her way quickly through the room, assessing people and directing Ellsabeth on what to do for each of them. The older witch had long since forgone the wig and had tied a bright yellow and purple polka dot cloth around her head, hiding the shiny bald head from sight and giving her the appearance of a very short but colourful pirate.

She got a system into place where Lynne and Ellsabeth were helping the most seriously injured people to the fireplace and sending them to the wizarding hospital. And then she grabbed a small pack of medical supplies and headed back to the office.

‘Tall, dark and evil’ was still unconscious and that was fine with Veronica. She wasn’t sure what to say to one of the dark lord’s loyal followers. Yet she was still compelled to help him. She began to cast a few healing spells that didn’t seem to help in the least.

If only she could figure out exactly what this spell had done. What damage had it inflicted?

She tugged his heavy frame up slightly to pull the cumbersome cloak off and let it fall behind him. As she settled him back down. She noted a gash on his upper arm and then she checked the bruised flesh on his strong chest. She was alarmed to realize that the bruising was, in fact, spreading. The small bruise had been the size of a walnut when she had first examined him. It had hit him just below the collarbone on his left side. Now it was covering most of the pectoral muscle on his left side and beginning to inch slowly into the right.

Veronica cast a very basic healing spell at the bruise and to her horror the colouring darkened immediately and spread even further. The man’s breathing was once again becoming shallow and weak.

Her magic seemed to have aggravated the injury so she was going to have to do this magic free. A flutter of panic settled into the pit of her stomach. She grimaced as she set her wand aside. She was frantically trying to remember everything about muggle healing that she’d been taught in her training. And those few tricks Lucas had taught her during their time working together. She knew so very little.

“Alright, pal, you and I are going to get you through this.” She muttered as she began to adjust his long frame into a better position on the sofa. Moving him so that his airways were more open and free. This meant his long denim clad legs were now dangling off the arm of the couch completely. “You have the easy job, believe me. You just have to keep breathing. I’m the one who’s going to have to do this without magic.”

As his breathing seemed to steady, still a bit too shallow for her liking but at least it was evening out, Veronica turned her attention to the bleeding from a deep cut on his shoulder. It must have happened when he fell to the ground. Normally, a simple healing spell would be all that was needed but this was no ordinary situation.

She stepped away from the couch to find what she needed from Ellsabeth’s desk. A needle and thread.

Sterilizing the needle in the flames of a candle, she moved back to his side. Veronica drew in a deep breath as she tore the sleeve of his shirt open to reveal the wound. Using a clean swatch of dampened fabric, she cleaned the wound as best she could before bringing the threaded needle up between them.

“I know this is barbaric.” She murmured to him, her brow furrowed in concentration. She’d never had to do sutures before. Though she’d heard about them several times. “But we don’t have a choice. Your evil buddy out there made sure that we’d have to do this the painful way. You’ll have to thank him for that someday.”

With her free hand, she reached up to pinch together the two sides of the wound. Bringing them together and with a surprisingly steady hand, she pushed the needle through the flesh to start her stitches.

“I’m sorry,” She muttered as she continued to focus on the wound.
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Malcolm Turner
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There was light, and then there wasn’t.

It was that simple. That quick.

No pain. Just… here, gone. Alive, dead. Blinked out and blotted black, like a sun's eclipse, or dreamless sleep, the hiss of flame meeting water… and for a time (he didn’t know how long, only that it was measureless, intangible, and perfect), there was absolutely nothing.

Nothing.

Of course that would have been too easy.

Nothing was the end he’d hoped for, after all, not the end he deserved (and life had long since taught him not to put much stock in hope; why should death be any different?) So when awareness began to filter back in through the cracks of him – through all those poor welds and places that had never been stitched up quite right – in infinitesimal increments, sunrise-slow (almost as if it wanted him to linger on what it was he was leaving behind, the peace and could-have-beens), a small part of him was almost ready for it. Somewhere deep down. That place for penance long-now accepted, dark and dull and aching like an afterthought. Some old acquaintance.

But it’s hard to be ready for something when all you want is nothing, no matter how cleverly you fool yourself into thinking otherwise, how resigned you are to the indisputable fact that you deserve whatever it is that’s headed your way, so maybe that small part of him wasn’t small at all, really. Maybe it was as big as he was. And maybe it was a coward. And maybe it was a liar. Maybe, when you’d sinned as Mal had, reached the pits of yourself and gone so deep into your dark you couldn’t find the surface anymore, couldn’t claw your way back out again, there comes a time when nothing in the world can really prepare you for the consequences; the inevitable reaping of what you’ve so monstrously sewn. Maybe no one’s ever really ready for that. Maybe no one can be.

Maybe that’s the point.

Not that it mattered. Death had never run on anyone’s schedule but his own.

So, fine, maybe he wasn’t ready, but Mal wasn’t fighting it, either. He knew better than that. Knew it would be easier to just lie back and let it come, whatever it was. Try to accept regardless of fear, or pain, or that feeling deep, deep down that vowed so cruelly, so convincingly that it could have done things better if it could just have another go at it, just one more to take back all those sins, one more to make a life that’s right this time around. He knew those were things better left ignored. Forgotten. Too late now. And you’re a liar, remember?

What he didn’t know was what to expect now that it was actually here. Time. This was as far as he’d ever planned, dwelling on the transition itself rather than the aftermath, his thoughts too skittish to linger long on the details of what might be waiting for him on the other side, should there be one—a boatman, a platform, a judge and jury demanding to see the blood on his hands, fire and brimstone, or something worse, some torture he’d never been able to bring himself to contemplate in life (coward, too, don’t forget).

And yet… there was something strange about the way his senses were shifting into sentience. Something he recognized as off even before his mind had fully awakened, even though he had nothing to base such suspicions on. Even though this could, for all he knew, be The Way Things Went. Instead of folding in on himself, collapsing incorporeally into some new dark, slackening into something unreal and forlorn and forever condemned, he felt a burgeoning bloom of sensation, shockingly real and familiar, awakening at the outermost edges of him - the tips of his fingers, his toes, the crown of his head. It came slowly, unrelenting – like a season, a storm rolling over distant hills, a dawn in winter, sluggish and unstoppable, a force of nature harbinging change. Impulses flared electric. Synapses fired anew. Out of the depths, spectre-thin, reality resurfaced in fragments, piece by piece.

Feeling, first. He was aware, suddenly, of a weak stirring in his throat. The faint, tingling sensation of nerve endings rekindling. Cool air on bare skin. He breathed in, and his ribs buckled with a sharp, pained, involuntary gasp, each wire-edged muscle in his body locking with tension that didn’t dissipate.

Scent, next. Singed cloth. Ash. Blood. And something beneath it… something out of place and incongruous. Velvet. Soft. Floral.

Roses?

Delicate, though. Diluted and faint, almost not there at all, but dauntless enough to still be evident beneath the stronger, sharper, coppery scent of blood… like a shaft of pale sunlight filtering through rain-darkened clouds. It lingered.

Sound, then. Silence disbanded, fracturing oddly. He could hear something begin to sing inside him, a slow, relentless, infrasonic hum – wild and deep, water against stone. Blood in his veins. The beat of his own heart. Louder. Faster. Building. Ba-bump. Until it was almost all there was. Until it was real and brute and smarting and smattering ruthlessly, an onslaught of drumming, thrumming life, and he felt it—felt the weight of it in his chest like a barbell, a cannonball, a bomb, and instantly, instinctively, oh god... he knew.

He knew he wasn’t dead.

He wasn’t dead, no matter how fitting a soundtrack his own pulse would have been for whatever came after. He wasn’t dead, because it was all too close, too real, too goddamn familiar – this oxygen tumbling like a tide in his brain, like something fleeting and transitory, something he had trouble grasping, but something he needed. The way he could sense, intuitively, that Death was close, but still just out of reach, so close he could taste it—bitter ash and damp earth and metal between his teeth. The way his heart wrenched open at the realization of failure, the raw ugliness of the sudden wound, the loneliness of it, the vast open haunting burden of re-existence. The sharpness of grief.

Grief and… perhaps more acutely… dread. Dread at the thought of being thrown right back into the heart of darkness, the toil of life. Because maybe he’d face a thousand hells after death, but at least all this would be over. At least no one else would die because of him, feel pain because of him, be broken, torn from happiness, judged by the merit of their blood. At least there’d be one less soldier (not the Ministry’s, he hadn’t been theirs for a while now). One less mercenary. And alright, fine, maybe that wouldn’t make a goddamn difference, maybe there were a hundred others who’d be willing to step up in his place, but it was the only little bit of power Mal had left. The only bit. And if he used it for this, he could be okay with a thousand hells. He could handle that. It was fair. It made sense in a way nothing ever had in life.

It’d be the only right thing he’d ever done.

Sight was last.

No sympathy delayed its return, or made it falter when it rekindled to shine diaphanous through his eyelids – slow, at first, but brightening steadily. Instinct compelled him to try and open his eyes at the shift, but he was still weak, barely even able to manage the fractional lift that caught fleeting, indistinct patterns and blurred outlines, vague impressions of something moving close by. But there was something else, too... a sound. A voice. Low and cadenced and so quiet he almost didn’t hear it at all, nearly lost beneath the tumult of his own warring heart and ragged breathing. But it was there. It was there, and it, more than anything, called him out of the void, into sensations far less pleasant and far more piercing – ice in his limbs, a brutal, oppressive weight on his chest so crushing it wasn’t a wonder he could hardly breathe, everywhere a bone-deep ache, white-hot fire on his arm. Pain.

It galvanized him. Again, he tried opening his eyes, and after a moment, through half-lifted lids, he saw the world slide in and out of focus, dizzyingly, like a storm-tossed sea. But there was something solid that never blurred, never shifted, an anchoring outline. A figure at his side. Small and stooped. He blinked, vision clearing briefly through tangled lashes—enough, anyway, to realize that the person was a woman, head down and focused on something. She hadn’t seemed to notice him yet. And though Mal was bleary - half-present at best - his fever-hazed stare snagged on her as if she were a figure in a dream... and soon, oddly sharp details began to stand out to him slowly, one by one.

The downturned, golden lashes that lay on her cheeks like feathery crescents. Her throat a white line of delicate bones. The dusk-blue veins beneath her skin. A heartbeat he half-deliriously imagined he could almost hear above his own in the moment’s strange suspension. There was a glow about her – a corona of light that traced her slim-shouldered silhouette, sending sparkling, sunlit prisms scattering off her golden hair, making her look, staggeringly and unequivocally, like an angel.

But there weren’t any angels where he was going.

And that reminder burst his hypnosis apart like a bubble landing promptly on a pinhead.

She was touching him. Helping him. His eyelids sealed again, complexion ashening, overcome with malice and grief, burning up with the force of his building ferocity, every cell in his body a funeral pyre. He took another rattling breath. Sensed his heartbeat quicken. She did something that made his arm flare with pain, and it was the last push his body needed to send him spiraling over the edge. He felt some dark thing inside him snap, vaulting him to full lucidity, and this time there wasn’t anything sluggish about the way his bruised-looking eyes flew open in a blaze of startling obsidian at all.

Her wrist was in his hand before either of them could blink.

Split-second quick. A pistol-shot of a motion. He held her tightly, staying her movement, his fingers unforgivingly brutal and firm enough to bruise as their eyes snapped up to meet each other for the first time, the moment fraught with instant, knife-edged tension.

Distantly… in the farthest reaches of his mind, he marveled a little over how soft her skin was, the slim pliancy of her bones beneath his hold like a dove’s, so starkly out of contrast with his own...

But the memory of what had been stolen from him was stronger. The spiteful desire to hurt. The half-cloaked defenselessness in his coldly furious stare. He looked like something half-tamed and fierce, gritting his teeth against the pain, the energy his movement had taken, already feeling it begin to slip away but livid enough to hold it there just a little longer—enough to blaze with life unwanted and bite out a question in a low, ripping growl as depraved and black-hearted and murderous as he was.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
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Veronica Banks
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The sliver of metal tugged through the flesh and into the other side. It took less pressure than she’d realized it would to puncture the skin of the unconscious man’s arm. The blood still trickled out of the wound and inched closer to the sofa that he lay on. The sight of the crimson stained needle pushing through the edge of the gaping wound was enough to make her feel nauseous but years of training had made it easier for her to push those feelings aside and let her focus on the task at hand.

As she finished the first stitch, Veronica looked at it critically. It was certainly not the neatest looking wound she’d ever mended, but once she added a few more, it would suffice. This fellow did not look like he’d be too fussy over another scar on his body. And even if he was, there wasn’t much she could do about it.

Even though her concentration was focused on the needle in her hand, her healer training had kicked in and she was fully aware of the world around her. She could hear the shuffles and voices from the shop. The sounds of Ellsabeth’s shoes clicking on the hardwood floor and Lynne’s soothing voice filtered into her as they moved the wounded to the fireplace to floo to St. Mungo’s. The persistent wooshing sound of the fire roaring up as each person stepped in to be transported, was almost rhythmic at this point. Steady and consistent. Comforting.

Those people would be getting the medical and magical help they needed soon but there were more out there. Out in the street being attacked by Reed’s ruthless group of killers. That was why, even while she kept mental note of what was happening outside this room, she was also keenly aware of the man who lay before her. He was her patient, but he was also a killer. She couldn’t focus on that right now. She needed to concentrate on the medical aspects of this situation.

His breath was shallow but it had begun to even out. He hadn’t opened his eyes yet, but she couldn’t help but think that was a good thing, since she was currently stabbing through his flesh with a relatively dull needle.

It was best that he didn’t wake for a bit. With any luck he’d be out until she finished tending to this cut. Then she’d see about waking the man up to try and get him to St. Mungo’s. There was absolutely no way that she’d be able to move him without magic. She had barely been able to remove his coat.

She drew in a calming breath and adjusted her grip on his arm. With a steady hand, she moved the needle toward his flesh again. A firm push guided it through the torn skin.

Well, Veronica thought with a sigh, at least she could finally tell Gran and Ellsabeth that she finally found a bloke that she could put up with. Alright, so he was apparently evil. And injured. And bleeding. And lying on what could possibly be the smallest, girliest sofa in all of England. But, he was dangerously handsome (emphasis on the dangerous) with those long dark curls and chiseled features. He had a body that was all hard lines and toned muscles (she was healer, but she certainly wasn’t blind). And he was quiet. He didn’t argue with her. Now some of those may be due, in large part, to the fact that he was unconscious but she’d take it.

She never said it was the perfect relationship. Just one that she could tolerate.

Her Gran was a remarkably open minded woman but Veronica had a feeling that she’d be less than approving of this scene. Veronica, alone in a confined space with a man who’d pledged his life to Reed. The dark wizard who was forcing the entire magical community into a war. A war that would leave hundreds, if not thousands, of innocent witches and wizards dead. No, Gran would definitely not support the idea of her only granddaughter trying to heal one of Reed’s henchmen. In fact, she’d likely question Veronica’s mental well being if she ever learned of her efforts to heal one of the bad guys.

Not even if he had saved her life.

As she began to pull the thread taut, she had just noticed a shift in the man’s breathing. Yet before she could even put her finger on what exactly had changed, he moved. With a speed that left her breathless, his hand closed over her wrist with a brutal grip. Pain shot down her arm as he turned his head to pin her with a glittering black stare.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” His voice was little more than an animalistic growl.

Her heart was now thudding rapidly and her breath stopped completely but to her credit, she maintained her composure. She could still hear the sounds of the sick and wounded being flooed to St Mungo’s. And there was no way in hell that she was letting him out of this room until every last person out there was safe. She’d brought him in here and any damage he did in here would be on her head.

Her mind whirled in panic as she tried to remember where she had placed their wands. Without moving her eyes toward them, she clearly remembered setting them on the tiny table beside the green and pink paisley couch that he now lay on. She couldn’t let him get his wand. Though she didn’t know this man, she knew where his allegiance lie. He was one of Reed’s men.

She didn’t let the fear or pain enter her eyes. Instead she lifted her chin up the tiniest bit and met his dark glare with a calm blue gaze of her own. She would not be intimidated by this man. She would not show him fear.

“I’m trying to patch your arm.” She responded, stating the obvious in a cool tone. She was amazed that her voice didn’t shake or waver. In fact, she sounded very confident, surprising even herself with that. “Of course, if you’re planning on breaking my wrist, then I suppose your wound will just have to stay open.”

Now that he was awake and commanding her attention, Veronica caught sight of something she hadn’t noticed before. Those dangerous, dark good looks were now laced with the tiniest hint of something else. Remorse? Sadness? Confusion? She couldn’t put her finger on it and it seemed to disappear before she could place it. It was gone so quickly that she began to doubt that she’d even seen it in the first place.

“Break it or let me finish. Either way, I don’t have time to sit here wait for you to make up your mind.” She demanded. As she tried once to tug her arm free, his grip didn’t loosen. So she sat there, face to face with a man who, for all intents and purposes, was among the most dangerous people in Hogsmeade.

“If you don’t want my help, that’s fine. There are others out there who need it.” She began, with the tiniest hint of anger colouring her words. “The innocent victims who’ve managed to survive, they still need my help.”

“Let go.”

It was not a request.
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Malcolm Turner
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There was a scorching silence. Nothing stirred. Not himself, not the woman in his brutal hold, not even their gazes, which remained locked in white-hot tension that seemed to blister the very air around them, ignited by the ferocity of his growled demand, the violence of his unexpected resurrection. There was only stillness, keen-edged and dangerous and held to the scene’s throat, and there was the blood in his veins, the rush of adrenaline honing his senses, throwing his surroundings into sharper detail, reality crystallizing.

He was no longer outside, he noted first, distantly—sheltered off, instead, in some small, unfamiliar room, draped uncomfortably atop a too-narrow couch, shirt torn and bloody, with no wand in sight. Prone and helpless and not dead, though the bone-deep ache in his limbs had not receded with his return to consciousness, and the band of pressure constricting his chest only seemed to worsen and grow more repressive with each new shallow inhalation. But he was here, wherever here was, away from the chaos and battle-ravaged, bloodstained streets, away from the lonely, gloryless end he’d deserved and planned for and thought a certainty, and staring him right in the face, stiff-backed and bold-eyed, was the presumed reason for all of it.

Her.

The golden-haired woman he’d taken the curse for to begin with. It was unmistakable now, in his increasingly lucid state – the distinctness of her petite form, which had only moments ago (or what felt like moments, anyway, to his recovering mind) been stooped attentively over someone else entirely, another of the fallen. Though, their similarity to Mal himself ended there, whoever they’d been—one an innocent bystander, the other a damned participant—and for a moment, the irony of it all struck him so forcefully he might have laughed if he’d been able. At the sheer absurdity of it. The almost farce-like perfection of the woman he’d deliberately given his life to save so that she might save others choosing him to haul away into some cloistered off refuge, him to tend to, care for, bring back from oblivion. If he concentrated hard enough, he could almost feel the universe looking down at him with a simpering smile.

Did you really think it would be that easy?

He supposed that’s what he got for trying to achieve death-by-Good-Samaritan.

And yet no laughter came amidst all that simmering, fit-to-burst ire, the feeling of being unjustly robbed of something precious too encompassing to allow room for much else. Only barely-banked rage. Fury that he was still here, after he’d already accepted his end, longed for it. That she was helping him instead of running, getting away from this place, from him (what, did she have a death wish, too?)

If so, she didn’t show it.

“I’m trying to patch your arm,” she answered evenly instead, features fixed with a cool, unwavering confidence that seemed at odds with her new state of vulnerability, locked as she still was in his unforgiving hold. No tremors. No flinching. Only sureness – as if he hadn’t just exploded into motion, pitched a previously docile scene into one of instant threat. “Of course, if you’re planning on breaking my wrist,” she added, a faint hint of acerbity edging its way into her tone, “then I suppose your wound will just have to stay open.”

Wound?

Only vaguely did he remember the piercing pain he’d felt upon awakening, that sharp, stinging pressure near his bicep, but now he felt nothing save for the inescapable ache still tight about his lungs. There was something about the way she was looking at him. . . something that joined the faint flicker of surprise her dauntless manner had caused, taking slow command over his attentions, drawing him away, for the moment, from physical ails, until even the harshest edges of his anger seemed momentarily blunted. Pressing him, for the first time, to look back. To really look at her—his unwanted savior and her unflinching refusal to be intimidated, her blatant rejection of the injured beast’s gnashing of teeth.

It felt like another reawakening, that moment. Only this time, lucidity came sharply and all at once, honing the light like a knife that threw her face in bas-relief, leaving everything flat and lifeless save for her features and beacon-bright stare—so suddenly he hardly knew what was happening before something inside him gave a fierce, answering twinge that had him holding back a wince again. Though, this one had nothing to do with spreading bruises or Dark Magic or cinched lungs. He thought of eclipses, and of the way your eyes dance with painful light when you look too long into a fire, and mutedly, dazedly, he realized that the bright gaze of this girl, improbable in its vividness, had pierced his chest more deeply than the curse had.

He wanted to fucking run from it.

It wasn’t the color that terrified him; it was the honesty, the openness, the innocence, determined and direct and not sheathed in shadows or malice. That was when he knew he’d been too long shut away, months and months spent alone, in his own sordid company, or with Reed’s fellow dwellers of the dark, who spoke little at all, or had only venom to lace each cold conversation and calculating stare.

But here was someone real and untouched, bold and unguarded, her firm words and fixed gaze a shining blade that slashed through all his cunning, invaded his ultimate refuge – a reminder not of life, but a world he’d been apart of once, long ago, and wished very, very deeply to forget.

Almost desperately, he tried to shift his focus elsewhere, fighting away unwelcome memories, the siren’s call of his past, and suddenly he realized he could feel a faint, swift pulse beneath his palm’s cruel pressure; a tiny, quick-winged rhythm that belied all her outward fearlessness – the stiff set of her jaw, her stare’s obstinate refusal to remove itself from his own, blue and black colliding like the sea against a cliffside. She was braving him, though, stubbornly resisting any urge to cower.

When was the last time someone had been able to meet his eye without balking?

He couldn’t remember.

“Break it or let me finish,” she demanded tersely, then, cutting through the quiet in a tone no less determined than her last. A level, brook-no-argument kind of voice – a Healer’s, he amended inwardly, distantly, remembering – and if Mal had not already felt the too-swift thrum of her heart beneath her skin, he would have believed her show. Every brave-faced second of it.

Strong, he thought, too. Yet to move. Blink. Still too rapt, too tightly-coiled.

Her lips thinned in impatience. “Either way, I don’t have time to sit here and wait for you to make up your mind. If you don’t want my help, that’s fine. There are others out there who need it. The innocent victims who’ve managed to survive, they still need my help,” she stressed, the muscles of her forearm tightening, briefly, beneath his grip, her eyes sparking with a hint of coming fire.

Let go.

He blinked.

And whatever it was about that look – that shift of delicate strength under his fingers’ manacling hold, the way those two words pierced the air so confidently, with such inflexible self-possession, despite how simple they were, how lowly she’d uttered them – it managed to reach him. His hypnosis snapped cleanly in two, jolting him back to the present with head-swimming suddenness. But he’d registered what she’d said, its meaning inescapable and ringing sharp in his ears, and as his gaze flicked to the hand still wrapped around her wrist, he felt a very faint pang of something almost human.

Just a flash. Nothing more. It was gone before it had a chance to settle, find a place warm enough to root.

But he did let her go.

Slowly, he let her go, his fingers unfurling as the last of his anger-fueled strength departed like a tide receding back to colder depths, murkier trenches, a wake that left him boneless. Without it, his arm dropped uselessly to his side once more, the last of the heat that still lingered on his palm prickling faintly, then not at all.

He was glad for that. For a second there, it almost made him miss a pulse.

But then he remembered. Remembered that he still had one of those, despite attempts to the contrary.

The thought tore his gaze from the woman responsible at his side, dulling his eyes and making his jaw taut in the thin light of the cluttered, dusty room that seemed only half-there, now, like some makeshift purgatory.

Though, he supposed if he were lucky, it wouldn't last long. His chest still bore the mark of the curse he’d been struck with, after all: black against the paleness of his skin, an inkblot seeping sinisterly across parchment. Even now, it siphoned air from his lungs, tightening like an icy fist around his husk of a heart. McKellen had always been fond of the ones that killed from within.

He supposed it was appropriate.

“Go,” he said, then, finally, still not looking at her. His voice scraped in his throat, an arid rasp that blurred thick and dark, with little hint of inflection, but everything about his countenance conveyed his cold dismissal of her; a shutting-out not to be argued with. So, the curse hadn’t killed him yet, fine. He could wait if he needed to. It would be painful and slow, but he could wait, and eventually…

Eventually.

He swallowed hard, counted cracks on the ceiling’s surface. “Help someone else,” he finished lowly, the words softer, this time, but just as bereft. Just as lifeless. Words like ashes on his tongue.

“Help someone else and leave me be.”
Edited by Malcolm Turner, Jul 12 2013, 01:41 AM.
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Veronica Banks
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With her heart hammering wildly in her chest, Veronica managed to keep her expression neutral and her gaze remained steady on his. His eyes were the colour of a strongly brewed coffee yet she could see tiny flecks of amber in the dark irises. His penetrating stare that held her captive in a way that his grip never could.

There was something about him that completely unnerved her. He was a wildcard. She didn’t know what to expect from him. He was a follower of the darkest wizard since Voldemort and she knew that he had no qualms about hexing unarmed people on the streets of a sleepy town like Hogsmeade. Yet only a moment before she had noted something softer, something sadder in his gaze. It was that look that confused her. If it weren’t for that, she’d have just chalked him up as another dark wizard.

But now she wasn’t so sure.

As he finally relented and his hand began to loosen on her wrist. Veronica tugged her arm back and reached once again for the needle and thread that now dangled from his arm. Her skin tingled where the cool air leeched the warmth of his grip from her wrist. She could see the faint reddening of where his hand had clamped onto her, but she refused to rub it. She refused to acknowledge it at all. In her mind, that would be admitting weakness to him. And she had absolutely no intention of letting him see how he was affecting her.

Plucking the dangling needle from the air, Veronica finally shifted her gaze back to the wound on his arm. She had already completed two stitches before he had woken up and he’d still need a couple more before she was finished. Before she could start, the deep gravel of his voice interrupted her.

“Go,” The low timber of his words did little to hide the desolation that lingered in his tone. There was a emptiness and a finality to it that revealed that he’d seemingly forsaken all hope.

It infuriated her. How dare he give up when she’d worked so hard toward healing him? Her back stiffened and she frowned. He had no right to that sort of hopelessness. He was here in this town with an agenda that consisted solely of destruction. Homes, lives, familes - all victim to the chaos that this man and his cohorts were creating. As his eyes shifted back up to the ceiling, her gaze tapered as she studied his profile.

Now that he was awake, her earlier assessment of him seemed wrong. He was still a strikingly handsome man. Still dangerous and dark. His brow furrowed as he stared intently at the the ceiling. A sable coloured curl lay over his forehead, standing out in sharp contrast to the pale skin below it. Yet now there was something in his expression that caused her own emotions to twist and she couldn’t sort out if it was fear, anger or pity. Maybe a combination of the three. She wasn’t sure.

“Help someone else,” His voice was quieter but no less hopeless. “Help someone else and leave me be.”

Veronica remained still for a few seconds. This man was a series of contradictions. He came to destroy and now wanted her to help others? It made no sense. Her eyes lingering over his still frame for several long moments. Watching him. Waiting for something more. For him to move or say something else, but he seemed to fascinated by the ceiling above them. There was no way she was leaving this man alone in a building full of injured people but she knew she should check on the others. Getting to her feet, she silently grabbed their wands from the table behind his head and turned to the door.

Peering out into the crowded shop, she noted that it was already less crowded than the last time she stepped out. She glanced back at the man on the sofa and then pulled the door closed behind her. She flagged Ellsabeth over and handed her both wands.

“Please, put these away for now.”

The older woman’s eyes flicked from Veronica to the closed door and back to the younger woman. She took the wands and Veronica knew exactly where they would be when she needed them. Ellsabeth’s lips were pressed together into a thin line and her gaze narrowed before she spoke.

“Call the Aurors and let them handle him, Veronica, love. He’s dangerous.” Ellsabeth cautioned her.

“I know that, but he’s also seriously injured and I have to help him.” She began to explain.

“You certainly do not!”Ellsabeth’s tone was sharper than Veronica had ever heard it before. “That man in there is a murderer and if he weren’t injured, he’d have tried to kill us all by now.”

“But he saved my life,” It was her turn to interrupt. “It may not have been intentional, but what he’s suffering from? That was meant to be me.” She explained. Her heart skipped a beat as that realization settled in on her like a weight upon her shoulders. It would have been her if it weren’t for a misstep on his part. “So I’m going back to heal him, just keep sending the others to St. Mungo’s. And once they are all there, I want you and Lynne to floo somewhere safe. Alright?” She reassured Ellsabeth while lifting a hand up rub her shoulder gently. “Once I’m done here, I’ll take my accidental hero here to the Ministry myself. I promise.”

She hugged the older woman tightly for just a few moments before turning her attention to the small collection of vials on the table. Picking out several, she tucked them into her pocket and headed back toward the office. She flashed a reassuring smile at Ellsabeth, drew in a deep breath and opened the door again.

The room was dimly lit and remarkable quiet after stepping in from the chaos in the shop. The man hadn’t moved from his prone position on the tiny couch.

“Let’s make one thing clear… I don’t take orders from you.” Her voice was calm and icy as she took a seat beside him again. She reached for his hand and slid a small vial of pale green fluid onto his palm. With her other hand, she closed his fingers around it. “This is going to hurt. Quite a lot, I’d guess. So that is a small dose of a numbing potion. It’ll help.”

Without waiting to see if he took the potion, she found the needle again and tugged the string taut. Then after another steadying breath, she resumed her task of stitching up his arm.

Normally, Veronica would make small talk with the patient to distract them from whatever discomfort they were feeling. And normally, she had a very good bedside manner, but how did one begin small talk with an agent of Reed’s?

Nice weather... until the smoke from your destructive spells blotted out the sun?

Do you come to Hogsmeade to murder innocent people in your spare time often?

No, in this situation, she had no idea what to say, so she decided to be more direct.

“The other patients are being flooed to St. Mungo’s for help there. And I’m assuming that you wouldn’t be agreeable to that type of arrangement.” It wasn’t really a question. She knew he’d never go there because if he did, he’d have to face the Aurors after he was healed. “So for now, you are stuck with me. It’s only fitting. You saved me, so now I’m able to repay that debt.”

“I’m not really sure what the protocol is in a situation like this. Am I allowed to ask your name? I’m Healer Banks.” She decision to give him only her professional title was because she needed to maintain a bit of authority in this situation. It may have been foolish but she felt that she needed it to keep a handle on this entire scenario.

She paused as she finished the stitch and gave him a moment before starting the next. One more stitch and his wound would be closed. Then she’d be able to focus her attention on the chest injury. Not a task she was looking forward to without magic.

There were a thousand other things she wanted to say and to ask. She wanted to thank him but she knew that it hadn’t been intentional. He’d saved her life by accident. She wanted to ask how he found himself travelling this dark path that he was on. She wanted to know why anyone would choose to follow a man like Marcus Reed.

But she couldn’t ask any of those things. So she asked the only thing she could.

“What can you tell me about the spell that hit you?”



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Malcolm Turner
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He didn’t watch her leave, although habit (so ingrained, even now) made him aware of every minuscule movement: her uncertainty, and how it made her hesitate an impressive handful of seconds; the removal of his wand, which he didn’t blink at, because he wouldn’t need it anyway, not anymore; the eventual soft padding of her feet and light, welcome click of the door.

He closed his eyes and tried to ignore the way her presence somehow lingered: an after-image of abruptly-ended brightness.

It wasn’t that difficult, after a while.

Pain took back his focus, the ever-broadening band of McKellen’s curse like a closing fist around his chest, tight and inescapable. Every thwarted attempt at a satisfying breath had his veins pulsing—and he could feel it. Feel it burning into him, through him, looking for the core – knowing it was only a matter of time before it would find the life at the center of him – whatever broken bit of soul that remained – and that it would eat and eat until it was full, and then choke to death on it, and it would be over.

He would be over.

It was almost poetic.

But then, people didn’t write poems about people like him, did they… people whose deaths meant nothing in the grand scheme of things. Whose actions barely made a ripple. Who died quietly and were mourned by no one. It wasn’t very lyrical.

Don’t be a fool, Malcolm. You made more than a ripple. You made a wasteland.

The voice was sibilant, purling, a proud, loving venom, one last, final truth, and Mal felt sick, he couldn’t breathe, because oh god, god, it sounded like him. He couldn’t get away. Even now, he couldn’t escape. Hide. Run. It was everywhere. He was everywhere. All his empty spaces, the pits and chasms of him, his sinkhole of a heart. Places too deep to claw his way out of. Places that echoed.

His whole body shuddered. He’d throw up if his throat weren’t too tight.

Because he could blame Marcus Reed all he wanted, couldn’t he, but who’d dug out all those hollows to begin with? Whose hands had formed fists, slashed curses, drawn blood? Who’d taken orders? Life?

Who’d done it willing?

No. This was his own fault—start to finish, every moment in between.

This was who he was. Not Reed’s puppet, not some curse-scarred penitent. Just a goddamn existentialist monster carving out one unholy choice at a time.

Not a ripple.

A wasteland.


And if his throat tightened, if his chest seized with some emotion he’d forgotten how to name, there was no one to tell the difference.

So, he fell, instead – forced his way out of his thoughts and their quiet carnage, back into resignation’s sobering embrace, where it waited. He fell and waited, too, because sins mattered more when you were sure that you existed, and Mal was well on his way, now, numbly grateful.

He couldn’t stay locked inside anymore. He couldn’t do this, be this scourge, a walking Avada Kedavra—every spiraling cell in his body was pleading for immolation. That was the only real way to start again, wasn’t it? You burn down your walls and build them back up with something else. You couldn’t be something new if you were still made of something old. He could cling to a thought like that: that he was finally trying something different - something that would yield a new result.

Yeah, not existing will be pretty different.

It also wasn’t very conducive to yielding things, was it.

It took. It didn’t give.

Not that it mattered. Really. He’d used up all his materials, anyway. He couldn’t build something new if he tried.

Voices filtered in from beyond the room’s walls – faint murmurs that punctuated the quiet. He tried to listen, for a while, but he was tired, and the air was too thin to concentrate long on anything that wasn’t the simple act of breathing—so when the sounds stopped, he was almost grateful. The silence turned swallowing again, something to sink into mindlessly.

But then—

“Let’s make one thing clear.”

He jerked to awareness, actually startled.

That was how he knew he must have been dying. He hadn’t even heard the door open.

“I don’t take orders from you,” the voice finished, cool and brisk.

Her voice.

He barely had time to fix his eyes on her, to feel every muscle in his body go rigid, before she was back in her chair again, her jaw an obdurate line as she reached out for his hand and closed his fingers over the small item she’d pressed into his palm, cool and smooth as glass.

He couldn’t have paid it less mind. Her reappearance had paralyzed him—the sudden, unexpected warmth of her fingers only adding to his stupor, drawing his gaze to their small, slender shape as though he’d never seen a hand before, let alone felt one take his. Even when she pulled away, he could still feel it. The warmth. Her stare. It made him freeze like a sighted animal.

“This is going to hurt,” she explained, sparing him one last glance before busying herself with the needle again. “Quite a lot, I’d guess. So that is a small dose of a numbing potion. It’ll help.”

Help.

If he’d been capable of speaking, he might have told her that he was already numb. That he hadn’t taken a potion since he was a schoolboy. That the things he’d felt since then made the gash on his arm look like a papercut.

Instead, he felt the last lingering dregs of his shock start to calcify into something else. Something darker. Anger kindling. He didn’t even flinch when she resumed her stitching, just held himself tightly, like a reed fighting the wind. His jaw actually clenched to keep from baring his teeth, unleashing a storm.

“The other patients are being flooed to St. Mungo’s for help there,” she murmured, as if that somehow explained her presence, her eyes still fixed on her careful, deliberate mending. “And I’m assuming that you wouldn’t be agreeable to that type of arrangement.”

It was more statement than question—flatly speculative, like she already knew the answer. He didn’t need to reply to it: his rejection of the notion was evident in every tense line of his body.

She breezed on. “So, for now, you are stuck with me. It’s only fitting. You saved me, so now I’m able to repay that debt.”

She said it almost mildly, but there was a certain perseverance just below the surface of the words. Glints of steel. Like she was squaring off and didn’t give a damn who he was – she’d do her duty regardless.

It only made him angrier. A merciless sharp-edged feeling began to hone the edges of his frustration as he took her in, with her head bowed low and close to his: how dangerously trusting she was, how attentive and small. She’d be dead ten times over right now were he actually who he claimed to be. Why didn’t you run.

Never mind the fact that he didn’t deserve to be doted on or looked after. Cared for. There was nothing inside him to redeem him of the things he’d done – to merit a fraction of her attentions. For her insistence on repayment to make even the smallest shred of sense. He was already dead; she was just prolonging it.

He clenched his jaw against a new bout of shivering, stifling a groan and turning from her, like his body was fighting both the poison and the cure at once. If he’d had half his usual strength, he would have shoved her away himself, but he was papery pale and he felt like a rag that had been wrung out and just looking at her anymore was starting to pain him. She was so bright – the only bright thing in the room. A knot of starlight in the dark.

Even the weight of her fingers against his arm was almost too much—the way each brush of them sang down his every nerve.

It felt like the most human contact he’d had in a thousand lifetimes.

“I’m not really sure what the protocol is in a situation like this,” she confessed suddenly, still at work but clearly uncomfortable with the silence. It was likely she was used to chattier patients. “Am I allowed to ask your name? I’m Healer Banks.”

The needle tugged at his skin again. He didn’t even need to look at her to know that she was silently assessing him, looking for the fine print. Who are you? How could you? How could you?

Because you don’t know
, he might have answered, if he’d been able. If it even mattered. You don’t know what you’d do until you’re doing it.

And then you know nothing at all, because a stronger part of your mind blinks into existence - the part that will protect your delicate morals and memories, harness them in tightly, make sure you do not die from the shock of what you’re doing, who you become.

You go mad, a little. It’s not very difficult.


There. There’s your fine print.

She must have sensed it.

“What can you tell me about the spell that hit you?” she asked instead, a safer path.

But Mal was looking at her now – weighing her. Looking for her fine print. Some answer lurking beneath all that steely purpose – the stunningly suicidal decision that had brought her back to his side. His stare was fiery with the ruthless study. Dark. Lost.

For one long, wrenching moment, it was all there was. Nothing else but silence: silence that stretched out until it was pulled thin and sharp between them, the edges frayed like a rubber band drawn too tautly, broken only when he ventured a question of his own—not thoughtful, but exhausted. Bone-weary. Like the words were slipping out of him. Like if he’d been stronger, he might not have said it at all.

“Why are you doing this?” he asked, voice tight.

He didn’t know if it was a command or a plea for mercy.
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