Precipitate
Summary: He would never be lonely again.
Written for the Scribble or Scream Gryffindor Writing Challenge
Rating: Mature
Categories: Horror/Dark
Warnings: Scenes of a Mild Sexual Nature, Sensitive Topic/Issue/Theme, Strong Violence
Major Characters: OC
Pairings: Other Pairing
CHAPTER 1: Solution
A faint whistle echoed down the hallway as Blake Ramsay shrugged off his coat and hung it next to the small pink one that graced the second hook. Work had been decent despite the rain. Unlike yesterday Mr. Strubinger hadn't found fault with his count of the ingredients and he'd been allowed to set off before the worst of the downpour was supposed to hit. Fumbling around in his pocket he produced his wand, flicking it repeatedly as he absentmindedly closed the door behind him.
"Hello darling," a voice said mechanically from the living room.
"Always so happy to see me…" Blake tutted.
"Perhaps if you didn't always greet me by turning the lights on," the voice retorted.
"Yes. Of course it is my fault," the greying wizard offered, kissing his wife chastely on the lips before pulling back to regard her carefully.
His eyes wandered over her more slowly today, traveling from her pale blue eyes to the lips he'd just felt against his. Cocking his head to the right, he surveyed her skin. He frowned. She was different again.
"How are you feeling today?" he asked cautiously.
Elizabeth's shoulders sagged as she shifted slightly.
"Not well. I haven't moved today."
"Love!" he shouted, astonished. "I've told you it really is vital that you move about…"
"I know," she said flatly. "But I don't like it here."
Blake stood up straight once more, spinning around quickly. Idly, he twirled his wand in his hand.
"Take me with you," she said.
The wizard shook his head vigorously.
"You know I can't."
He donned his coat again. He had to hurry.
He had been sitting in the corner of the Leaky Cauldron for hours now. London was too far afield. Originally he'd thought that more people would mean better chances, but that was folly. There were too many eyes here. And the clock was ticking.
As he strode outside, free of the cacophonous chit-chat and glasses being clinked in revelry his mind became free again. His eyes flicked from left to right and back again. He had a purpose. He looked to the sky. The moon was nearly at its apex. There was no time to be choosy now.
Across the street he saw a flash of golden hair. It peeked out from beneath her hood like a shimmering sheet of honey-colored velvet. He closed his eyes. He knew it would be just as soft in his hands. But her hands. The left. Was it? Perfect. She gave him a shy smile as she passed. Yes. She was much younger. This was better. Much better. He gave her a few paces before following after, twirling his wand in his hand.
His hands were crimson. He hated this part. But he remembered the passage from the musty tome like he had written it himself. The victim must be fully exsanguinated. The first time he'd tried he'd nearly passed out. The cuts alone had produced more blood than he'd ever seen before. And then he'd realized he'd have to lift her. A book like that…if it used the word 'fully' it certainly meant it. For this, nothing could be left to chance.
His hands were clean. This part felt better. By all outward appearances the blonde was sleeping. The wounds on her arms, thighs, neck, and wrists had been healed over by duplicating the adjacent skin. No sign of what had befallen her besmirched her hair or face. Her eyes were closed, hands resting peacefully over her stomach as though the cobblestones of the alley where he'd ambushed her made a fine pillow for her head. He looked skyward once more. This was the moment.
He closed his eyes tightly, twirling his wand in hand like he'd practiced over and over and over before he'd ever struck. He felt the smooth wood warm as it traveled faster and faster and faster through the air. He imagined her, in the age of her innocence as he carried her across the threshold in her wedding gown. Her honey-blonde hair shimmering in the sun, styled in soft curls that hung down to her shoulders. It was elegant in its simplicity. Her blue eyes danced with life as she leaned in to kiss him with tender lips. Under his breath he muttered the dual incantations with increasing rapidity.
A faint whistle echoed down the hallway as Blake Ramsay shrugged off his coat and hung it next to the small pink one that graced the second hook. A wondrous smell assailed his nostrils and as he rounded the corner from the hallway into the kitchen he could see Elizabeth toiling over a steaming pot.
"Wedding soup, if I recognize the smell," he said gaily, wrapping his arms around her from behind and kissing her neck.
"Of course it is, darling! For our anniversary!" she answered, spinning around and out of his grip.
He admired her youthful appearance in the cream-colored dress, its lace embellishments inviting his gaze to dance appreciatively from her collarbone to the smooth skin just above her knees. She didn't look a day past twenty-two.
As he walked to their room to change his mind briefly reached for a point of reference. It had been… he shook the thought away.
She was here. Moving. Talking. Smiling.
He twirled his wand again between his fingers, perking his ears up as she began to sing.
She was here.
Nothing else mattered.
A/N: Well, I hope this was sufficiently clear to be sufficiently creepy. I struggled with it a bit, keeping it within the word limit and trying to plant some clues without making it totally transparent from the word go. In case you didn't gather, Blake's wife died and he is using magic and bodies of murder victims who are similar in appearance to keep her "alive" and in his home, something like an Inferi. But of course the magic can only preserve the body and the illusion for so long before he is forced to kill again. Depending on the feedback I get, this may be extended into a longer piece where more of the hows and whys are covered and you get a better picture of Blake's madness.
Happy Halloween!