5
Just my luck that Potter's bloody owl should lead me here: not towards a civilized home where I might chance a cup of hot tea after a windy and slightly rainy ride, but to some abandoned park in North London. As it is, I detest travel by broomstick and go that way as rarely as is possible. It wasn't feasible to attempt to apparate to wherever the bird was heading to, since it was clearly not the usual hiding spot. Too far North-East for that. Luck has never been on my side.
She landed in a large shrubbery, and for a moment I wondered that possibly she was too tired to carry on. It had been head winds all the way, as exhausting for her as it was for me, I'm certain. I hovered about her, waiting to go again, fighting impatience as hard as I could when I heard it. It was a low hum, almost imperceptible in the blustery darkness. I began to discern words, and realized that someone was nearby, talking.. But to whom? Who was it? Flicking my wand over myself and whispering a disappearance charm ( one DOES NOT require a fancy invisibility cloak such as Potter or Malfoy to go around unnoticed.. do the children never wonder at my sources of information?) and drifted down to the wet grass below.
The voice sounded detached, as if he (it certainly did not sound like a woman) were disassociated from himself. Assuming it was a Muggle alcoholic or a derelict, I made moves to rouse the owl and leave. The bloody thing actually nipped me and refused to move away, so I went back down to have a closer look. The mutterings were louder now - whoever was under that tree was indeed having a full-blown discussion with them. My senses on edge, I stealthily went back down to check it out again. When I touched the ground and ducked under the low-lying branches, it hit me. The smell was overwhelming and nauseating, my head reeled as I steeled myself now to turn and retch immediately. The place stank, literally STANK of blood. Wizard's blood.
It all connected in a heartbeat, and I crept forward and saw the body that went with the voice. It was none other than the Boy-Who-Lived, whom I referred to as The-Bane-Of-My-Existence. Harry Potter was under the Tree, bemoaning his fate and clearly bleeding to death.
He was going on now about some curse - what was he referring to? - And how there was no counter. Fallacies, every curse, hex and spell has a counter. there is no exception to the rule, although some require magic so dark that no one dares.. This is when I chose to make my presence known rather than just wait for him to die.
"Ah, Potter" I spoke aloud, stepping up behind him. "That is where I beg to differ with you".
The look of horror on his face was dramatic; the guilt in his features was shocking. He went to try and crawl away, and collapsed face down on the pine-needled earth. I scooped him up in my arms, barely breathing to avoid the reek of blood, and disapparated.
Just my luck that Potter's bloody owl should lead me here: not towards a civilized home where I might chance a cup of hot tea after a windy and slightly rainy ride, but to some abandoned park in North London. As it is, I detest travel by broomstick and go that way as rarely as is possible. It wasn't feasible to attempt to apparate to wherever the bird was heading to, since it was clearly not the usual hiding spot. Too far North-East for that. Luck has never been on my side.
She landed in a large shrubbery, and for a moment I wondered that possibly she was too tired to carry on. It had been head winds all the way, as exhausting for her as it was for me, I'm certain. I hovered about her, waiting to go again, fighting impatience as hard as I could when I heard it. It was a low hum, almost imperceptible in the blustery darkness. I began to discern words, and realized that someone was nearby, talking.. But to whom? Who was it? Flicking my wand over myself and whispering a disappearance charm ( one DOES NOT require a fancy invisibility cloak such as Potter or Malfoy to go around unnoticed.. do the children never wonder at my sources of information?) and drifted down to the wet grass below.
The voice sounded detached, as if he (it certainly did not sound like a woman) were disassociated from himself. Assuming it was a Muggle alcoholic or a derelict, I made moves to rouse the owl and leave. The bloody thing actually nipped me and refused to move away, so I went back down to have a closer look. The mutterings were louder now - whoever was under that tree was indeed having a full-blown discussion with them. My senses on edge, I stealthily went back down to check it out again. When I touched the ground and ducked under the low-lying branches, it hit me. The smell was overwhelming and nauseating, my head reeled as I steeled myself now to turn and retch immediately. The place stank, literally STANK of blood. Wizard's blood.
It all connected in a heartbeat, and I crept forward and saw the body that went with the voice. It was none other than the Boy-Who-Lived, whom I referred to as The-Bane-Of-My-Existence. Harry Potter was under the Tree, bemoaning his fate and clearly bleeding to death.
He was going on now about some curse - what was he referring to? - And how there was no counter. Fallacies, every curse, hex and spell has a counter. there is no exception to the rule, although some require magic so dark that no one dares.. This is when I chose to make my presence known rather than just wait for him to die.
"Ah, Potter" I spoke aloud, stepping up behind him. "That is where I beg to differ with you".
The look of horror on his face was dramatic; the guilt in his features was shocking. He went to try and crawl away, and collapsed face down on the pine-needled earth. I scooped him up in my arms, barely breathing to avoid the reek of blood, and disapparated.