School: Hogwarts Year 2
Theme: Dialogue
Prompts: "That's how you get away with murder." - How To Get Away With Murder
WC: 809
"What—"
"Shit—"
Blaise's hand was locked around Neville's wrist, nails digging into the soft skin. Neville blinked away the curling symbols dancing in front of his vision and looked over at his husband. Blaise's face was drawn in the grey morning light, teeth bared in a snarl that hinted at his mother's legacy. His hair was still disheveled from sleep, a far cry from the polished appearance he normally presented to the world.
"Someone's trying to get through the wards."
Neville's heart sank for the briefest of moments before rage flooded through him.!
"Don't die," Blaise murmured, utilising his grip on Neville's wrist to tug him closer, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth before releasing him. He was moving slower, the wards burning fire in his blood, but his jaw was set.
"As if I'd ever do that to you," Neville said.
The floor was cold beneath his feet, his wand a strange comfort in his hand as he ran down the corridor. Violent red light pulsed from the front door several floors below him. Everything was strangely silent save for the sound of his feet hitting the floor, heartbeat loud in his ears, breath coming short and fast.
"What's going —"
"Stay in your room!"
Neville barely broke his stride as he shifted to avoid the opening door, catching a glimpse of a pale face half hidden behind a fluffy lemon. As he ran down the stairs, he faintly heard the door swing open fully and the pattering of feet heading towards the room where Blaise lay, focusing all his attention on maintaining the shell of wards around Number 4 Grimmauld Place. At least Blaise wouldn't be alone in his struggle.
The banging on the front door grew louder and louder as Neville approached. It had started off rhymically, like the beating of some grotesque heart, but had dissolved into random crashes and muffled yells.
"— my daughter you disgusting… Give her back!"
"Étoimos."
The rune flared green beneath Neville's hand, and he moved next to the door.
"Go home. You aren't stepping foot into my house."
Neville stepped away from the door and readied himself, pulling magic from his core and holding it ready, a spell forming on his lips. Just a second more…
"Scormpasa."
The curse sat unsteadily on his mouth, but his aim remained true — a soldier right until the very end. The knife thudded onto the stone steps, slipping away into the darkness as the man stared, horrified at Neville.
"One more chance. Leave now."
The spell ebbed, waves crashing against the shore, and Neville stealthily braced himself against the wall, even as his wand remained fixed on the man's chest. The tipping point was here and there would be no going back if—
Killing was as easy as breathing now, a thought that should horrify him as the spell sank into the man's chest, the grey pallor of death radiating out from where it hit. A look of confusion passed over the man's face, the Killing Curse dying on his lips as he collapsed to the ground.
"Blaise love! Could you come give me a hand please?"
Neville could track Blaise's movements from the creaks and groans of the house as he dragged the quickly cooling corpse inside the house and shut the front door.
"Oh dear, such a shame— Ah!"
Blaise twisted away from Neville's teasing swipe, laughter bubbling in his throat. It was a strange contrast, the soft look in Blaise's eyes shifting to cold calculation at the sight of the corpse.
"That was Emiliy's father."
Blaise's knees cracked as he stood up, taking hold of one leg as the pair dragged him into the kitchen.
"Death is too good for him."
"Shall I—"
Blaise was already shaking his head.
"You have to teach in the morning. You've killed tonight, I'll clean up. That's how you get away with murder."
Blaise nudged the door closed on the body, and pulled Neville into the hall, giving him a gentle push in the direction of the stairs.
"Emily, incidentally, is asleep in our bed. I'll join you both after."
Neville started on the seemingly far longer trek up the stairs, thoughts chasing each incessantly. It was a strange turn of events to go from child soldier to running a home for abused children, but it was something he carried out gladly and with determination.
"Is everything okay?"
Emily's voice was slow with sleep, more of a mumble to be forgotten as soon as she slipped back into her dreams.
"Yes, everything is fine," Neville answered, "Go back to sleep."
The springs groaned as he sat down, sticking his freezing feet beneath the blanket, and lay back down. The children in his care were safe, his husband was disposing of a body below them, and Neville couldn't be happier.