I'm combing through the wreckage trying to find where I've been - Printable Version
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RE: I'm combing through the wreckage trying to find where I've been - Cassius Lestrange - April 6, 2021
”Oh,” Cash said, blinking. He wanted to look at the dementor again, but he could tell from the angle of Greengrass’ body that he was looking at it, and if he hadn’t moved that probably meant it wasn’t doing much. Also if it was the first time Greengrass had had to deal with something like this — not entirely surprising, because these things weren’t supposed to hang around the normal world — it felt unfair to Greengrass to do something he’d explicitly told Cash not to.
Cash knew the dementor was still in the same corner, too, because he could feel that chilling emptiness emanating from the same part of the room as it had before, coming in through the back of his shirt and trailing down his spine.
He pressed his hands against his knees. He missed having something to do with them, but it felt like another violation of Greengrass’ instructions to get up and cross the room and go get his rolling papers and tobacco from his coat. He was leaning forward in the bed, curling in towards himself because without anything to do with his hands he was not sure what to do with the rest of his body, either.
He had to say something other than oh, because that wasn’t fair. None of this was fair to Greengrass. He should have tried to handle it on his own.
”Are you alright?” Cash asked, because just because Greengrass sounded steady didn’t mean he was. And his impression of dinner had mostly been that Greengrass’ family was normal, that they liked each other and did not fuck around with dark magic. Ford Greengrass was a nice person; which meant that Cash ought to just stay away from him, because nice people tended to break around him.
Cash knew the dementor was still in the same corner, too, because he could feel that chilling emptiness emanating from the same part of the room as it had before, coming in through the back of his shirt and trailing down his spine.
He pressed his hands against his knees. He missed having something to do with them, but it felt like another violation of Greengrass’ instructions to get up and cross the room and go get his rolling papers and tobacco from his coat. He was leaning forward in the bed, curling in towards himself because without anything to do with his hands he was not sure what to do with the rest of his body, either.
He had to say something other than oh, because that wasn’t fair. None of this was fair to Greengrass. He should have tried to handle it on his own.
”Are you alright?” Cash asked, because just because Greengrass sounded steady didn’t mean he was. And his impression of dinner had mostly been that Greengrass’ family was normal, that they liked each other and did not fuck around with dark magic. Ford Greengrass was a nice person; which meant that Cash ought to just stay away from him, because nice people tended to break around him.
RE: I'm combing through the wreckage trying to find where I've been - Fortitude Greengrass - April 6, 2021
Ford's eyebrows shot up and his eyes slid back to Lestrange's face. He was reminded suddenly of how angelic Lestrange had been to his family during dinner, how kind and charming and forgiving of Grace's little social stumbles. With everything that had happened after, he'd nearly forgotten, but now he remembered and thought this is just like him. Lestrange had just spontaneously created a dementor, a physical manifestation of despair and grief and loneliness, and he wanted to know if Ford was alright. It was a ridiculous question, and Ford might have laughed except that the dementor in the corner killed the noise in his throat.
"I don't suppose you'd believe me if I said yes," Ford quipped in response. He wasn't alright, not really. He felt a little manic, a little frantic, deeply overwhelmed by the magnitude of the problem that had just been dropped in his lap to solve. The thing was, it didn't really matter whether he was or wasn't. There was a dementor in the corner, and it was going to keep growing and consuming more of Lestrange until it had taken everything it could from him, and someone had to do something about it.
"I'll be fine," he said, a little more seriously. "I'm good at this. I'm good at my job. I just need to figure out how to do it."
Could he handle this like a boggart, locking it into something and then separating it from its food source until it starved? In theory it might work. Dementors couldn't pass through solid objects, but they also didn't shrink to fit small boxes that he knew of, so he'd have to get a pretty sizeable container. And then there was the matter of actually getting it inside. He'd have to push it back, and riddikulus wasn't going to help here.
"I need a patronus," he realized, with a slight sinking feeling in his stomach. He'd never conjured one before, though he understood them in theory. He'd never needed to, and he hadn't taken Defense at NEWT level. How was he supposed to figure it out now, while dealing with this?
RE: I'm combing through the wreckage trying to find where I've been - Cassius Lestrange - April 6, 2021
Cash tried for a smile, recognizing his own words tossed back at him, and there was a flicker of the expression he wanted on his face.
And maybe Greengrass was good at his job, but maybe he was in over his head because he didn't deal with dementors every day. Cash had felt a lot less guilty about this when he was convinced the thing in the corner was a weird ghoul or maybe even a poltergeist; the sort of thing that popped up every day and just needed to be relocated to wherever things like that belonged. Now he knew it was a dementor, and after spending all day with it it was harder to keep his thoughts straight.
"I used to be able to cast one," Cash said, as if that was helpful at all — maybe a part of him was hoping that if he kept talking long enough Greengrass would accept that he was fine and just move along and Cash could try to figure this out. (He couldn't think of a way out. Or — he could think of one way out, and that was treading to the same edge of something dark, an exit that hade made itself known to him over the course of the afternoon, but which he still could not think of head on.) "Not anymore, I think, but." Patronuses were hard. He wasn't sure he could walk Greengrass through it if he needed. He remembered casting it — something for N.E.W.T. Defense — but he could not remember the memory he'd used, which of course meant it almost certainly involved Eli.
(If he was here long enough, would he hear Eli again?)
And maybe Greengrass was good at his job, but maybe he was in over his head because he didn't deal with dementors every day. Cash had felt a lot less guilty about this when he was convinced the thing in the corner was a weird ghoul or maybe even a poltergeist; the sort of thing that popped up every day and just needed to be relocated to wherever things like that belonged. Now he knew it was a dementor, and after spending all day with it it was harder to keep his thoughts straight.
"I used to be able to cast one," Cash said, as if that was helpful at all — maybe a part of him was hoping that if he kept talking long enough Greengrass would accept that he was fine and just move along and Cash could try to figure this out. (He couldn't think of a way out. Or — he could think of one way out, and that was treading to the same edge of something dark, an exit that hade made itself known to him over the course of the afternoon, but which he still could not think of head on.) "Not anymore, I think, but." Patronuses were hard. He wasn't sure he could walk Greengrass through it if he needed. He remembered casting it — something for N.E.W.T. Defense — but he could not remember the memory he'd used, which of course meant it almost certainly involved Eli.
(If he was here long enough, would he hear Eli again?)
RE: I'm combing through the wreckage trying to find where I've been - Fortitude Greengrass - April 6, 2021
"No," Ford agreed. "Of course not." Not after spending all day with a dementor actively feeding on him, at any rate. Probably not even before that, if Lestrange had already been this close to the edge. Ford knew how to cast a patronus, in theory, and he knew you needed happy memories for them. If Lestrange was the sort of person who was capable of holding on to an abundance of happy memories, he wouldn't have the beginnings of a dementor in the corner of the room.
There was a part of him, buried somewhere in his chest, that felt a little pang of disappointment at this thought. Mostly he was still focused on the dementor, and on the problem, and on keeping his head clear so that he could deal with this, but there was a tiny bit of him that retraced everything the two of them had done together over the past months and wondered if he'd been misreading every smile Lestrange had ever offered him. Had all of this been there then, too? And if so, how had Ford never noticed it? There had been the two strange moments during the night in Londonderry, but he hadn't had enough information to recognize them as signs of anything larger, and so he'd brushed them off and moved on and now Lestrange had ended up here, with a dementor lurking in the corner.
(If this was happening to Noble, would Ford have been any better at recognizing those signs? Had he missed this with Lestrange just because they weren't that close, or was it something intrinsic in Ford, that he couldn't see these things until it was already too late?)
"Let me worry about the patronus," Ford said, not because he was at all confident that he could handle it. He needed to stop letting himself go down that train of thought and this was the only other thing he had to latch on to at the moment: staying in charge of this situation, staying confident, making a plan. He leaned in until there was only half a foot between his face and Lestrange's, and met his eyes again. "What I need from you is to stop feeding it," he said firmly. Ford knew this was easier said than done, but if he was going to have any hope of handling this thing, he needed all the help he could get. "It wants emotion. Any emotion. So I need you to think about something that's just — blank. But important. Something you could think a lot about," he continued. He realized that sounded like a contradiction, for all that it was the advice he'd read in the literature in the Spirit Division. "Quidditch," he suggested, thinking out loud. "Think about Quidditch plays."
RE: I'm combing through the wreckage trying to find where I've been - Cassius Lestrange - April 6, 2021
Greengrass was closer and Greengrass was looking at him and Greengrass' eyes were very brown. Cash remembered them lighting up when Greengrass told him about haunted houses, but it wasn't likely to happen here today. And he shouldn't be thinking about haunted houses or Greengrass' eyes or the way that, if he ever made his way out of this room, it was likely that the other man would never want to talk to him again. He was supposed to be thinking about — nothing.
Cash shifted, wanting to look at the dementor again and knowing that he shouldn't. Was this what he got eventually, just because he was starting to feel things again? He was better off being apathetic. But that was close to an emotion, too, so — Quidditch. He was getting nervous about sustaining eye contact with Greengrass again and closed his eyes, no options, now he didn't have to worry about where to look, either.
He knew Quidditch plays, knew everything about them, for most of the positions. Chasers feinting before they tossed the Quaffle. A keeper shooting upwards to headbutt the Quaffle out of the way. Beaters — maybe he shouldn't think about beaters, or he'd remember the phantom pains of bludger hits he'd gotten. So — seekers shooting up above the pitch the way Cash did, so that they could watch everyone else, and shoot downwards when they spotted the snitch. The seekers who shoved into their counterparts to knock them off balance on their way to the snitch. (Cash usually didn't do this — he was faster when he avoided contact, and was fairly small, besides.) Quidditch fouls — grabbing onto the end of someone's broom, pushing a hand through a goal hoop, elbowing an opposing player.
(He wondered how practice had gone today, without him. What excuse had Gallivan used?)
Shit, he wasn't supposed to be thinking things like that — somewhere along the lines he'd conjured an attachment to the Cannons — and he could feel the dementor responding to the turn of thought, like a pulling sensation at his chest. Cash pressed his hands to his abdomen as if he could hold himself in place, and a gasp escaped from his mouth involuntarily.
Cash shifted, wanting to look at the dementor again and knowing that he shouldn't. Was this what he got eventually, just because he was starting to feel things again? He was better off being apathetic. But that was close to an emotion, too, so — Quidditch. He was getting nervous about sustaining eye contact with Greengrass again and closed his eyes, no options, now he didn't have to worry about where to look, either.
He knew Quidditch plays, knew everything about them, for most of the positions. Chasers feinting before they tossed the Quaffle. A keeper shooting upwards to headbutt the Quaffle out of the way. Beaters — maybe he shouldn't think about beaters, or he'd remember the phantom pains of bludger hits he'd gotten. So — seekers shooting up above the pitch the way Cash did, so that they could watch everyone else, and shoot downwards when they spotted the snitch. The seekers who shoved into their counterparts to knock them off balance on their way to the snitch. (Cash usually didn't do this — he was faster when he avoided contact, and was fairly small, besides.) Quidditch fouls — grabbing onto the end of someone's broom, pushing a hand through a goal hoop, elbowing an opposing player.
(He wondered how practice had gone today, without him. What excuse had Gallivan used?)
Shit, he wasn't supposed to be thinking things like that — somewhere along the lines he'd conjured an attachment to the Cannons — and he could feel the dementor responding to the turn of thought, like a pulling sensation at his chest. Cash pressed his hands to his abdomen as if he could hold himself in place, and a gasp escaped from his mouth involuntarily.
RE: I'm combing through the wreckage trying to find where I've been - Fortitude Greengrass - April 6, 2021
Lestrange closed his eyes, and Ford let out a breath. The other man was doing his part, then. Time for Ford to do his. Time to just — learn two years of Defense Against the Dark Arts and master conjuring a patronus in the next two or three minutes. No big deal. He could do this. He could, because he'd have to — Lestrange obviously couldn't, and it wasn't as though they had any other options.
First things first, though: the container. Ford stood up from the chair and scanned the room, trying to figure out what he could use. They were just going to have to steal something from this Muggle room, he'd decided, because he couldn't leave Lestrange here while he went to try and find something else. Conjuring something might not hold long enough to get rid of the dementor before the spell faded out. It was too big for something like the jewelry box he'd trapped Macnair's boggart in, so — well, there was really only the wardrobe. How the hell they were going to get a wardrobe out of here after they'd trapped the dementor was — a problem for some future version of himself to deal with, because Ford could only handle so many problems to solve at a time.
The wardrobe was already on the right wall, but it needed to be further towards the corner in order for him to be able to push the dementor back into it. Ford crossed the room and put his shoulder against the wardrobe, and after the initial surge to overcome the inertia it slid easily enough, being empty for whoever rented the room at the inn. He didn't like being this close to the dementor, but it still wasn't moving, and it didn't seem to be particularly interested in him, so Ford supposed this was safe enough. Just when he'd gotten the wardrobe into the right position, though, he heard Lestrange gasp. His eyes went to the dementor first, and he saw it surge a little. The width didn't change, but it got a little taller, becoming a little less of an orb and more of an oval. Moving, Ford supposed, a little closer to what it would look like when it was all grown up.
Ford's breath caught. He jumped back from the corner with the dementor, worried it might surge again and get too close and touch him. He moved back towards Lestrange on the bed, as quickly as he could while still keeping his eyes on the black ball in the corner.
"Lestrange," he said, trying to sound gentle and reassuring but afraid that there might have been a note of anxiety in his tone all the same. This was wrong — this wasn't going to work. If Ford was trying to lend Lestrange some strength when he was wavering, he couldn't sound anxious himself, and this was too formal for what the moment called for. After a slight pause, Ford reached down to put his hand on Lestrange's shoulder and gave it a squeeze. "Cash," he said, almost experimentally. "You're doing really well, alright? But I need you to keep it up a little longer. I need a little more time. Alright?"
RE: I'm combing through the wreckage trying to find where I've been - Cassius Lestrange - April 6, 2021
Cash didn't hear the Lestrange, because he was going to get Theo Gallivan killed the way he'd gotten Eli killed. Or he was going to have to retire to get married and then what would the Cannons do, or he was going to topple from his broomstick one day and have one of those Quidditch injuries that was just very gruesome, bones at the wrong angle, or — there was a hand on his shoulder, squeezing. Cash. He took another shuddering breath and latched onto Greengrass' words. He curled in further on himself despite it. "Alright," Cash breathed. A little more time. He needed to give Greengrass more time, and — he could give him more time, he could think of nothing.
Releasing and re-catching a practice snitch, over and over. The way the latch clicked off. The box of Quidditch balls, bludgers straining against their restraints and Quaffles just resting there, the snitch switched off. Cash bit down on the inside of his lip again and tasted the copper of his own blood. Broomcare — oiling the handle and ensuring that none of the twigs of the end were askew. Tugging on Quidditch gloves. All the little feelingsless details he could latch onto, this was stuff he knew about infinitely, he could run through it.
He hoped that Greengrass — Ford, maybe, if he was calling him Cash now — was close to figuring this out, at least to some extent. Because Cash wasn't sure how long he could keep this up.
Releasing and re-catching a practice snitch, over and over. The way the latch clicked off. The box of Quidditch balls, bludgers straining against their restraints and Quaffles just resting there, the snitch switched off. Cash bit down on the inside of his lip again and tasted the copper of his own blood. Broomcare — oiling the handle and ensuring that none of the twigs of the end were askew. Tugging on Quidditch gloves. All the little feelingsless details he could latch onto, this was stuff he knew about infinitely, he could run through it.
He hoped that Greengrass — Ford, maybe, if he was calling him Cash now — was close to figuring this out, at least to some extent. Because Cash wasn't sure how long he could keep this up.
RE: I'm combing through the wreckage trying to find where I've been - Fortitude Greengrass - April 6, 2021
Ford watched Lestrange — Cash — curl in on himself a little more, and then he watched the dementor for a second. They must have scared it with this strategy, to the extent that something like a dementor could feel fear. It had had a steady stream of all of Lestrange's anxieties and all his hurt and all his despair all day, and then it had realized that its source was capable of being cut off. That must have been why it had reacted so strongly to that slip, and why it had pushed itself a little taller. It wasn't content to just sit and wait until it eventually pried the soul out of Cash's body anymore, because it had realized that it was no longer an inevitability. Now that it knew there was a fight to be had, it was ready to fight back. Which meant Ford needed to get to work. He'd told Lestrange — Cash — he just needed a little more time, but that was rather optimistic. What he needed was a patronus, which he'd never cast before.
So, just figure out how to cast a patronus, and then they'd be in the clear.
Of course, Ford knew how to cast a patronus. Dementors did fall under the Spirit Division's work, though he'd never encountered one; he didn't know of any outside of Azkaban, and it wasn't as though he was popping over there regularly just to check up on things. So he'd been trained on how to do it, but when he'd tried it out in the Ministry halls and nothing had come of it no one had seemed to care very much. Someone shrugged, his supervisor made a note, and if there was a list of employees not to be dispatched when dealing with potential dementors Ford supposed maybe he was on it, except there probably wasn't a list because things like this did not just happen.
But all that to say: he knew how to cast a patronus. A happy memory, circular wand motions, expecto patronum. He could do it, he could, because he had to. There weren't alternatives. The dementor was going to fight back now, and they were going to run out of time to deal with this, and Lestrange was going to get a little less capable of continuing to deal with it with each passing moment until Ford figured it out. So: he could do this. He had to.
Ford raised his wand and closed his eyes for a second, trying to pretend the dementor wasn't there. He needed a happy memory. He took a deep breath and hoped that Cash was holding it together, and that the dementor wasn't getting bigger while he stood here trying to collect himself. His mind flickered over things from childhood, but now they all seemed tainted with the knowledge he'd gained after his father's death. A memory of getting his pocket watch, a family heirloom, on his seventeenth birthday — damaged by thinking of all the other things he'd inherit in only a few short years. An afternoon he and Grace, as teenagers, had gone with Mama to the next county over from their country home to attend a traveling show that was passing through — in retrospect the thought of hiring a carriage for a full day of riding and then buying a ticket once they got there made his head spin, and he wondered bitterly if they'd been able to afford it then, and if so how things had gotten so far out of control so quickly.
Something more recent, then? Getting caught up with Dorian Fisk in the house in Muggle London? But that wasn't exactly happy, that was something else and Ford wasn't sure if it would work for this sort of thing. And there were other recent memories that were in the same vein — not exactly the same vein, of course, because nothing else like that had ever happened before or since — but there were other memories that were positive, even pleasant, without really being happy. The exhilarating feeling of besting a boggart. Feeling proud of something he'd done at work. Settling in with a book and a drink after the girls were asleep and feeling, at least for a moment, peaceful and content. Would any of that do?
The thought of the boggart jogged something in his memory — the association with laughter was what did it. He'd gotten so used to thinking of the night of the dinner party with dread because of how it had ended, and because of the conversation he'd had afterwards with Noble, but there had been moments earlier in the night that lit up in his mind now when he thought back to them. Lestrange made a joke, Grace giggled, and in that one isolated moment he'd thought everything was going to be alright — his anxieties over Grace's upcoming season were unfounded, and all of the girls were going to find people they not only could marry but wanted to marry, and everyone was going to make it through and be happy, because they were having a dinner party with no notice whatsoever and Grace was giggling at a stranger's joke.
"Expecto patronum," he said, opening his eyes. His voice had shaken a bit when he cast, but Ford couldn't have said with what. He didn't even have time to be anxious that it would work before silvery light started flowing from the tip of his wand. It coiled out lazily, like a mist, and the dementor in the corner shrank back. The spell dissipated before the dementor actually got into the closet, but it had moved, which meant this was working. It hadn't been a corporeal patronus, but this wasn't yet a full dementor, so apparently it was good enough.
"I did it!" he said, unable to contain this burst of excitement. "I did it!"
RE: I'm combing through the wreckage trying to find where I've been - Cassius Lestrange - April 6, 2021
Cash was mentally navigating his way through how to flip over on a broomstick, how he would explain it to someone — the way he'd loosen his grip and use his own center of gravity to flip himself down and over, to avoid a bludger or an opposing team's player, or even just to throw the other seeker off their game. Then there was flying when one was hanging onto their broomstick and upside down — this was mostly just a great way to seriously injure yourself, but sometimes it was the only thing to be done, if you couldn't drop your broomstick's elevation quickly enough.
There were memories nibbling around the edges of his psyche, things he was trying to shake off by remembering the way his wrists would flick or the physical mechanisms of hurtling his body around on a broomstick and knowing it would do exactly what he needed it to, and take him where he needed to go. The threads of fire that wove around his hand when he swore the Unbreakable Vow to Lucius. A set of enchanted bed curtains in his dorm room in Ravenclaw tower. The soft settling click a bottle of emergency bourbon made as it was set down on Angie's kitchen table. The explosive sound of a door in a muggle inn being blasted off its hinges. He was pushing them aside to the extent that he could, thinking instead on the proper way to arrange one's hands on a broomstick.
He heard the spell but didn't dare look at first, knowing that the sight of the inn would shake him out of his focus on broom control. Except — he knew it had worked before Ford even said something, because for a second or two it was like the weight of the room was disrupted, like the dementor was no longer pressing on all of Cash's edges.
He turned his head and opened his eyes, half-lidded; he caught a glance of the bottom of the orb and averted his gaze, looking instead at Greengrass' shoes on the hardwood floor. "Holy shit," Cash said, the corners of his mouth twitching up into a smile despite this — maybe, maybe they would get through this, if Ford was casting a patronus and if he was thinking about different ways he'd tugged on his Quidditch gloves over a decade plus of playing.
There were memories nibbling around the edges of his psyche, things he was trying to shake off by remembering the way his wrists would flick or the physical mechanisms of hurtling his body around on a broomstick and knowing it would do exactly what he needed it to, and take him where he needed to go. The threads of fire that wove around his hand when he swore the Unbreakable Vow to Lucius. A set of enchanted bed curtains in his dorm room in Ravenclaw tower. The soft settling click a bottle of emergency bourbon made as it was set down on Angie's kitchen table. The explosive sound of a door in a muggle inn being blasted off its hinges. He was pushing them aside to the extent that he could, thinking instead on the proper way to arrange one's hands on a broomstick.
He heard the spell but didn't dare look at first, knowing that the sight of the inn would shake him out of his focus on broom control. Except — he knew it had worked before Ford even said something, because for a second or two it was like the weight of the room was disrupted, like the dementor was no longer pressing on all of Cash's edges.
He turned his head and opened his eyes, half-lidded; he caught a glance of the bottom of the orb and averted his gaze, looking instead at Greengrass' shoes on the hardwood floor. "Holy shit," Cash said, the corners of his mouth twitching up into a smile despite this — maybe, maybe they would get through this, if Ford was casting a patronus and if he was thinking about different ways he'd tugged on his Quidditch gloves over a decade plus of playing.
RE: I'm combing through the wreckage trying to find where I've been - Fortitude Greengrass - April 6, 2021
Ford was still riding the rush of having succeeded at this for the first time in his life, but he knew they didn't have time to spare. He saw the dementor twitch a bit — trying to stretch itself taller, he thought, but lacking the energy necessary for it. It was really fighting, now, which meant they had to get it contained before it outgrew the space in the top of the wardrobe. It probably hadn't caught on to Ford's plan yet, because it wasn't moving away from where he'd pushed it, but it would once the doors of the wardrobe shut.
"Do you think you can cast?" Ford asked Lestrange, his eyes moving to where the other man's wand was discarded on the bed. The spell Ford needed was simple, but he didn't really know exactly what Cash's mental state was at the moment. Spending all day with a growing dementor couldn't have been easy on him, and what they were doing now was not exactly light work either. It was possible that he wouldn't be up for it, after all of that, and if that was the case then Ford would just have to figure out a way to do it himself. They were too close now to stumble on an obstacle like this.
"I'm going to cast again and push it back into the wardrobe there," he explained, gesturing even though he wasn't sure Cash was looking at him, and hopefully he wasn't looking at the dementor or the wardrobe. "And then I'm going to shut the doors and hold them, and I need you to cast a sealing spell on the doors. I'll tell you when," he continued. "You don't have to look until then. Just keep doing what you're doing. You're doing really well, Cash," he continued, and the name rolled off his tongue a little smoother this time. "This is working. You're doing great."
RE: I'm combing through the wreckage trying to find where I've been - Cassius Lestrange - April 6, 2021
That was a good question, and Cash's gaze flicked from Ford's shoes to the wand on the bedspread. His head had felt like it was splitting apart when he cast lumos earlier, but it had lit up — and he'd been able to light his cigarettes throughout the afternoon without incident. So — he thought that he could cast, and even if it hurt him, at least they would get the dementor shoved away in the wardrobe. He was trying to keep a running train of thought in his head as he considered that, all the parts of Quidditch robes: the fasteners on his gloves and the way the robes felt on his skin, lighter and airier than either muggle clothes or regular robes.
"I think I can," Cash said, grabbing the end of his wand. Tugging a broomstick up so that it shot upwards. Pulling out of a dive at the last second so that a bludger collided with the grass instead of with fragile human bone. A team of chasers passing the quaffle so quickly no one could see it, but if you knew the pattern then you could shoot between them and catch the quaffle before they completed the pass.
Everything else was hovering around, waiting for him to think about it, but — he could let it all in as soon as they'd gotten the dementor into the wardrobe. It didn't matter if he crumbled after that, but until then there was just this: his hand on the wand, his eyes on Ford Greengrass' shoes, the different techniques a keeper could use to fake out opposing chasers.
"I think I can," Cash said, grabbing the end of his wand. Tugging a broomstick up so that it shot upwards. Pulling out of a dive at the last second so that a bludger collided with the grass instead of with fragile human bone. A team of chasers passing the quaffle so quickly no one could see it, but if you knew the pattern then you could shoot between them and catch the quaffle before they completed the pass.
Everything else was hovering around, waiting for him to think about it, but — he could let it all in as soon as they'd gotten the dementor into the wardrobe. It didn't matter if he crumbled after that, but until then there was just this: his hand on the wand, his eyes on Ford Greengrass' shoes, the different techniques a keeper could use to fake out opposing chasers.
RE: I'm combing through the wreckage trying to find where I've been - Fortitude Greengrass - April 6, 2021
Lestrange's answer didn't sound confident, but under the circumstances it was the best Ford could hope for. He wasn't sure exactly how critical the timing on something like this would be, because he didn't know much about how dementors dealt with physical objects, so he didn't know how strong it would be. Ford wasn't exactly a strong person himself, and he knew the patronus would fade quickly once he started shoving the door shut, so hopefully either the dementor was weak or Cash was quick enough to handle it before it pushed back too hard on the door. Only one way to find out.
"Okay," he said with a nod. "I'll tell you when."
Ford raised his wand and edged closer to the dementor. He didn't want to be any nearer to it, especially not when it was still twitching in an angry way, but he wanted to make the most of his patronus spell when he cast it, which meant less open space between him and the dementor was better. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes again, blocking out the dementor and the feeling of dread that came with it and focusing in on that one happy moment.
"Expecto patronum," he said, more confidently than he had a moment ago. The mist spilled out from his wand and the dementor flinched away immediately. Ford stepped forward, and the white fog pressed in, and the dementor surged away again. It was in the wardrobe now — now he just needed to close it.
He walked forward, trying to keep the patronus spell going right up to the last minute. When he was within arm's reach of the doors, he lowered his wand and threw himself towards the wardrobe, shutting the doors and holding his shoulder against them.
"Now, do it now," he called.
RE: I'm combing through the wreckage trying to find where I've been - Cassius Lestrange - April 7, 2021
When Ford started casting again, Cash got up from the bed, walked over to the wardrobe with quick and graceful steps — lightfooted, as if he felt sure of himself, although he didn't really feel sure of anything. (The best ways to kick off from the ground on a broomstick, to get as much elevation as quickly as you could.) The closer he got to the dementor the more he felt it, but the more he felt the mist of the patronus charm, too — a little beacon of Ford Greengrass' happiness. (Tiberius had slipped out of his thoughts looking repulsed, and said What happened?) He steadied his grip on his own wand. (The ways you could fake chasing a snitch to trick your opponent, if you were good and they were stupid.)
Ford was shoving the doors shut and the patronus was gone and Cash cast a sealing charm, more firm in his wand motions and in the incantation than he would have been normally — he had a sense he needed all the practical skill he had, now, could not rely on the loose easy spellwork he usually did. His head pulsed as if it was going to come apart. The spell rushed from his wandpoint at the flick of it, hit the doors — Cash exhaled as he watched the magic spread through them, locking them firmly shut.
He backed up until his back was pressed against the wall of the corner. Cash loosened his grip on his wand and raised his hand to press it to his temple, which was throbbing — a spell that simple wasn't supposed to make his head hurt, but he'd spent all day with this thing and it had been chipping away at him all the time, just letting him erode while he inhaled cigarette smoke.
He remembered his dream, all of a sudden — the nightmare that had him waking up thrashing in his blankets like he was trying to escape.
"Oh," Cash said, feeling utterly spent just by that small bit of magic, or maybe it was because he had spent all day with something whose entire purpose was to generate despair and steal people's souls. And now that he wasn't thinking about Quidditch, now that it was locked in a wardrobe and no longer numbing him, Cash felt — everything, flooding back in. There was something thick in his throat and he swallowed around it. Oh. He didn't know what to do with himself, with any of this — not the wardrobe there and the dementor inside, not Ford Greengrass, not the way he was actually going to have to leave this room and know he'd created that thing without even trying.
Ford was shoving the doors shut and the patronus was gone and Cash cast a sealing charm, more firm in his wand motions and in the incantation than he would have been normally — he had a sense he needed all the practical skill he had, now, could not rely on the loose easy spellwork he usually did. His head pulsed as if it was going to come apart. The spell rushed from his wandpoint at the flick of it, hit the doors — Cash exhaled as he watched the magic spread through them, locking them firmly shut.
He backed up until his back was pressed against the wall of the corner. Cash loosened his grip on his wand and raised his hand to press it to his temple, which was throbbing — a spell that simple wasn't supposed to make his head hurt, but he'd spent all day with this thing and it had been chipping away at him all the time, just letting him erode while he inhaled cigarette smoke.
He remembered his dream, all of a sudden — the nightmare that had him waking up thrashing in his blankets like he was trying to escape.
"Oh," Cash said, feeling utterly spent just by that small bit of magic, or maybe it was because he had spent all day with something whose entire purpose was to generate despair and steal people's souls. And now that he wasn't thinking about Quidditch, now that it was locked in a wardrobe and no longer numbing him, Cash felt — everything, flooding back in. There was something thick in his throat and he swallowed around it. Oh. He didn't know what to do with himself, with any of this — not the wardrobe there and the dementor inside, not Ford Greengrass, not the way he was actually going to have to leave this room and know he'd created that thing without even trying.
RE: I'm combing through the wreckage trying to find where I've been - Fortitude Greengrass - April 7, 2021
It worked. It worked. Ford stepped back from the wardrobe and looked it over, trying to make sure it would hold. He could still feel the dementor, just feet away, but it was so much easier having it this close and behind something solid than it had been to be sharing the same air with it. He reached out and brushed his fingers against the wood of the wardrobe door and shivered involuntarily, but then he smiled. The dementor was inside, and it was alive and angry, but it was trapped. This had worked.
Ford turned his attention to Lestrange, who — didn't look great, honestly. Ford bit his lip, wondering if it would be appropriate to touch his shoulder again or whether the moment for such intimate gestures had passed.
"Let's go for a walk," he suggested softly. "You'll feel better when you have some space from that thing. But if you need a minute first..." he drifted off, shrugged. Now that the more pressing danger was alleviated (not gone but at least not as imminent), his resolve to pilot them through this interaction was starting to slip, and he was feeling a little less sure of his actions.
RE: I'm combing through the wreckage trying to find where I've been - Cassius Lestrange - April 7, 2021
Cash bit the inside of his lip again, causing a little bit of blood to spill onto his tongue from the cut again. They could go for a walk and they could leave this room — they could leave this room and Cash was eventually going to make it home again (what had Tiberius done with Eli's body, anyways, no one had ever told him) — and they could get some space between themselves and the dementor. They could go for a walk, or they could take a minute, and Cash would still be the person he was when they got back.
He slipped his wand into the back pocket of his trousers and wrapped his arms around himself. He still felt as if the dementor had cut something in him open, as if now everything in him was at risk of spilling onto the floor. "Yeah," Cash said, flicking his eyes from the doors of the wardrobe to Greengrass, "But — not wizarding London."
He slipped his wand into the back pocket of his trousers and wrapped his arms around himself. He still felt as if the dementor had cut something in him open, as if now everything in him was at risk of spilling onto the floor. "Yeah," Cash said, flicking his eyes from the doors of the wardrobe to Greengrass, "But — not wizarding London."
RE: I'm combing through the wreckage trying to find where I've been - Fortitude Greengrass - April 7, 2021
Ford didn't particularly understand the aversion to the wizarding parts of London, but he assumed Lestrange had his reasons and he wasn't inclined to press him on it. Cash would be fragile right now, he thought (even more fragile than he presumably already was, to have created the dementor, no matter how good he was at masking it normally), so best to just go along with it. "Sure," he agreed with a nod. "Maybe we can get you something to eat."
Ford had no illusions that he was going to make it home for dinner (should he write? would anyone worry?) but he was more concerned about Lestrange on that point. He'd been in a room with a dementor all day, and Ford would have been very surprised if he had eaten anything since it had shown up. Maybe he wouldn't feel like eating right now, but going through the motions of something familiar — something affirming, something living people did — could only help.
They left the room, locked the door behind them. The wardrobe shouldn't open except magically, but if someone wandered in they might still feel it through the wood. Ford put his hands in his coat pockets as they walked, thumbing over the tip of his wand that he could feel through the liner of his jacket. He waited until he could no longer smell the gin and stale smoke from the room, until he no longer felt vaguely nauseous, before he asked, "Are you feeling any better? Because there's — things we should talk about. But it can wait until you're up for it."