August 18th, 1892 — Flint Home

Thaddeus hadn't trusted himself to apparate home, in spite of his own usually cool intellect, he had allowed the aurors office to call him a hackney to bring him home. He also looked a fright, the white of his shirt was stained bright red with blood, he smelled of iron and copper, and his waistcoat was beginning to stiffen as the gore that had permeated it, began to dry invisibly in the black material. His cravat had remained on the boys leg. Thinking on it made him feel hollow and sick all over again.

He pushed open the front door, and the footman stopped short terrified and affronted at the sight of him. He must have looked a nightmare vision in the dim light of the hall. The man stammered in fear, trying to ascertain if his master was injured, but Thad fobbed him off, dispatching him to ensure a bath was drawn, and his room was made up.

Thaddeus scrubbed his face with his hands, and sank down onto the last two stars leading to the first floor*. He had not cried since he was a boy and he honestly felt like he might.

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