Raphael had always believed that killing a man would change a person; he'd never considered that disposing of a body would have similar effects. Raphael hadn't been the one to kill Walter, but that hadn't stopped the man's bruised and bluish features from creeping into his mind in the late hours of the night. It hadn't stopped him from staying on alert in public, nor from subtly leaning away from each auror he had the displeasure of coming in close contact with. He knew logically that there was no evidence that would tie him to Walter's death and disappearance, but he hadn't exactly done due diligence in keeping track of any missing person's report, and he didn't want the moment he made eye contact with an auror be the moment all the evidence clicked in their mind.
He'd gotten grumpier, more paranoid—and least amusing of all, more worrisome. Every time the red line around his pinky stung, he worried it was her. He'd imagined a million scenarios in which Rowan Yaxley found herself cornered, arrested, or dead, and every one ran through his head simultaneously when his pinky finger did as much as twitch. The marks had been a result of the spell they'd used to allow them to communicate through less conventional means. They could not send worded messages, but the little pricks they exchanged—some harsh, some sharp, some soothing, some unintentional—expressed what they needed to. It was their safety net.
Taking the step to bind themselves in such a way hadn't come without any communication. They'd set up simple codes and a safe place they could rendezvous, which was currently somewhere that was not the comfort of his bed. Raphael did very little to tidy himself up, already having exhausted whatever emotional energy he's had earlier in the day while entertaining a gaggle of young ladies his mother had pressured him into hosting alongside her. He hadn't dared pointed out that it was untoward for ladies to call upon gentleman; she'd always referenced the cottage (his home, in all reality) as the Malfoy country cottage, which meant she could take up hosting abilities whenever he did not have the energy to fight her on it.
And in the last seventy-two hours, he'd had very little.
He draped a nigh coat over a white button-down top and some loose trousers, slipped his feet into a pair of loafers, and gently rubbed his thumb over the spot on his pinky where the pain had pricked him. He didn't know if she could feel it, and he wouldn't dare ask, but he'd gotten into the habit of doing it already. Grabbing his wand off the nightstand, he moved towards the window, as far away from the door as he could, before apparating away.
—
"You would think you didn't have a job with the late hours you keep," he said as she came into view. His eyes were still blurred from the half-asleep state he'd been in. She stood near the shack, dressed far better than he'd managed, looking all sorts of stressed. "Are you well?" As annoying as she was at times, he could not help the genuine concern that laced his every word. He'd always been worried about her—and sometimes because of her, too—but now his worry was for her, even if he didn't dare admit it to her. He doubted it was what she wanted to hear.
He'd gotten grumpier, more paranoid—and least amusing of all, more worrisome. Every time the red line around his pinky stung, he worried it was her. He'd imagined a million scenarios in which Rowan Yaxley found herself cornered, arrested, or dead, and every one ran through his head simultaneously when his pinky finger did as much as twitch. The marks had been a result of the spell they'd used to allow them to communicate through less conventional means. They could not send worded messages, but the little pricks they exchanged—some harsh, some sharp, some soothing, some unintentional—expressed what they needed to. It was their safety net.
Taking the step to bind themselves in such a way hadn't come without any communication. They'd set up simple codes and a safe place they could rendezvous, which was currently somewhere that was not the comfort of his bed. Raphael did very little to tidy himself up, already having exhausted whatever emotional energy he's had earlier in the day while entertaining a gaggle of young ladies his mother had pressured him into hosting alongside her. He hadn't dared pointed out that it was untoward for ladies to call upon gentleman; she'd always referenced the cottage (his home, in all reality) as the Malfoy country cottage, which meant she could take up hosting abilities whenever he did not have the energy to fight her on it.
And in the last seventy-two hours, he'd had very little.
He draped a nigh coat over a white button-down top and some loose trousers, slipped his feet into a pair of loafers, and gently rubbed his thumb over the spot on his pinky where the pain had pricked him. He didn't know if she could feel it, and he wouldn't dare ask, but he'd gotten into the habit of doing it already. Grabbing his wand off the nightstand, he moved towards the window, as far away from the door as he could, before apparating away.
"You would think you didn't have a job with the late hours you keep," he said as she came into view. His eyes were still blurred from the half-asleep state he'd been in. She stood near the shack, dressed far better than he'd managed, looking all sorts of stressed. "Are you well?" As annoying as she was at times, he could not help the genuine concern that laced his every word. He'd always been worried about her—and sometimes because of her, too—but now his worry was for her, even if he didn't dare admit it to her. He doubted it was what she wanted to hear.
set by lady <3