May 23, 1891 — Forbidden Forest
It was about half an hour to sunset, and Ford was alone in the Forbidden Forest with a wardrobe. Well, maybe not entirely alone. The dementor was here, too, still trapped behind the closet doors. Since it wasn't exactly a living thing, though, Ford wasn't sure if its presence counted. It certainly didn't make him feel any less alone — but that was the whole point of it, making people feel alone and desperate and empty.
Hopefully, he wouldn't have to do this much longer. Hopefully the infant dementor locked in the wardrobe was close to starving itself out by now. Hopefully, if there was some sort of connection to Cash that transcended distance and allowed it to linger on as long as Cash was struggling through this, Cash would be making real progress soon. However long it took, though, Ford was committed to it now. For one thing, he needed to make sure that it was still here, in the wardrobe. They'd used a spell to seal it shut, so it wasn't as though someone could unleash it just by accidentally nudging the door handle, but it would only take one spell to let it out. This wasn't a high-traffic area of the forest by any means, but if Ford had found it, it stood to reason that someone else could, too. Beyond just making sure the doors were closed, though, Ford was monitoring it as best as he could. It was an imperfect science, because he couldn't see it, but if he walked up to the door of the wardrobe and put his hand against the wood he could still feel it, and from there he could try and determine if it was getting stronger or weaker.
There was a danger to this too, though. Just by being here, by being this close to it, Ford was giving it a chance to steal nourishment from him — giving it a chance to latch onto him. If he lost track of himself during one of these little check-ins, he might end up making things worse... or he might end up with a hungry infant dementor following him around, if things got really out of hand. So it was important to do his best not to give it anything it could use. In the room at the Muggle inn he'd told Lestrange to talk about Quidditch, but obviously that wouldn't work for him because he knew nothing about the sport beyond the most rudimentary basics, so he had to find something else to keep his mind busy but unemotional. The first time he'd come out here he'd tried to walk through the house he'd grown up in, room by room, but that was too fraught with emotion now that he'd sold their home and would likely never see it again. It was too easy for the dementor to twist it, and as he'd sat with his hand on the wood of the wardrobe he'd actually felt the grief and loss leaking out from him. Far too dangerous.
He'd switched to the Bartonburg house, and he was having better luck with that. There were still little things he ought to avoid, little things that had memories bound up in them, but not so many as the home they'd all grown up in. He could close his eyes and he could mentally tidy his bedroom, or sort the books on the shelf in the parlor, and while he did half his mind could be monitoring how he felt — how successful the dementor was at tugging things out of him. It was definitely getting weaker now, and there was hardly any response at all as he mentally searched through the kitchen cabinets looking for the tea. Experimentally, Ford turned his mind towards something a little more emotionally involved. There was a knit coaster on the counter for them to rest the kettle on when it was hot. Their old housekeeper had made it, back in the other house. She'd worked for them for years, so long that she felt almost like an aunt rather than a servant, and Ford knew she felt the house was hers as much as they did. He'd dismissed her when he sold the place, because Noble already had a housekeeper — one who was live-out and part-time and therefore more affordable — and this was the last relic of her, this coaster that she'd knit ages ago. He went through the pattern in his mind: a circle of yellow fading to orange fading to red in the center.
Ford's chest tightened as sorrow welled up within him. He gasped and pictured himself hurriedly tucking the coaster into the kitchen drawer, turning his attention instead towards the kettle and going through the motions of putting water on to boil. So that was too much, then. The dementor could still latch on to that. Good to know. Ford forced himself to take a deep breath, thinking about the steps it took to make a pot of tea and trying to flatten out his emotions again — wrestling with this dementor, although his hand hadn't moved from the smooth wood of the door.
Then he heard a noise, something that was here and not at home in the kitchen where he'd been picturing himself. Ford's eyes popped open and he whirled towards the sound, hoping to only see a bird or a fox wandering by, oblivious to him since he'd been holding so still for the past — how long had he been out here? He didn't actually know, but it was probably time to be heading home, anyway. If he was gone too long someone might ask him where he'd been, and he wouldn't have had any answer.
Hopefully, he wouldn't have to do this much longer. Hopefully the infant dementor locked in the wardrobe was close to starving itself out by now. Hopefully, if there was some sort of connection to Cash that transcended distance and allowed it to linger on as long as Cash was struggling through this, Cash would be making real progress soon. However long it took, though, Ford was committed to it now. For one thing, he needed to make sure that it was still here, in the wardrobe. They'd used a spell to seal it shut, so it wasn't as though someone could unleash it just by accidentally nudging the door handle, but it would only take one spell to let it out. This wasn't a high-traffic area of the forest by any means, but if Ford had found it, it stood to reason that someone else could, too. Beyond just making sure the doors were closed, though, Ford was monitoring it as best as he could. It was an imperfect science, because he couldn't see it, but if he walked up to the door of the wardrobe and put his hand against the wood he could still feel it, and from there he could try and determine if it was getting stronger or weaker.
There was a danger to this too, though. Just by being here, by being this close to it, Ford was giving it a chance to steal nourishment from him — giving it a chance to latch onto him. If he lost track of himself during one of these little check-ins, he might end up making things worse... or he might end up with a hungry infant dementor following him around, if things got really out of hand. So it was important to do his best not to give it anything it could use. In the room at the Muggle inn he'd told Lestrange to talk about Quidditch, but obviously that wouldn't work for him because he knew nothing about the sport beyond the most rudimentary basics, so he had to find something else to keep his mind busy but unemotional. The first time he'd come out here he'd tried to walk through the house he'd grown up in, room by room, but that was too fraught with emotion now that he'd sold their home and would likely never see it again. It was too easy for the dementor to twist it, and as he'd sat with his hand on the wood of the wardrobe he'd actually felt the grief and loss leaking out from him. Far too dangerous.
He'd switched to the Bartonburg house, and he was having better luck with that. There were still little things he ought to avoid, little things that had memories bound up in them, but not so many as the home they'd all grown up in. He could close his eyes and he could mentally tidy his bedroom, or sort the books on the shelf in the parlor, and while he did half his mind could be monitoring how he felt — how successful the dementor was at tugging things out of him. It was definitely getting weaker now, and there was hardly any response at all as he mentally searched through the kitchen cabinets looking for the tea. Experimentally, Ford turned his mind towards something a little more emotionally involved. There was a knit coaster on the counter for them to rest the kettle on when it was hot. Their old housekeeper had made it, back in the other house. She'd worked for them for years, so long that she felt almost like an aunt rather than a servant, and Ford knew she felt the house was hers as much as they did. He'd dismissed her when he sold the place, because Noble already had a housekeeper — one who was live-out and part-time and therefore more affordable — and this was the last relic of her, this coaster that she'd knit ages ago. He went through the pattern in his mind: a circle of yellow fading to orange fading to red in the center.
Ford's chest tightened as sorrow welled up within him. He gasped and pictured himself hurriedly tucking the coaster into the kitchen drawer, turning his attention instead towards the kettle and going through the motions of putting water on to boil. So that was too much, then. The dementor could still latch on to that. Good to know. Ford forced himself to take a deep breath, thinking about the steps it took to make a pot of tea and trying to flatten out his emotions again — wrestling with this dementor, although his hand hadn't moved from the smooth wood of the door.
Then he heard a noise, something that was here and not at home in the kitchen where he'd been picturing himself. Ford's eyes popped open and he whirled towards the sound, hoping to only see a bird or a fox wandering by, oblivious to him since he'd been holding so still for the past — how long had he been out here? He didn't actually know, but it was probably time to be heading home, anyway. If he was gone too long someone might ask him where he'd been, and he wouldn't have had any answer.
Friendless Night Roberto Devine
Set by Lady!
