i don't have a dad icon yet, sorry Who: Mike and Patrick Fawcett, featuring two non-descript snatchers What: More snatching business. When: This afternoon, September 10th Where: The Fawcetts' pub in Dublin Warnings: Nothing really? Status: Complete!
“What’s this?” Patrick said, frowning towards the back wall of the pub. “Where’s the picture of that stupid dog that used to hang here?”
Mike shrugged. “That’s where that dick shoved me. It shattered.”
“What?”
Mike detailed the story he believed to be the truth; someone on a bad trip going off on him, definitely no magic happening, everything was cool. “It’s no big deal,” he said, leaning over to pour a pint. He put it in front of the customer and turned back towards his older brother. “Saoirse fixed me up.”
“Saoirse? Why was she here?”
Mike shrugged again. “They were all here when I came to.”
“And told you not to tell me?”
“Told me you’re in some kind of danger, that it was better if I didn’t.”
Patrick took a deep breath, trying to stay calm. Didn’t work. Tried again. Still didn’t work. “I need to talk to Glenda,” he said abruptly, pulling his phone out.
She didn’t pick up. Her new boss, the murderous prick, probably didn’t approve of mobile phones in the office. Patrick slipped out into the alley behind the pub to light a cigarette and try again. The third time he actually left her a voicemail, despite knowing that she rarely listened to them.
“...tell me that you didn’t Obliviate my brother without saying anything to me. I’m not a child, Glenda, I can handle ––”
“Tell the missus you gotta go,” a voice said behind him. “Nice and easy.”
Patrick spun on the spot, his throwing his elbow back on instinct. He wasn’t the kind of wizard that reached for his wand in every situation, least of all in muggle areas. Had he been, maybe he’d been able to apparate away before they grabbed him.
Instead he found himself at wandpoint.
“Say it.”
“Gotta go, honey,” (he never called her that), “you were right, as it turns out,” (he never said that either), “talk to you later.” (He knew that he wouldn’t.)
The snatcher plucked the phone out of his hand. “You reckon Old Bridgey’ll get off our backs now?” he said to his companion. “One down.”
One of them stepped closer, pulling Patrick’s wand out of his pocket. He took a quick step back, and repeated his earlier move. This time his elbow connected, and the werewolf howled in surprise.
Maybe if he’d been younger, more in shape, he would’ve made it. Instead a body bind hex hit him in the back, just as he rounded the corner. He stumbled out onto the street, hitting the ground without catching himself.
His face exploded in pain, and he swore as the werewolves pulled him to his feet. Laughing they apparated him to the Ministry, discussing what exactly they’d do with their reward while they waited for someone to give them a cell.
He wondered just how big this reward was. It seemed easier somehow, than thinking about what lay ahead.