WHO: Graham Montague WHAT: Destructive attempts. WHEN: late Thursday night. WHERE: WWW, Diagon Alley WARNINGS: violence.
Graham’s skin was still crawling from his whirlwind infatuation with Fred Weasley. How could he have wanted anything to do with him, how could he not have fought off the effects of the laced latte??
He pulled the lapels of his leather jacket closed as he strode down Diagon Alley. He had a mission, one he had decided on himself, but Bellatrix and the other were expecting him to fulfil it. He couldn’t let them down.
“Bombarda!” The curse hit the wards surrounding Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes and fizzled into nothing as the wards shimmered. Graham swore and tried again.
And again.
And again.
He should have been wearing the wards down, but nothing he could think of had effect. He strode towards the shop, only to find himself tossed back on his ass as the wards refused to let him past.
“Bombarda Maxima!” He roared, the white flash of light ricocheting and exploding some of the paving stones.
“Oh for fuck’s sake.”
Graham was tempted to stay, to hurl every piece of anger and resentment and bile he could dig up at the wards. But he didn’t have to do this alone, he didn’t have to find the answers by himself.
And, inexplicably, there was a smoking hot Pureblood waiting for him to stop by.
The next phase of the plan could start in the morning.