WHO: Dante Avery & his new bff the portaloo WHAT: a little thing called revenge WHEN: 22 Feb WHERE: the site of a Viking festival, York, UK WARNINGS: Hmm. Violence, blood, death.
After he broke free of the trap and cleaned himself up (though no amount of Scourgifys could free him of the smell that lingered), Dante turned around and faced the spot of his trouble. Someone had gone to extreme lengths to -- what, make him angry? Make a fool out of him? Both? They hadn’t been trying to kill him, which was the most surprising thing. Who would want to make a fool out of him but not kill him? The people who hated him most wanted him dead - or at least behind bars for the rest of his life. They wouldn’t have left him alone.
Which left -- who, the other Purebloods? Coworkers?
He didn’t have any suspects in mind, and the more he poked around for clues, the fewer ideas he had. He wasn’t trained for that, specifically. If he had access to the cigar box, he might be able to make headway there. Someone had created a portkey. Someone had used him.
In frustration, he kicked at the hard plastic wall. His shoe left a scuff mark, but no dents.
“Think, Dante,” he muttered to himself. He couldn’t go home, not yet. Not like this. Not without some answers, or something to show for his disappearance. “What would Father do?”
Nearby, a Muggle watched him cautiously.
Dante smiled.
-----
A few charms later, he had hidden the portaloo and himself from prying Muggle eyes. It remained where it had been when he’d landed in it, only tipped back upright, its door wide open. The Muggle he’d spotted earlier was curled up in a heap at Dante’s feet, unconscious but alive. He didn’t particularly want to make waves with the Muggle public with this, knowing how fragile that secrecy they depended on was. One day, they’d rule over everyone with their power, but that day had yet to come.
He tilted his head, wondering just how to stage this. His father was the expert here -- him and Keats, truthfully -- and this was far from Dante’s comfort zone. He was better with sabotage behind the scenes, with staying in the shadows and with facing non-human threats deep in a tomb somewhere. This, even after years of practice, was not natural.
But he had to get it right.
He flicked his wand and the man moved, his limbs stretching out until each one was tied to a corner of the open doorway. The smell was still enough to churn Dante’s stomach.
He thought about just leaving him there, but that didn’t seem like enough. He didn't want to leave a living witness. He tipped his head to the side, thinking, and then his wand slashed again, opening up deep wounds across the Muggle’s torso. Without any care, he would bleed to death soon enough.
With a soft pop, Dante was gone. He could sort out the rest of the mystery after someone came to collect the soon-to-be-dead man.