WHO: Thea Travers and Keaton Flitney WHAT: Thea completes her assignment. WHEN: Late night, Tuesday March 13. WHERE: Keaton's place, Appleby. WARNINGS: Gore. Violence. Death. NOTE: There's a Dark Mark in Appleby tonight.
Her various experiments had led her to one conclusion. The cleaner the death, the less she threw up; however her attempts at casting Avada Kedavra had not gone quite as smoothly as she hoped, despite all the hours in the study casting and recasting the Killing Curse on a box full of mice. Not one of the fucking vermin had died.
She'd also tried to study as much of Mr. Flitney’s routines as possible. He seemed to be home by 6pm, the lights in his dining room were on at 6.30 and she could make out silhouette of him seated at his dinner table at 7pm, shrouded somewhat by the curtain over his window.
She'd already cast a Disillusionment Charm on herself before pressing her back against the wall, right next to Keaton's back kitchen door.
The chef (because of course the Quidditch Player had his own chef), bustled out with the trash, whistling to himself. He straightened - ears pricking as though he'd heard something, but when he turned to look, there was no one underneath the dim sensor lighting.
Thea waited until he turned his head back to the rubbish bins before she dared to step in behind him. All she had to do was wait it out for the chef to leave, head up to Keaton’s room, complete the deed, cast the Dark Mark and get the hell out.
Easy!
* * *
Keaton was a creature of habit. He spent more money than might have been sensible ensuring he was comfortable and satisfied. He didn’t travel or party nearly as much as people might have thought. His recent foray into heroism was as exciting as his life got.
The rest of his evening was planned to be taken up with paperwork. This is what his life had come to. Documents and plans and requests for money. He settled in, hot mug of tea perched next to him as he read through a draft, frowning as he did. It didn’t sound right at all.
* * *
Thea was biding her time, sequestered in the corner of the kitchen, waiting for the chef to bloody well leave already, but tonight he seemed to be taking his time, humming off-tune to what she imagined was intended to be Celestina Warbeck’s A Cauldron Full of Love.
She was pretty sure her feet were getting pins and needles. As carefully as she could, she tried to shift her weight from one to the — creak.
The chef stopped humming and turned towards the very corner in which she stood. His eyes scanned the kitchen, but before he had a chance to identify the outline of her translucent frame, she withdrew her wand.
“Silenco!” she whispered as he opened his own mouth. Expelliarmus. His wand flew into her spare hand. Protego. The pot he tried to throw at her bounced off her shield charm. Petrificus total—
A sharp pain flooded throw her elbow. He’d rolled over and launched a paring knife at her and armed himself with a sharp, large kitchen life. He tried to scream, probably for his employer to get the hell out of the house, scrambling for the kitchen door.
Thea locked it with her wand.
It was a tabby cat this time. Big, beautiful, sad eyes with patched fur and a bitten off ear, stalking the neighbourhood like he was the king of it all.
He’d resisted Thea, instinctively smelling her dangerous agenda a mile away, no doubt. But he wasn’t a match for her quick spell-work. He could run, but not very far, before she swooped in and kept him frozen in place. His big, beautiful, sad eyes darting left and right with sheer fear, calculating escape routes, struggling against the magic that bound his limbs in place.
And then he was no more.
His neck snapped, his body fallen, his big, beautiful, sad eyes lifeless — still searching for a way out.
She unlocked the kitchen door and stepped over the chef’s body.
* * *
A noise he wasn’t expecting from the kitchen drew Keaton out of his doze, already dulling reflexes slow to pull him out of his haze. He was a master of dodging bludgers in the air, but less so at recognising dangers closer to home.
“Mark?” He called out, wondering if the chef had left already and not said anything. Had he mentioned plans for the evening? Keaton honestly couldn’t remember. Maybe he had.
Wide awake now, Keaton reached out for his mug, taking a sip of the cooled tea and moving his wand to just in reach. Everything was fine. He was just being paranoid.
Thea assumed that the room Ke— her target was in was the only one with light spilling out from the gap beneath the door.
She stepped lightly towards it, moving slowly, taking care not to make any obvious sounds. Inside, the adrenaline had turned her insides into a ball of anxiety. The robes she was in were probably drenched in sweat.
Don’t monologue, Ignatius had once instructed her. At the time it sounded like weird, unwanted advice, but now it felt like a comforting mantra. She didn’t owe this man an explanation, a reason for his death, or anything that would give him the advantage of extra time.
But there were pictures on his wall, reminding her constantly that he was a person. His friends. His family. His teammates. All cheerful. All reminding her that there was a soul behind the smile and the creases in his eyes. That they’d talked on the journals, that she’d attended his matches, that she’d cheered for him, worn his colours, shouted his name from the stands like every other Arrows supporter.
Redirecting her focus on the task at hand, Thea pushed this out of her mind and opened the door. Unfortunately, she hadn’t expected him to be facing it.
Shit.
“Expelliarmus!” she shouted, aiming to disarm then kill him. She hadn’t practiced for an armed victim yet.
Keaton barely had time to register her presence before his wand flew from his hand. He stood in a hurry, tea spilling all over his rug.
(His decorator would be furious.)
“Hello?” He asked, confused and trying to pretend he wasn’t scared. The face in front of him was familiar somehow, like a fan he’d seen a lot but not spoken to enough. Maybe he’d acquired a stalker. He couldn’t panic. He raised his hands slightly, hoping this wasn’t going to escalate further.
“Hey,” he spoke again, trying to draw up his most charming smile, his agreeable tone. “Can I help you?”
Fuck. Fuck. Her mind went blank. Was he supposed to be doing this? Why wasn’t he freaking the fuck out like he was supposed to? Like normal people did when they had a stranger in their house disarming them and pointing their wand at them.
“Av— Petrificus totalus!” she said instead.
Keaton’s eyes widened and he scrambled to try and avoid the curse. Instead he froze, the panic in his eyes remaining static as he keeled over, crashing into his coffee table as he did.
It should have hurt, Keaton knew that, but it was all academic for him in that moment.
Thea was frozen too, for an entirely different reason. The chef had been easy. She had never interacted with him as a human being before. He was just an obstacle that could have given away her plans.
But this?
“I’m sorry,” she began, keeping her wand fixed on him. It shook. There was a scratch on his arm from the coffee table, blood blooming slowly from the graze. The redder it got, the more her stomach turned.
Don’t monologue, said a voice that sounded exactly like Ignatius in her head.
“Crucio.”
Keaton braced, but the expected pain didn’t come. He’d heard about how excruciating the Unforgivable could be, worse than broken bone or cracked skull or bludger hit could be.
He tried to move, tried to meet the gaze of the young woman who had broken into his house. Who he didn’t think was just your average stalker any more, and he didn’t think was going to end up being hauled out of here by Hits. This wouldn’t be a funny story he told Amy when he saw her in Italy. He wasn’t going to make it to Italy.
She could tell it wasn’t working. There were no tears springing from his eyes to indicate his pain.
You’re stalling, she chided herself. Because you like his stupid Quidditch team? That’s a dumb reason.
Or because he’s human.
You could let him go, but someone else would do it in your place. And they wouldn’t wait. And you don’t want to find out what they do to wannabe recruits who fail.
Maybe Dad—
Loves the Dark Lord more than you.
She exhaled deeply, centering herself on that final thought, lifted her wand and looked at her assignment, petrified, bleeding, pleading with eyes from the rug and the broken coffee table.
She was here to prove something. She could do this. She didn’t need help. She didn’t need to throw up. She didn’t need anymore deep breaths or extra time or a stiff drink or anyone’s approval or disapproval.
She was here to show the people that loved her that she could love something more than all of them too. Which meant this couldn’t just be another clean snapped neck. It had to be bold.
“Reducto,” she said simply, packing behind it every ounce of intent to see his body buckle under the power of the curse.
Keaton watched as she hesitated, and he wanted to beg. For mercy, for forgiveness, for more time. A do-over. To take back what he’d done to be targeted like this. He wanted to see Amy again. To have another drink with Cai and Gilbert. To get the charity off the ground with Grace. The Quidditch camp with Oliver. To play Quidditch again, period.
That was his last thought before the flash of blue light, before he exploded in a mess of blood and bone and sinew.