WHO: Imogen Montague. WHERE: Kensal Rise, London. WHEN: Sunday 23 October - Evening. WHAT: Imogen runs into a…. WARNINGS: Dementor. Also depressive thoughts because of the dementor.
On Sunday evenings, when Gilbert had disappeared into the land of practicing his wand-making craft, Imogen visited the Lexi cinema alone. It wasn't that she didn't enjoy watching movies with him, or her other friends, but it had become something of a treat and solace for her during stressful moments.
And this weekend had been stressful for reasons that she couldn't entirely articulate. There was Gilbert's sudden confession that he'd been thinking more seriously about marriage, well before Imogen considered herself ready for it. And there was... Graham. Whom she had always worried about, but these last few months, the worry had turned into niggling suspicion that there was something more to the story; an odd scratch at the back of her mind that she couldn't ever itch away. She couldn't close her eyes and ignore it, wait it out until enough time had passed. She was constantly trying to justify it. He was just lying to her to get her off her back, she'd been annoying him the last few months. Hell, she'd probably lie too if someone was constantly trying to keep her accountable. Right?
Imogen pulled her autumn coat tighter around her as an icy breeze blew through the street.
She hated the way that every time Graham obviously lied to her, it ticked over in her head like a puzzle that she couldn't solve. She hated the 'what if' questions. She hated feeling suspicious and on edge. She hated feeling shut out of his life; but what if she was never really a part of it? What if she'd done something wrong and broken his trust and that was why he lied to her so often and so readily?
Imogen shivered as the coldness grew closer. The street was quiet, only her and the sound of her heeled boots click-clacking along the pavement.
"He seems very nice; it's a good thing you're dating someone from a good family, dear, you'll have something to fall back on when you fail," pointed out a deep voice, echoing around her head.
Imogen stopped in her tracks. "Dad?" Her breath puffed out into the now icy cold air. She dug her hand into her coat pocket, fumbling for her wand. Don't turn around. Don't turn around. Imogen quickened her pace, heart pumping, her hand gripping on her wand.
"He says he's fine," her mother snapped. "You're always doing this, overreacting, stressing out. Honestly, no one can have any peace around you."
"I'm a Healer, Mum, he's not fine! He needs professional medical care, not --"
"How many times must we remind you that no one asked for your opinion?" her father butted in before slamming his book shut and retreating to his room.
Turning into an alleyway shortcut home, Imogen braced herself. What was the spell for the anti-Dementor charm again? Imogen hadn't managed to make it work before, there was no reason to believe it would now. Her limbs were tired, her heart sunk, she was cold -- freezing cold -- and alone, and unwanted, and bound to mess it up, or overreact, or--
"Expecto Patronum!" she tried, turning around to finally face what she instinctively knew had been creeping up on her all this time. Its long slimy, spindly fingers reached for her, its cloak billowing in the wind as it grew closer, relishing in the fear and hopeless it was causing.
-- "Time of death: 23:07," said her shaky voice as she looked down at the curse-riddled remains of her patient. Her patient, brown eyes glassy, mouth contorted open in pain; Imogen couldn't even reach out to close them for him in case the curse transferred to her. She'd done everything by the book, hadn't she? That's what she'd always done. The right thing. By the book. Followed procedure.
The Dementor drew closer.
"Reducto?" The spell shot out, blasting the side of some poor Muggle's house, showering broken bits of bricks down on the ghastly creature; Imogen didn't wait to see if it worked. A small pop; she fled.