charity burbage MIGHT be looking up again. (mugglemethis) wrote in find_horcruxes, @ 2009-09-01 09:52:00 |
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Entry tags: | caradoc dearborn, charity burbage |
RP Log: Doc Dearborn, Charity Burbage
Who: Doc Dearborn, Charity Burbage
When: Just after the Kings Cross attack
Where: Burbage household
What: Doc goes to clean himself up after the attack.
Rating: PG13
Attack at Kings Cross, the wireless said. Most of the Ministry of Magic had been cleared out the moment the news spread, and Charity Burbage apparated directly home as soon as it had broken. She locked the doors, put up extra alarm charms, and went straight to the kitchen for a drink. Two small blocks of ice and a dousing of firewhiskey later, Charity could not ignore the silence in the house any longer. Charity had gone straight upstairs to knock on Doc's door immediately after, the ice clinking in her glass as she climbed the staircase. Standing outside his room, she pressed her ear to the door, listening for any tell-tale signs of someone asleep. Nothing. Knocking, she whispered, "Doc? Doc, are you asleep? I don't mean to wake you but..." But Doc was not there. With his work hours, by all rights, he should have been. Likely still asleep, maybe just getting up, having breakfast or a shower. There were no sounds from the bathroom, and the house was empty otherwise. Somewhere inside her, she knew he was involved. Though he'd mentioned that he'd be on patrol, Charity hadn't any clue it might be this sort of patrol. Somehow, her glass was drained though she didn't remember drinking it. Back into the kitchen, she stood at the counter, dropping ice into the glass and turning to fetch the bottle of firewhiskey when she realised that her hands were shaking. There was chaos enough when blood was being shed in at the station, but the aftermath, when Doc was finally able to look up and observe what the havoc had wrought... It always felt surreal at that first glance. People down, the architecture marred all over, and that muted ringing in his ears as it all started to sink in. He'd let that woman Death Eater have it -- really have it compared with past fights. He wanted her to hurt, and the sound of her ribs cracking were hard to ignore. ...But if she had any business in the group that murdered Margaret, then he wasn't going to let it eat at him. Not much. He didn't murder her. He wasn't them. There had been the time he stayed behind, trying to see after other Order members should they need help getting to safety, getting away from the stationed Aurors. Eventually there wasn't anything more Doc could do, and giving in to the fact that he was sporting a wound himself and how one of the Aurors was approaching him and the polyjuice was wearing off... he couldn't process each reason, but he knew where to go. Seconds later he was opening the door to Charity's house, dragging himself immediately to the bathroom sink to start washing the blood off his hands. Red swirled down the drain as he winced back the odd sensation of having his bone structure and skin try to recapture his usual appearance. The sound of the door snapped Charity out of her silly reverie, and her hands immediately moved to grab her wand off the counter. Slinking through the kitchen as quietly as she could, the sound of running water drew her toward the bathroom. Wand held in front of her, she pressed her lips together to keep herself from making any noise. Funny how her hands weren't shaking any-more and her breathing seemed so very loud. Outside the bathroom door, she squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, the fear pulsating almost tangibly in her ears, as she drew up some courage. Maybe it was comical to the casual outsider, but Charity pushed herself quickly in front of the door, holding her wand out at the "intruder." Polyjuice Potion. That much she was certain of. "Who are you, and what are you doing in my house?" Doc didn't even reach for his wand, as he looked straight down at the running tap, pausing as he was. He knew his face was still regaining its original shape, and turning to Charity while that was going on didn't seem like a smart move. As it was, she'd caught him midway through the shift, but in which direction would have been his question -- had he been in her shoes. She had every right to assume him as an impostor that had somehow gotten a hold of something belonging to Caradoc Dearborn. And so he remained very, very still. "Ask me the question," Doc replied, knowing it was about the only thing he could bank on to prove himself. "Worst dare I ever made you do?" she asked, knowing full well that if some Death Eater captured him, he would give the answer away under Veritaserum. Of course, she would have had to be the target for that, and they'd have to ask him for that particular question. It was all very egocentric, but given the past few weeks, she wasn't going to discount anything. If it was Doc, he'd been hurt. Clearly not too bad, he was still standing, but there was blood pouring out of his shoulder. If she wasn't so unsure it was him, she'd have gone over immediately. If not for the situation and for that being the absolute most obscure thing they could have made as a security question, Doc would've taken a proper moment to appreciate how otherwise hilarious the answer was. "The red dress," he solemnly answered, still keeping frozen on the spot, the faucet still running on high. "On Christmas Eve." He'd been well-smashed that night, and they reached a whole new level of imaginative improvisation when Charity had made her challenge to try on the red number. The worst part wasn't the dress so much as the pictures that Doc knew still existed somewhere. He'd laughed then, and even for some time after about it, but now it was just another part of what had been lost between them. And an answer to a question so that Charity wouldn't be so inclined to keep holding him at wandpoint. Times certainly did change. "Oh, thank God, Doc. I was worried about you," Charity exhaled, lowering her wand immediately and rushing into the bathroom. She tossed her wand onto the counter and grabbed a hold of his chin, turning his face this and that to see if there was any damage there. She had invaded his personal space without a second thought. "They said on the wireless there was an attack on Kings Cross, and when you weren't here, I just assumed the... the worst. Are you all right? You're bleeding. Your arm..." At least the Polyjuice's effects were over with by the time Charity had walked over, and Doc allowed himself to be looked upon. Perhaps he wasn't the prettiest sight in that moment, but the face was his, all the same. Scuffed up and flecked with small scratches -- but recognisable as his, and he hadn't the energy to make her stop examining it. It was only human, he figured, to appreciate someone caring. But Doc slipped his jaw from her fingers to look over to his shoulder where the worst was done. It was nothing compared with the others, and he almost felt guilty for climbing out of King's Cross without something more. Stupid logic, but he'd glimpsed Moody before Morgan MacDougal had rushed in to start attending to the man, and that... that sight wasn't something he was going to forget anytime soon. "Death Eaters," Doc confirmed, raising a hand to the gash along his shoulder and running down his arm, and trying to peel back his shirt to get a better look. "I'll be all right. Just need to clean it up." "Sit, Doc. Let me -- I've been so useless here, let me help you," she said, wincing as blood dribbled down the side of his arm when he'd angered the wound. She hissed through her teeth, eyebrows zig-zagging across her forehead in worry as she pushed on his chest to get him to sit down on the closed toilet seat. Charity tried lifting the sleeve of the shirt to get a better look at it, but it was difficult at best. "You've got to take this off. I can't... the sleeve's too tight and I'm just agitating it more by trying it this way." First and foremost on her mind was not that Doc would be shirtless in her presence, but it hadn't escaped her mind. After all, when there was terrifying things going on, sometimes, the first thing on a person's mind was comfort. Usually of the physical kind. Hadn't that been the reason they'd slept together a month earlier? Well, yes and no. Her own discomfort was not taken into account. Doc obeyed, and though he didn't reply, the way he didn't resist being gently pushed down on the seat covered what he might've said, if he had. He considered that it wasn't her job to stand there fussing over his wounds, but it would be an uphill climb trying to patch himself up in his current state. And, maybe it wasn't her duty, but if she let him stay in that house for her... then he could let her do this for him. If she wanted to. He'd have to trust that she only asked him to take his shirt off because it was restricting her from giving that help, as well. "Just a second," he replied, already working at the buttons. It wasn't any trouble to slip his good arm out, but coming up to freeing the second was presenting a case that required a more delicate approach. He stretched the arm out, trying to work the fabric around the wound so that what had clotted up wouldn't be disturbed. Cringing, Charity peeled the fabric back from the skin as slowly as she could. Her gaze shifted from the wound to his face to watch for any sign of distress. After nearly a decade, she could read the smallest tick of change on his face. He wouldn't have to say anything to get his point across. "Let me know if I'm pulling this too hard," she said, continuing slowly. Had it been a smaller wound, she likely would have just pulled it quickly, but it looked much deeper than a simple scrape, and so she kept on carefully stripping the fabric away, thread by thread until it was finally freed. She crouched on her knees in front of him, grabbing a wash cloth from under the sink and ran it under the tap. When she was satisfied that it was damp enough, she dabbed it gingerly against his shoulder. "Jesus, Doc. What happened? They kept us in the dark on the wireless, but most of us went home. Everyone who wasn't essential." "It's fine." Doc preferred to bite down on his lower lip, nodding to Charity to keep going. Some of the blood had dried into that shirt, essentially making it part of the fresh scab that was trying to form. The moment he was free, he lowered his arm again, and finally reviewed what that one severing hex had done; he wasn't about to describe it beyond it being red and quite painful-looking -- not that this sort of thing usually got to him, but knowing that Charity was attending to it made Doc feel uneasy for her sake. He did flinch -- purely reflex -- as the damp cloth made contact. Nerves. That's all it was. Doc was trying his best not to show it, but the smallest of reactions couldn't be masked. "About a half hour before the train was supposed to leave... they swarmed in. Aurors were there to watch, but..." He quietly sucked in a breath. "Good thing they weren't alone." She flinched when he did, pulling the cloth away for a moment before placing a shaky hand on his chest to steady him. The other began the task of grazing the open wound so lightly that he might not feel it. Every touch grew a little harder; this wouldn't help any if she didn't clean it out. Charity did her best not to show how worried she was for everyone involved -- everyone except the Death Eaters, of course. They could choke on their own blood for all she cared; she was long past feeling as though they were human beings, after all. "They just... attacked? Out of nowhere? Why would they do that? There were children there." She'd never understand the plans of monsters. "And Muggles. Dear God, have they no -- no respect for human life? I don't understand them." There were questions now, and seeing as Charity knew what they were capable of -- everyone did, she reminded herself -- she wanted to know how many ended up dead because of them. How many more people were going to feel like she did: powerless, terrified, and mourning who they had lost? Doc didn't know why he did, but he lifted his left hand, placing it over Charity's on his chest. It was easy enough to take as something he needed to focus on for a second as she kept patting his open gash, but the whole thing was simply falling back into an old habit for a fleeting moment. He dropped his hand, trying not to think much of it. Besides, there were other people to think of. Wounded. Dead. "All across the station," he told her, his face drawn down in mourning as those recent memories replayed. "No one knows why they did. More baseless violence. You'd think they would leave children out of it, if no one else." Charity would have blissfully ignored her own discomfort, had Doc not placed his hand over hers. Her movements slowed, though didn't stop, and if he had been looking at her face, he'd see that she was blinking just a little too often. But he dropped it, and she resumed her normal pace. Charity pushed herself to her feet, leaning over his shoulder to check the back of the wound. Her hair fell from her face onto his shoulder, and her cheek was almost touching his. There was no time to think about their awkwardness, but it sort of hovered in the back of her mind. "What were they after? Diagon Alley was to scare all those Muggle-borns and their parents out of the Wizarding World, I'm sure. Tanner's murder was probably because he spoke out against the Secrecy act -- which, by the way, I thought was pretty silly. That act protects us as much as it protects Muggles. Mum... well, she gave birth to a magic-stealer..." The last was said very quietly. A bit more conscious of himself now, Doc leaned slightly away from Charity as she almost did brush her face against his. It didn't seem the time for thinking of her, especially not in the way he kept falling back to at every nearly-something between them. She was just cleaning out his wound, for Merlin's sake. She'd have to be close enough to do so, and it didn't require him to do anything more than sit still. "I couldn't tell you," Doc answered. It bothered, too. All that destruction to what cause? He didn't expect the Death Eaters to go spilling, but some hint that they had purpose would have at least put context to everything. Make it murder that wasn't for the sake of killing, even if the reason was still utterly vile. He looked around as Charity's voice faded to a hush. She'd been listening on the wireless, she told him, and all while he was out there fighting. Her alone with the wireless, and then he came bursting in and startling her even more. His expression darkened. "How are you holding up?" "I'm fine, but I'm not the one with a shoulder wound." Charity laughed a bit bitterly, shaking her head. He would ask her how she was doing. Compared to the violence of the day, she was having a cake-walk. "Had a drink when I got home, though you might be upstairs so I was going to tell you what I'd heard on the wireless. I hadn't been here for more than fifteen minutes when you came in." She pulled away to take her wand off the counter. If there was one thing she'd learned outside of her work experience, it was how to close up wounds. Not the deep set sorts, but cuts, scrapes from cooking with sharp instruments. Tapping her wand against his shoulder, she watched as it closed up better than any Muggle stitches would. It would be sore, red, raw for a while. It would scab over, but at least it wouldn't lay open like that. Doc nodded, although he didn't completely accept her word for it. Even a few minutes alone with whatever news was being broadcast on the wireless could stretch on if that news wasn't the comforting sort. Somehow, he figured that what was being reported on the King's Cross attack was vague enough to worry people even more for lack of knowing what happened. He gripped both hands on his knees as magic patched up his shoulder as best it could -- it wasn't painful as much as it was just an odd sensation feeling the skin pull together again. "I walked away from it mostly unscathed, considering," he finally replied. "Some on our side didn't look..." He stopped. "I'm sure I'll there'll be reports in the journals soon enough of how everyone's doing." Charity's face drained of all colour, her mouth dropping open at the admission. Oh God, some on their side were down, hopefully not dead though. She couldn't stand the thought of any of them -- the ones she knew -- being hurt. Then again, maybe Doc didn't think his injuries were too bad, and there was a wide range of things that could happen. "What... Who was hurt?" She didn't like being left in the dark, for whatever reason. There were some things she'd long accepted as items Doc would not tell her, could not tell her. Once his shoulder was closed up, she pulled a bandage from behind the sink. "Can I help?" The same had been going through Doc's head. It was impossible to tell which of those that had gone down would eventually get back up, and even an optimist would have to wonder if maybe some wouldn't. "I don't know," he answered. It wasn't a lie. The Order had been disguised, and he didn't take notes on who all was who. "I saw Moody -- but he'll be taken care of. The Death Eater I was --" Doc stopped. How much was too much to be saying? Charity knew enough about the Order, and he didn't want to keep her in the dark, but was this necessity? "The Death Eaters got theirs, too. Don't think we can do much now until we know the damage." Charity didn't like to think of herself as having a weak constitution, but the fact of the matter was that when it came to the thought of Doc battling anyone, the painted picture made her dizzy. Closing her eyes, she grabbed for the bathroom sink and leaned heavily against it. Toss in Moody -- clearly something bad had happened to him, if Doc mentioned him -- and that was a recipe for alcoholism. Funnily enough, Charity could have scolded herself for not feeling one single ounce of remorse for any injured Death Eaters. They had started it, and no doubt, all the deaths would be attributed to them. They always were, and any injuries or worse, they deserved it. She wasn't used to feeling such spite for any group of people, particularly a group of people she didn't know, but the grief from her mother's murder had been turning to rage achingly slow these days. "The Death Eaters can rot in hell for all I care," she said, her jaw clenching. Taking a few deep breaths, she opened her eyes. "All right. When we know the damage, I want to help in whatever way I can. I need to feel like I'm not powerless." As Charity slipped away to have a moment to recompose her thoughts by the sink, Doc found his footing, lifting himself to stand. A test pivot of his shoulder seemed to prove that he'd be all right to try and wrap it up now, and then possibly consider putting on a shirt that was less stained red than the one discarded on the floor. Finding it impossible to not notice the way Charity tensed up as she spoke again, Doc had a thought to reach out, place what he could only hope was a comforting hand on her shoulder. A moment after, he gave up fighting with himself over it. "They're well on their way," he replied as his fingers settled lightly down, tips brushing her collar bone. "Come on. I'll get another shirt and we can see if anyone's reporting anything more on the wireless or in the journals." Doc's hand at her shoulder, at her collarbone, was distracting her from her thoughts, but it was simply replacing anger with less-than-holy thoughts. Doc was shirtless, and now that she wasn't concerned with wounds, she couldn't help but notice how close he was to her. No sense getting yourself worked up, Charity. He doesn't mean it like that. Finally, she shifted her gaze to look at him, though she couldn't bring herself to look him in the eye. Why did she want to slip her arms around him and just hold him so badly right now? She wanted him to pet her hair and tell her that everything was going to be all right. "Yeah, all right. You'll have to get your journal; nothing's going to be warded to me, I guarantee that. And I..." She ambled backwards out of the bathroom door to let him through. "I'm going to make myself another drink..." "Right," Doc quietly agreed as his hand steadily dropped to its side, Charity having started away before he could process that he should let go first. He noticed she wasn't looking at him despite that she was facing him. There were so many of these sorts of moments, but he reminded himself that he knew it wouldn't be easy. It. Living with her again. Being in the Order. Everything. "Go ahead," he told her, stepping past to his room. Well, her room. It had been hers first, but now he just happened to keep his belongings in it. "I'll catch up." |