multiversallogs | → we're older now, the light is dim, and you are only just beginning.

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→ we're older now, the light is dim, and you are only just beginning.

Who: Hermione Granger, open
What: General horrors. Feel free to meet her in a safehouse, in the middle of monster-fighting or healing, hiding out somewhere, anything. She put out an open offer of help on the network; your character is welcome to take advantage of that.
Where: Everywhere.
When: All throughout the plot, really.
Notes: I will edit in locations once I know them for specific threads. I might put openers down below, but you're welcome to jump in with absolutely anything you might have in mind!
Warnings: Mentions of death, injury, horrors, war, PTSD. Angst.

For the first time since she was thrown into Baedal, Hermione feels purposeful. And she’s not going to analyse that, she refuses, in fact, to analyse that, because there are far too many other things she needs to be doing. She needs to keep her eyes on her surroundings, for one thing.

She knows she can help, that’s the thing, and that’s good enough for her. It’s not a choice, not really- it’s never felt like a choice, doing this sort of ridiculous thing, leaving home or a place passably close to home for the sake of being, well, heroic- it’s just the sort of thing you have to do in these situations. It’s what’s right.

Truth be told, when the war was going on she'd resigned herself, very practically and quite sensibly, in her opinion, to the fact that she wasn't going to live beyond eighteen. No one alters' their parents' memories and sends them to Australia if they think they're coming back, do they? No. She'd been expecting to die. Getting herself out of that mindset had been the real trouble- and now she can feel herself slipping back into it, which isn't at all healthy, but (God help her) it gets the job done.

She Apparates sparingly- partly because she has no idea what could be lurking in any of her intended destinations, and partly because the whole point of leaving her flat was to help people, and she can’t do that if she just vanishes and reappears in place to place. No, she has to go looking.

Not that she has to look hard. The city's overrun. There are certain areas which are worse than others- she tries to get a good look everywhere at first, which is how she learns very quickly that Apparating into an area blind is a bad idea- but aside from the safehouses that keep cropping up, nowhere's really dependable. Even those safehouses aren't invincible. There are stories about them being broken into- but the ones she trusts, where she takes people and takes a bit of shelter herself, seem to be alright. She doesn't use her flat much- it's safe, but it's also empty, and she hates sitting in the quiet while the monsters lurk outside.

Anyway, she doesn't know where Crookshanks is, and she doesn't want to think about that.

It’s hard and it’s horrible, but she’s quite glad of that. If it were easy to do and to get over, she wouldn’t feel quite human. It’s already too easy for her to function in these situations, to the extent that she wonders what happened to her life, what happened to all the plans she had before she turned eleven and got that letter, what happened to her, of all people, bookish and prissy and responsible as she is- but, again, she can’t wonder for long, because her life as it is now rather demands her whole attention. Still, she has to stop sometimes- Steph didn't quite succeed in making her promise to take a break, but her words have stuck in Hermione's brain, and she does have to eat and sleep and look after the injuries she herself sustains. When she stops moving, that's when it gets dangerous- that's when she has to wonder what she's thinking, why she's so convinced that she, an uppity bookworm with dreadful hair, can possibly do enough. And that's when she has to wonder why her. And that's when she has to get up again and just do something, anything, before she starts wallowing in self pity or thinking things that begin with what if or crying or doing something else that's stupid and unproductive.

She’s never done quite so much healing magic, not even when there was a war on. This time around that’s often the best help she can provide- that and Apparating people away from the direst situations. She’s good in a fight, but some of the things that prowl Baedal now can’t be fought, or not by her at least, and there’s no shame in grabbing somebody and leaving.

The good thing is that at least while Hermione's on her feet and acting, she's never been freer of her homesickness.

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Once, Tatiana would have panicked at being separated from her friends. Kiden and Laura (and Bobby, but Bobby isn't here) - they were the strong ones. They were the ones who made her feel safe again.

They still do, but the years have made Tatiana confident in her own strength. Yeah, the city is overrun with monsters. Her costume is scuffed and torn, her body is aching in at least ten different places, she's tired and worried and a bit overwhelmed.

She can handle it. She can find her friends. She can protect the people here as best as she can; her med kit is in a pack slung on her back, and it's been getting a lot of use.

She's contemplating her supplies as she turns the corner, but the thoughts flee her mind as she freezes.

There were monsters here, no doubt about it. There's so much blood, and Tatiana swallows hard a few times.

There are a few people beyond help, and only one person standing. After those precious, wasted moments, Tatiana runs to her.

"Are you all right?"

Hermione, too, is functioning alone where in the past she was constantly one of a group, a team. Perhaps that's why for a moment, after she stumbles to her own feet, she can only stand stock still and stare at the people in front of her- and the blood, of course. Merlin, yes. Hard to miss.

She exhales a breath she hadn't noticed she was holding in a shaky gasp as Tatiana speaks to her- why her, she wonders? She's alright, it's the anonymous people on the ground who need help.

She seized by a sudden desperate need to know their names, but that's pointless.

"Yes, fine," she says, her voice higher than it should be, and then she's back on the ground again, but crouching of her own volition rather than falling, bruised knees hitting the pavement without a wince as she kneels by one of the injured. "Can you do magic, medicine, healing- anything? I can't get them all." Some of them are as good as gone already, but Hermione can't let herself think like that. "My bag, there are medical supplies if you need them-" she says disjointedly without looking up, and then, to the person she's beside- "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, this is going to hurt..."

She has her wand out, and the bag on the floor beside her opens apparently on its own, vials and jars coming flying out of it to hover in midair- she doesn't have to use her wand to make them behave as she wants them to anymore, especially not in a crisis situation. Funny, how the worse things get the better she is at this sort of magic.

Well, not very funny.

She hadn't been here for much of the fight- the last five minutes, perhaps. She hadn't been a better combatant than any of the rest, as far as she knows- she'd just had better timing.

It's a terrifying thought, but she keeps her mind on the job, and tries to keep her hands from shaking.

Instinctively, Tatiana drops with her, but she pulls back her hand when she realises what Hermione is doing. She can't help but stare, even as she reaches back and undoes her pack. She's seen magic before, but not enough that it seems ordinary.

"I have supplies. I'm - I know how to use them." The pack is set on her knees, now, and she pulls her med kit out; it's a dull, plain white, save for the bright Avengers insignia.

"What do yours do? Do you need help with him?" Her free hand, carefully gloved, finds her way to the man's, squeezing gently. He clings back with a reassuring strength. She offers him a soft smile.

"I think I can- there's- hold on-" She's talking to both Tatiana and the man she's trying to heal, sweat prickling on her brow. Her wand tip glows, pressed in the center of his chest, and he goes rigid, crying out in pain to a background of Hermione's apologies, until she goes quiet to better concentrate.

"Dittany," she says, after what feels like an age but is only seconds, when the man lies gasping, in pain but further from death than before. A vial with a dropper swoops through the air. "It cleans and seals cuts. I've got to get to the rest--"

She's not talking in full sentences, she realises, and she makes a conscious effort to calm herself down. She can't heal anybody if she's panicking, she reminds herself, straightening to step over to an unconscious woman whose hair is matted with blood. "You only need a few drops," she says, sounding stronger, getting to the end of her sentence this time. "There's more, but let's- let's get the most immediate injuries seen to first."

His hand spasms in Tatiana's, but she doesn't let go; when he relaxes again, panting, she rubs circles against his skin, murmuring reassurance.

She uses her free hand to pluck the vial out of the air, rising herself.

Suddenly, his hand tightens in hers again. "Don't leave." It's a cracked whisper.

"We won't go far," she promises. "We'll take care of everyone else, and then we're getting you somewhere safe. I promise." After a moment, he gives a pained nod as she pulls her hand away.

"Check for a pulse first," she cautions quietly. "I know it - we don't want to waste any." It hurts to say, it sounds so callous to her ears, but she's learned the need to be practical.

"I know," Hermione says, a little weakly. Tatiana is right, and wise to say it; this entire sudden period of chaos has been a war of heart versus head for her. Her heart's the only thing motivating her to move her feet- but her head's the only reason she's any use to the people she comes across.

She keeps working- checking the pulse of every prone body. Some she finds, some she doesn't- the worst is the one she finds that weakens and stops under her fingers, as she hopelessly tries to help. It's strange, working with somebody, but she's glad for it- she looks up to catch Tatiana's eye for a brief second- "And you? You're alright?"

Her talents in multi-tasking haven't got unused in recent days; her hands are moving even as she's addressing Tatiana, and immediately after she drops her attention to- well, her patient, she supposes, but she's not a doctor, and honestly hates that she's having to heal people. She wants to cry out that she hasn't got the training for this-- but she can do it. So she has to try.

She's not the only one who finds her temperament more suited to life during a crisis - all the baggage that comes with surviving horrific ordeals vanishes when you're still in the midst of it, versus the steps beyond; you make sense, in the context of nightmares, if you're damaged enough.

Which Severus Snape is, beyond a shadow of a doubt, cracked and splintered in all the right ways to make him appear almost too appropriate for a world gone mad. He makes more sense in Baedal than he does in Britain, and he makes yet more now than he did a week ago, black clothes stiff with blood, ash on his skin and under his nails, dark eyes keen. He moves with the disorienting snap-blink of Apparating, or as the horror show inspired black smoke of Death Eaters, or, as now, merely on his feet, walking across ruined cobblestones with his left hand raised, palm out, guiding purple-hued corrosive flames that consume and destroy every clinging, vicious little deathly sprite in its path.

When he sees Hermione he pauses, tilts his head and looks at her - but doesn't speak. The world around them is making enough noise as it is, but there's acknowledgement there. His gaze is too-sharp but distant at once, unnerving, the right side of his face painted (accidentally?) with what looks like a stripe of long-dried blood; maybe an injury, maybe a tribute. A metaphysical glimmer (of what should be familiarity) behind him says he's been shoving people behind wards, but he's here beyond them. In passing.

She sees him and her first response is to run, because- bloodstreaked and clothed in black- he looks like one of the monsters on first glance. But she's being paranoid, jumping at shadows, not an unreasonable precaution in the situation; the next second, as he makes eye contact, she recognises him.

She looks different, too, from how she usually does, all that primness hardened into something practical. Still, she doesn't quite fit in as he does with the nigh-apocalyptic background; the bloodstains on her pale blue blouse are incongruous, and under her own layer of grime and blood (not all of it red; not all of it human) she looks even younger than usual. Something about contrast, maybe.

The second of recognition and acknowledgement costs her some of her concentration, but she regains it ten fold, her face twisting in sudden pain and vicious determination, a veritable explosion of white sparks crackling from her wand as she blasts the creatures closest to her.

He's closer to her in a heartbeat, not rushing to her aid or even just being friendly, but tactically, it's a bit safer if they aren't flinging spells around at fast-moving targets if they're potentially in each others crossfire. He walks past her, in fact, to take aim at something creeping in - there are no sparks or shining light from any of his spells, all cutting, burning, harsh and brutal and meant to kill as fast and effectively as possible by severing the life of flesh and the metaphysical both.

Once the unknown things have been culled he waits, listening, for sounds of anything approaching through the din of resigned sadness that's beset the city in the wake of the siege. Something in the distance sounds - rumbling? not quite - heavy weight over stone, rhythmic, not footsteps.

Quietly, still to her back, a soldier's guard position, "Where you tracking something?"

She lifts her chin, eyes wide, not answering for a moment as she listens to that steady drag.

Coming closer?

Yes.

"I got a call," she murmurs, very quietly and evenly. "An SOS, I suppose. Nothing to see but the cobbles and a lot of blood. Someone-" she swallows and carries on very calmly "-shouted where they were."

Screamed, really. Well, this is what she's offered to do; being harrowed by it is stupid. They must be dead by now, though, she thinks, dully and distantly. She hadn't expected the tiny, biting sprites, tearing at her skin (little beads of blood seem to be blossoming everywhere on her, though she hadn't felt any bites or scratches while she was concentrating on fending them off).

She probably doesn't need to tell him that; talking unnecessarily feels like a luxury which could cost lives. She listens for a second longer for any other dangers and then makes a move towards the slow, dragging sound (Gryffindors) with her knuckles white on her wand, her face pale and harshly drawn.

When the monsters invade, Lily's first instinct is, as always, protect Harry. But when the first instinct crashes into the horrible reminder that Harry isn't here, her Order of the Phoenix training kicks back in, and she runs out into the mess to help as much as she can. (You've already died once! part of her brain points out cheerfully. What's the worst that can happen? Gallows humor. A necessary, if morbid, response.)

She skitters round a corner, firing off one last hex at the thing with too many legs that had been haring after her, and stops to catch her breath, hands on knees, still clutching her wand. She looks up, scanning the area, and spots a familiar figure. Quickly, she closes the distance.

"Ah - it's Hermione, right? Are you okay?"

Hermione's catching her breath too- the reasons why are fairly obvious, from the sprawled, slimy mass of monster close by. It appears to be dissolving. She's flattened up against a brick wall with her eyes wide, taking in ragged gasps of air- and she's on such high alert that when Lily calls to her, she almost points her wand at her.

She doesn't, luckily, her mind catching up with reality before she can do something stupid- like, for example, point her wand at Lily Potter, of all people.

"...Mrs Potter," she says, a little breathlessly, smiling weakly at her. It doesn't meet the expression in her eyes, which is simultaneously concerned and sharp, but also a little sheepish, as if disowning the situation they're in, communicating this is almost too mad, isn't it? She can't really process or analyse the absurdity of the situation beyond that- it's gone too far and is happening too quickly. "I'm fine. Bit out of breath. Is everything-" No. Everything is not alright. "Are you alright?"

She sounds so polite, with dirt and blood smudged along her cheek and gory stains in her clothing, that it's almost comical if you've got a black enough sense of humour.

Lily is about to correct her with the alias she's been trying to use in the city - oh it's Daisy Williams actually, but I can understand the mistake but honestly, it seems that everyone in the bloody city knows who she is anyway, so it's really just best to give it up as a bad job. (Besides, the fake glasses are long gone - lost in a scuffle with some kind of green lizard thing - and the glamour on her hair's worn off, too, leaving it its natural - and at the moment, immensely tangled and frazzled - red.) She shakes her head, trying to get a hold of the situation.

"I'm all right." There's a scrape along her forehead and a few tears in her clothes, but it's nothing a few minutes in a quiet corner can't fix. She notices the blood on Hermione's cheek, brow furrowing in concern. "You're not hurt, are you? I'm quite good with medical magic, I'd be happy to help - "

"Oh, no, no," Hermione says quickly, shaking her head. She's regaining her breath rather slowly, but otherwise seems calm- or as close as anyone could reasonably be, considering the fact of what's happening around them. And she's noticed the state of Lily's forehead, too.

"I've got Dittany if you want it," she offers, nodding to indicate the scrape. "Thank Merlin a little goes a long way- it's been getting quite a lot of use."

Lily reaches up when Hermione nods, and she seems a little surprised to find the scratch there. She tries to remember what it was that inflicted it, and if the implement was dirty or not.

"If you wouldn't mind," she says with a flash of a strained, tired smile. "I'd appreciate it."

"Not at all, that's why I'm carrying it," she explains, unhooking her bag from one shoulder and shoving her arm in up to the elbow- there's an Undetectable Extension Charm on it, of course, but she finds the Dittany easily. It's good to have it close on hand, after all, even if a Summoning Charm works.

"Comes in handy. Unfortunately. Want to do it yourself? I might have a better view."

"No, you go ahead." She smiles, stepping a little closer to Hermione, pushing her hair out of the way of her forehead. "I'm rubbish at putting it on myself; it always ends up in my eyes or something like that. Thank you."

"It's a very real danger," Hermione agrees, a little shakily; humour as a coping mechanism still sits a little strangely on her shoulders. She smiles nonetheless, dropping Dittany carefully on Lily's forehead- "I suppose you already know it stings something dreadful," she says, rather apologetically.

She does wince a little at the sting, but she presses her lips together and forbears it. "Yeah, it does. That's how you know it's working, I guess, though, really you'd think they'd be able to come up with something that doesn't feel like it's searing off your skin."

Wolfgang is not physical combat oriented (what he wouldn't do right now for a gun!) but there's a million little useful things he can do that he only freaks out about in private. It's been days, he's still not over this m-word thing -- but he doesn't have time to think too hard about it. He'll have his mental breakdown at a more convenient time.

For now, he's staying occupied. Part of what he's doing in the siege is supply runs for safehouses -- he can carry a truly ridiculous amount of stuff in one small backpack, plus he can look for people who need help on the way. It's during one of those runs that he hears someone screaming and immediately goes to help, but he's just a minute too late -- the man, armed with a sword he doesn't quite know how to use, has managed to kill the frog-thing that attacked him, but it took a huge chunk out of his thigh in the process and his face goes dead white as he collapses.

Wolfgang sprints the distance between them because even from twenty yards away, he can tell that's a bad wound. The man is mostly conscious but in a lot of pain. The bleeding's bad; Wolfgang applies pressure to the wound and rips his sleeve to make a makeshift tourniquet, hoping he can keep him from bleeding out on him even if he can't save the leg. Wolfgang is not a medic and the situation is rapidly getting worse. What he needs immediately is a healer, but he doesn't have the time or the ability to bring him anywhere; this man weighs more than he does. He can't carry him. God only knows where his CiD is, and he might not get a response in time.

Okay, so he'll just have to find someone.

Closing his eyes and concentrating, he sends his mind out in a wide radius from his body, broadcasting what's more of a feeling than anything else, an impulse. He has to hope someone is in his range and can get here in time. It is easier by far to broadcast a need than it is to use actual words, but he does manage one: Help.

A few years ago, Hermione had her first and last experience with people putting words into her mind- Voldemort's voice echoing in her head as she stood amongst the ruins of Hogwarts.

Somewhat understandably, then, it's not enjoyable for her to repeat the experience, even if this intrusion is nothing like its predecessor. She still cries out in surprise- not pain, it doesn't hurt, though for some reason she feels like it should and almost reacts as if it does- and her hand goes to her forehead, sweat prickling on her skin. For a moment, she mistakes the wave of need and desperation for her own emotions, and then the word help echoes in her skull and she realises what's happening. An SOS.

She can do this, she promises herself, isolating her own feelings from the invading ones and steeling herself. Of course she can do this.

Where is she going to?

The question actually only occurs to her when she's already started running. She thinks oh Merlin let this be right and reminds herself that mental communication is often limited by physical distance, especially when it's so primal and instinctive, that it is far more to do with the unconscious mind than the conscious, so she can't be far away and what's more, if she consciously tries to work out where it came from she won't have a hope in hell of working it out...

She wishes she could Apparate, and has heard testimonies of people who have been able to Apparate with only the barest scraps of information- place names and the like. Even people's name.

Hermione can't do that. Hermione does things by the book.

This time, her feet seem to know more than her mind does. Either that, or she's very, very lucky, and looking back on it later that's probably what she'll surmise with a prissy sniff and her eyebrows raised: lucky coincidence. Assuming she survives.

Now, though, that doesn't matter. It can't. She rounds the corner after only minutes, though she seems to take forever.

And oh, God, look at the blood.

"Merlin."

But she can't afford to be shocked anymore, not now. She just drops her bag, pulls out Dittany and decides it's not enough, pulls out a vial of something else- foul smelling, black, not a recipe from home but one she's willing to trust when there's nothing else. She all but ignores Wolfgang, saying to the man on the ground, "It's alright, I'm-" A witch who has read a lot of books, a decent potioneer who brewed this for the first time a week ago, a bookworm who was never meant to have to fight monsters, an overachiever hopelessly out of her depth but doing a good job of pretending, maybe good enough to save a few lives- yes, that's all that matters, not her bloody stupid insecurities. If she can save him, it will be enough. "-here to help. You'll have to drink this."

She puts the vial to his lips and addresses Wolfgang in a voice that sounds rigidly restrained- she's in control of herself, but it's very obvious that she needs to be, that there is hysteria and terror bubbling under the surface, held painfully tightly in check. "Keep the pressure on that, please. In a second, you'll, um, need to put the Dittany on it." It doesn't cross her mind to explain what Dittany is, but the bottle sails through the air towards him, its leisurely pace incongruous and- horribly- almost comical.

Wolfgang restrains the feeling of immense relief at the sight of someone approaching them, barely containing it from broadcasting -- because it won't help to flood someone else with his emotions, not beyond what he needs to for survival, and there are some major ethical concerns he just. Has not had time to process. Reading people's minds, giving them his thoughts, and, awfully, forcing them to do things... it's necessary but it's not pleasant and it's not ethical.

One more thing to beg forgiveness for. Later.

And, yes, she knows what she's doing. Thank God. He had been praying for a healer and not just some random -- because if whoever it was didn't know what they were doing, he would rather not make them watch someone die. He's watching her intently, keeping the wound elevated and applying pressure to it -- that's all he can do. Well -- no. He could relieve some of the pain.

Not now, he needs to focus on this. Later, if this man survives, he can help until they get him somewhere with real painkillers.

Wolfgang is remarkably calm. He should be falling apart -- he's so neurotic and emotional in day-to-day living -- but in a real crisis, he keeps his head. He spent a year and some change training for this, prepared for the very real possibility that he'd have to watch the men and women in his unit die. But he hesitates before he takes the bottle because, no, he has no idea what it is and how it's used. He can guess topical, but... "The what?"

Dammit, he's going to have to learn magic after this, isn't he. He had been counting on pretending none of this ever happened, but it occurs to him he doesn't know anything about anything; all he does is destroy things.

"The- oh. Put a few drops on, a little goes a long way, it cleans and seals wounds but won't be enough on its own for- for this." Her voice is hurried, fear held tightly in check, and she blinks away distractions anxiously, trying to focus on the man she's treating.

He's twisting on the ground now, crying out. "I know, it's not pleasant, but please--"

Not pleasant? It's like drinking battery acid, painful and bitter; Hermione had to choke down a mouthful of it herself after a run-in with a winged snake. But it does its job, she can attest to that. Once he manages to swallow some down, its effects are quickly visible, though rather unsettling to watch- flesh and bone regrowing itself is never pleasant to see. Hermione takes a deep, shaking breath and nods at Wolfgang, managing, "Please," in reference to the Dittany, before she turns her attention to pulling a different potion from the recesses of her bag.

Wolfgang applies the Dittany when she asks, wincing at how the poor man moans and cries, something he doesn't blame him for at all. In his position, he'd be having the same reaction. His mouth is pursed in a thin line -- it's the pain he can feel (not to mention hear) that really bothers him, not the ghoulish nature of the healing, considering what he's been up to over the past weeks. He will be damned if he has to watch another innocent person die here. Fuck this city.

"Do you need him awake? I can..." His gesture is not the most illuminating, and in frustration he stops speaking English, relies on the city to translate for him. "Put him under." He can't stop the pain, only make him not mind it so much, and sleep may be as much relief as he can provide right now.

"For the pain?" Hermione takes a deep breath, tries to work out whether that's a good idea or not, whether you're supposed to let someone sleep- but that's concussion. Isn't it?

Come on, you've read about this!

"Just a moment," she says, more confidently than she feels; she has to get him to swallow this next potion as well, after all, tipping chin up and trying to make it as easy as possible. "I promise this one's easier to take," she says to the injured man, and then to both of them- "Please. If that's-" She glances down at the man, but he's in no position to make decisions, twisting and gasping from the pain. She looks to Wolfgang again, resealing a vial, her face drawn. "Yes. Do it."

The pause there is because he has to think about how to do this. It can sometimes be enough for him to just wish things to happen, but his magic is unpredictable and he wants something more solid, something that it can't misinterpret. After a moment he leans over and makes sure the injured man is looking directly at him, holding his face still. What he finally says is not in English, and he doesn't intend to be understood by anyone, so it's not translated; it could be anything.

It's not that interesting, anyway, it is not actually a spell, just the focus for one. A nursery rhyme is the most natural focus he can think of for this -- it makes it easy to wrap the magic around it if they relate to each other in some way. Sleep is an easy impulse, particularly considering how exhausted the man was already, but he's in a lot of pain and it takes a while to get past that.

Finally, though, he's still, eyes closed, breathing even rather than laboured.

He leans back then, face drawn from concern rather than effort. "Is he... you think he's going to be okay?"

Jumping into a situation blind is these sorts of crisis scenarios is generally a terrible idea. But fortune favours the bold, or perhaps caution is simply boring, because Bellatrix Black has Apparated close enough to a levitating creature that appears to be a mass of flesh, a large eyeball, and a handful of stalks with smaller eyeballs that she feels it prudent to pop out again. Some distance away.

Only she finds that as the thing is looking at her, she can't. She staggers back, one hand pressed to her head as a sense of inexplicable dread seems to crush her chest and leave her short of breath. She gasps - quite audibly - wand at the ready, and shaking in her white-knuckled grasp.

Hermione hasn't jumped in blind, exactly, staying on foot; she comes racing across ruined cobbles when she sees the creature and the woman close by, not recognising her at first-

And then the thing turns an eyestalk on her, and suddenly moving is like swimming through treacle and she gasps, stumbling and having to shove her way through thin air. What is it, a barrier or a ward or a spell? No- it's to do with the thing's eyes--

"Don't let it look at you!" she cries, still barely able to move and out of breath just trying to battle her way out of the creature's line of sight...when she realises who that is with her wand out.

Oh, Merlin, no.

But she's already started to drag her arm upwards to cast a spell and now that she's struggled to get this far she can't very well stop, aiming for the eyestalk- "Diffindo!"

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→ we're older now, the light is dim, and you are only just beginning.

tell me if this is okay!

this is marvellous!

:D brilliant!

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shoot me a pm if it's not all groovy

/thumbs up

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do let me know if this does not work

IT WORKS did you say it can or cannot block spells? also so late aaaah