Meanwhile
"Pam fi, duw!"
That was the third potato that had made a break for it, and Carys Stoker was starting to seriously consider a menu-revision - to well-pounded mash - to get a bit of an own back. She dropped the lid on the bubbling pot, glancing up at the clock as she did so. What was taking that man? Even factoring in the obligatory swift half in the Arms, he was stretching 'getting a video' a bit.
On cue, somewhere behind the assorted sounds of cooking, she heard the front door click, and footfalls in the hallway. Two sets.
Carys rolled her eyes, and skewered a carrot, as behind her the door swung fully open. What's he brought home this time?
"That'd best not be one of your drinking buddies, David," she said sharply, and turned.
David Stoker hummed to himself as he walked, occasionally raising a hand to pound an especially energetic part of the tune from the air. It was set to be a good evening: he'd got the film, Carys was working her own brand of culinary magic, and -
He turned the corner into Weston Road, and the hair on the back of his neck rose. The humming stopped and he glanced around quickly, a sudden chill sending a shiver down his spine.
What the…?
Something was wrong. What, though? All his cursory glance had shown was the usual selection of trim lawns, neat borders and overly-polished Fords that fronted the neighbours' houses. There was an absence of any of the small horde of over-fed cats that roamed the area, but Mrs Mitchels had been out with that vicious, yapping thing of hers; he hadn't seen her for quite a while, it might be a good idea to -
Mental reins twitched, dragging his thought back on track, and he froze as he recognised the sense, the drifting, enforced irrelevance of a repelling ward. David Stoker may have had the natural magical aptitude of a teapot, but Squib was not Muggle, and in that moment nine generations of Wizarding blood began sounding alarm bells.
Something was very wrong.
The video went into a nearby hedge and he moved forward, dread and caution weighting his steps. It was difficult for a man of Dave's build to move surreptitiously, but he gave it a go anyway, fervently hoping that - what? John had misjudged how to stop Carys sneaking a look in the birthday presents again? It wasn't anyone's birthday for months, but his brother-in-law did tend to lose track of time…and maybe he should go buy a card anyway. Now, in fact, just pop back…
Dammit. Dave shook his head violently and tried to ignore the random gibbering from the back of his mind. If he'd been able to get past the repellers on Ellie's diary at the tender age of ten, at thirty-seven he was bloody-well going to get into his own house!
It took ten minutes - and a concentrated dismissal of the increasingly insistent mental orders to go buy milk, nip out for another half, get a tie, check if number-eight had new double-glazing, and book a surprise visit to see an Irish aunt he was fairly sure he didn't have - before he got close enough to the house that the ward peaked and faded. He finally stopped gritting his teeth, and crouched behind the front fence, staring through the slats. Everything looked quiet enough, although the windows were dark. He doubted that Carys had decided to try cooking by night-vision. Electricity and magic didn't mix well, did they…?
Light. The lounge curtains were drawn, but there had been a flash behind the material, followed by a more constant glow…and the sound of breaking glass. His heart leapt into his throat, and he had to fight the urge to leap up and charge for the door.
Think, man! Barging in would be stupid.
Unarmed.
Progress down the side of the house and into the garage's side door was far stealthier than he would have expected of himself. Trying to move silently through a dark garage full of bike parts and strewn tools was less so, but finally he managed to get to the internal door - via the big toolbox - without causing anything especially loud to fall over.
He crouched and paused again, trying to listen at the keyhole. This kind of thing was always so much easier in the films; Bond, for example, never seemed to be half-deafened by the sound of his own heartbeat. He couldn't hear anything from inside, and a squint through the keyhole showed nothing but hallway, so he decided to risk it. The key turned, painfully slowly, and he eased the handle down, slipping into the hall beyond as soon as there was enough space.
The hall was empty, and the smell of cooking dinner hung in the air. There was another smell too - Dave sniffed gently - almost like ozone? Light spilled from beneath the lounge door, but before he could move a horrible sound, half gurgle, half wail, cut the air, sending answering ripples of horror through his mind.
Carys.
Sound. Sound is good. Sound means she's still…
The door opened. Dave froze, unable to move as a dark figure, robed and hooded, appeared in the doorway. It completely failed to see him, pressed into the corner behind a coat-rack. The wizard swung his wand, light spell sweeping over the far wall, and then moved forward, heading towards the thick shelves set along that side. The Trek-whatsis shelf, Carys had always called it.
Calls it.
The wizard leaned closer, and Dave caught a glimpse of sunken features, twisted in a strange hybrid of curiosity and contempt as the man prodded at a phaser replica with his wand. Would it that the things were any more than expensive toys…
Dave's fingers tightened, rage surging in his chest, and he lunged. The wizard didn't even have time to turn round as the tire iron came down on the back of his head with a resounding crack, and he went down like a ninepin. Dave caught him another smack before he hit the ground, and snatched the thin length of wood from between suddenly limp fingers. Useless, in his hands, but at least he knew how to look as if he could use the thing.
Now what?
The decision was made for him as the hall began to brighten. He threw himself sideways as something skimmed through the air behind him so close that it clipped the trailing end of his hair. Somewhere in the roll he lost the tire iron, hands skidding on the wooden floor, but when the world resolved he was back on his feet. In some quirk of fate and stance, his arm was out, the stolen wand pointed squarely at the figure framed in the doorway. The wizard had been a little slow and his wand was still moving round from its previous aim, still a few degrees away from a decent shot.
The moment stretched.
…shit…
He should have kept a better grip on the iron. His gaze flicked down to the fallen weapon, in the same moment as the wizard suddenly laughed. It was a quavering sound, with a nasal quality that settled unpleasantly in the ears.
"What do you want?" Dave snapped, before the other man could say anything, and tried to keep his voice level. You couldn't cast spells if you were talking, right?
The wand twitched, and something invisible smashed into Dave's chest, knocking the wind out of him and sending him crashing back into the wall, seriously inconveniencing the radiator. His fingers convulsed, hurling the useless wand away, and he gave a grunt of surprise.
Damn!
The hallway went dark again and something clamped Dave's shoulders, the leather of his jacket creaking oddly, and wrenched him upright, slamming him face-first into the wall. The pressure held and suddenly there was breath on his ear, and a slightly reedy voice talking.
"Shouldn't play with grown-ups' things. You're likely to get hurt."
Something dug into his back, pushing against the steel plates lining his leathers, and Dave tried not to breathe too much.
"What d'you want?" he repeated, trying to sound less confrontational. The weak laugh came again, and the pressure at his spine seemed to grow hot.
"Maybe you want to be helpful, yes? Your woman was much less."
Dave swallowed a furious outburst. The pressure on his shoulders shifted and he was spun round, dragged up the wall by something unseen until he was balanced on his toes. The robed figure was standing to one side of him, wand steady. There was the suggestion of a grin beneath the hood.
"There was a delivery. Something stolen, from a dear friend of mine. The Datura, Mr Archer. Where is it?"
Dave blinked. What in hell was a Datura? And Archer…?
A memory flickered into life, and his stomach tightened. Diane. That last letter - he tried desperately to remember what it had actually said - there had been something with it, hadn't there? A rock? There had been some instructions, and something about explosions, but no mention of a name… and surely she had more sense…
The pressure shifted again. It was around his whole chest now, and Dave grunted as it began to squeeze.
"I don't have all night."
"And I don't know what the hell you're talking about!"
The dark hood regarded him silently. Then the wand twitched. Dave barely had time to brace himself before he was suddenly accelerating. The wooden door crumpled at the impact, hinges bent back hard, and he landed badly in the wreckage of a bookshelf. He lay there, dazed for a moment, then struggled to pull himself back upright.
As the wizard stepped neatly through the wreckage of the door, Dave had a silent moment of thanks for his heritage. Stokers seemed to be a sturdy line, even by wizarding standards. Even so, he was fairly sure that his shoulder wasn't supposed to make little popping noises when he moved it, and neither eye seemed to be able to agree exactly on focal depth. There was a metal taste in his mouth, which he tried to ignore, and looked dizzily at his tormentor.
"I don't know what a Datara is." A thought rose, and a shard of fear eased into his heart. "Where's -?" He stopped as his brain finally processed the state of the room. Most of the furniture was wrecked, or at least wobbly, books and broken bits of decoration strewn around like confetti, and there was a pervasive scent in the air -
Dave turned. He hadn't made a decision to move, but his legs seemed to be issuing their own orders, and the next moment the bottom dropped out of his world. The sofa - the cream sofa that he always got nagged about eating on, or leaving oily clothes in the vicinity of - was distinctly not cream anymore. Carys was slumped in the crimson-slicked cushions, her head lolling, twitching slightly. There… there were…
"Tough, for Muggle-filth, that one." The voice echoed oddly, as if it were coming from far away. "Give me the Datura, and I will end her p - "
Dave lunged. That hadn't been a conscious decision either, but it didn't have to be. The wizard reacted, but not quite fast enough.
They'd always been crap at physical assaults. Back then, right now, without the wands -
His fist connected, bone-to-bone, but he barely registered the pain in his knuckles. He did notice as a ward flared, lightning crackling up his arm in response and hurling him back in some bizarre mirror of the crumpling wizard opposite. Another bit of furniture met its end beneath his semi-armoured spine, and he landed hard, grunting as he pulled himself back up onto his elbows. The wizard was clambering upright again, his hood down and with blood pouring past the fingers clutching at what remained of his nose, but the other arm was steady, rising, and the knuckles were white where he gripped the wand.
This was going to hurt.
"Crucio!"
Every nerve in Dave's body exploded; the inside of his head lit up in an agonised switchboard as the world fractured. Everything, anything, his blood afire, his veins ice, the magic clawing, shredding, his mind, everything, until there really was nothing but pain -
- and just as suddenly, it vanished. Vision returned, blurrily, and Dave started up at the dark ceiling, gaping like a fish. Odd spasms jostled his muscles, and the taste of metal was strong in his mouth. There was probably a chunk of his lip missing, but he couldn't tell. He felt… numb. The spell had forced everything else out, shattered anything other than the space in his head for pain, and he barely even registered as something pulled him to his feet, swaying. Another flutter of some insignificant agony, in his face this time, and he was falling back, his ribs jolting oddly as he hit the ground again.
Blood. Blood and cushions, and Carys crumpled. Offside in his vision, but the image burned. The sight brought anger back with it, a deep fire of crimson in the grey hole where his thoughts should be, and Dave gave a sound, part way between groan and growl, as he tried to force himself upright. He'd heard of the Unforgivable curses, in youth, fascinated in the macabre interest of children everywhere, but he'd never even imagined…
There was a soft crunch of debris underfoot.
"The Datura, Archer. One last chance to make it all swift."
Dave's head lolled a bit as he looked up, so he saw it first. Lying mere centimetres away from his right hand, nestled in the crumpled remnants of the coffee table he'd last hit, was a smooth grey shape. Tiny quartz veins gleamed under the wandlight.
What had the letter said? Something about push and throw?
So, Dave - what've you got to lose?
He lunged, rolling awkwardly as his muscles protested. Too slow, far too slow, and every eternal second he waited to feel the spell hit again, even as his hand overshot, fingers spasming closed around smooth but not rock, and he lurched, snatching blindly with the other. The roll finished, and he hit the sofa a bit too hard, vision blurring again as he raised his hand, and stopped.
The wizard was laughing again, the sickly sound that made Dave's remaining nerves crawl.
"More toys?"
Dave squinted down his own arm. Held loosely in his right hand, bizarre in the sudden mundaneness of it, was the multi-buttoned shape of the TV remote. His other fingers twitched, down by his leg and - he realised - out of his tormentor's sight. There was something cold and smooth between them. The area beneath his index finger was rougher, a little sunken, and he looked up.
Both hands tensed. Across the room, bidden by the infra-red, the television in its alcove flashed into life. Electricity and magic collided, objected, and the screen flared brilliant static before shattering in a shower of sparks. The wizard jumped, glanced round, and Dave threw the stone. Overriding his complaining muscles, he scrambled up and fell backward, his weight sending the sofa toppling back at the same moment there was a small explosion and a yell of pain. He scrambled in the sudden furniture-cave, finding Carys's limp form and pulling her closer to him -
And suddenly there was screaming, loud screaming, and smoke - steam? - and a horrible smell in the air. He didn't know what was happening, didn't care, as he scooped Carys up, staggered upright and went forward at a run. He lunged, turning as his shoulders hit the window, and curled around the smaller figure in his arms as they smashed through the glass. Like in films. Then there was lawn underfoot, then driveway, and he scrabbled at plastic-coated handles. Carys always forgot the damn car keys - daft, he'd said, if the neighbourhood hadn't been so frighteningly middle-class…
He let out a cry of relief as the door yielded, swinging smoothly open and he lowered Carys into the back seat. She was, as far as he could tell with his senses slowly shutting down, still breathing, but … no, no thinking, just get out.
The keys were in the lock. It still took several tries to turn them, but then there was an engine roar, a guttural throb beneath him. The driveway gate went under the wheels as he floored it, giving up on road-safety, traffic law and the fact he didn't even like cars, as fences, trees, houses and lights shot past. He didn't know how long they drove, his vision shrinking as blackness encroached on the edges, his reactions blurred and slowed like a drunken man, but the lights and houses began to fade, fewer, fewer, and night crept in through the windows.
The darkness, when it finally took him, still echoed with that scream.