Red-Handed || Fabian & Millicent
Fabian’d gotten restless in his apartment, waiting on another assignment. Gringotts had him in-country for the moment, and he’d heard rumors of some Scottish catacombs up north. But for now, he was off-duty, forcing himself outside whenever possible. As much as he wanted to lie around, maybe sleep a bit, nothing was more painful than the silence. Distractions helped, in that regard. So that morning he’d gone to a Muggle restaurant downtown, eager to be in the company of strangers. People who didn’t know him, then or now…people for whom he didn’t have to pretend to be alright.
He quite liked Muggle places. Art talked about Muggles incessantly, and Fab had to admit, they were sort of incredible, in their way. He did his best to blend in, but he was still learning to deal with Muggle money. Fortunately the numbers were straightforward enough, even if the bills were weird. Paper didn’t seem very sturdy, as far as money went. It burned and tore and blew away. But to each their own, he supposed.
He was staring at the bills in his hand, trying to count out the right amount to cover his bill when a blast tore through the window, blowing the tables backward. Fabian hit the floor with the others, grunting at the shards of broken glass and splinters of wood flying through the air. His ears rang, blinking at what remained of his table as he glanced around, surveying the damage. Fuck. His left arm hurt like hell, using his other to awkwardly ease off it. As he tried to support his weight on it gingerly, he swore silently, letting out a low hiss as he sat up, tucking it in close to his side. He’d tried catching himself, slamming it into the ground as the blast’d knocked him over. Didn’t know for sure without a mediwizard, but it felt broken. Wasn’t too keen to look at it or fuss with it, right then. He touched his tongue to his lip briefly, tasting blood. He must’ve split it somewhere on the way down.
What the hell’d happened? He’d heard about these…Muggle explosions. Fytomite; gran aids; leeks. Was this one of those? A boom, maybe? But as he heard a voice call out—a clear spell, this time—he grabbed at his jacket pocket as he heard the sound of cracking wood, as though they were trying to shatter the bar to bits.
Wand intact. Small mercies.
He peered up over the wreckage, heart racing as he appraised the situation. Two dark cloaks, two familiar masks. Two Death Eaters. One him. He wasn’t quite sure who the odds were favoring that day. Glancing over to some of the Muggles huddled in the corner, he leaned in. “Stay down,” he hissed. Running’d be no help. They might even make a game of it, hexing Muggles as they ran down the street.
Fabian Prewett was a decent person. Not necessarily in terms of personality or temperament, but in terms of skills. He was alright at a lot of things. He could cook well enough to stay alive. He was a good flyer and a fair Keeper. Could make a decent-sized house using a deck of Exploding Snap cards, and didn’t poison himself every time he brewed a potion. That said, the list of things he excelled at was much smaller. His alcohol tolerance bordered on godly, and after several years of practice, he could magic his way into anywhere.
Fortunately for him, dueling was on the shorter list.
They hadn’t spotted him yet. One, two—
It hit one, slowing him down as the other took aim. As he ducked down, running along the wall, a curse came hurtling his way. Something white hot grazed his side and he swore, grateful it’d missed but irritated he’d cut it that close. The next few moments passed in a flurry of spells and shattered glass as they cursed back and forth, Fabian ducking behind whatever he could find, running along the length of the bar. He stood up again, throwing a hex over the barrier, preparing to dodge whatever it was they threw back at him. But as soon as it’d come it stopped. And with a crack, they were gone.
He lowered his wand cautiously, only just registering their disappearance when several more cracks hit the air. And there he stood in the middle of the ruins, wand in hand, facing Millicent Bagnold and several other members of the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes. Broken glass littered the floor, along with the remnants of several tables, bits of food, and the plates the food’d been sitting on. Not to mention the twenty-odd Muggles carefully peeking up around the edges of the bar….and whatever was left of the others.
A robed wizard he didn’t recognize stepped forward. “Drop your wand, sir, and put your hands in the air.”
Turning and glancing around, Fabian sighed, doing as he was told.
He winced as he raised his left arm, putting it as high as he dared put it.
Glancing over at the group, he nodded at its leader. “Millicent,” he managed. Somehow, “Millie” didn’t seem to fit the situation.
