with: @roonil-waazlibb where: near buckingham palace, london when: april 17, 2am what: DOVE protects RON from something dangerous. why?
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. But then, that’s how the story always goes these days, doesn’t it? The things that aren’t supposed to happen, happen — these are bad things, ugly things, heartwrenching things. Dove’s eyes are bleary from smoke, shards of glass crunch under their boots and they squint, trying to find any of the other Order members that had come. Then, a flash of red: it’s easy to miss, really, but it’s that signature Weasley-tint of red. Near-orange. Hardly moving. That’s uncharacteristic. “Shit.”
Seems like they’re not the only one who’s spotted this Weasley in presumed peril, though, and Dove watches a cloaked figure approach with a curse on their lips and doesn’t hesitate. Attacking from behind is dirty, sure, but she hardly thinks these fuckers deserving of her fairness. So, nifty wandwork moves fast and she’s tying a rope of bursting light to the cloak, then yanks. Serves them right for wearing such shit outfits, they think, as the Death Eater flies, then crashes. For good measure, she blindly sends a stunning spell in the general direction, but doesn’t stop to see if it hits. In stead, she’s onto Ron, crouching down, giving a small slap against a blood-stained cheek. “No time for naps here, Ronaldo, c’mon,” they hiss, looking over their shoulder. “Y’alright?”
-- When one has been fighting a war for as long as Ron has, one would think they’d be used to dodging what can only be described at shitty, underhanded bastard moves.
That is, namely, curses straight to the face.
Sure, Ron was a big supporter of underhanded moves - he was a practically a genius when it came to the classic kick to the crotch move - but it wasn’t like he was about to applaud the dickheads for getting one over on him, particularly when it really hurt.
His hips and back ache from where he slammed into the ground, which says nothing for the state of his face, and Ron releases a low groan of pain, blinking slowly in an attempt to keep himself conscious.
“M’good, m’good,” he slurs, squinting up at the familiar face, “Think m’wife’ll still think m’beautiful?”
















