self-para || Killer Habit
Timeline: evening, June 3, 2024
Setting: The Great Hall, Hogwarts
Summary: Let it never be said that Mo doesn’t appreciate irony-- in fact, he sometimes wondered if the Fates specificially chose the timing of the attack of the Brotherhood just to get a laugh.
Let it never be said Murat Hakim didn’t appreciate irony. Even at his own expense.
Mo loved events at Hogwarts-- the festive spirit, the over-the-top nature of the Castle. It felt like someone was catering to him specifically. And so he obliged the Powers That Be, engaging everyone around him at the Feast with a gusto that he was known for, toasting Hogwarts’ win and working to cheer up any low faces of the visiting students that he’d had the pleasure of making friends with. Scorpius might have been mentioned once or twice in that respect (those sister schools had really enjoyed that video, even as the fire was starting to die down on the anons gossiping).
Eventually he’d ambled his way over to Jason, and the boys had talked about summer plans. His parents had come up-- innocently, of course-- but the whole conversation ended up leaving Mo antsy and tense. His Dad still hadn’t answered his posts, causing the TA to wonder if the school’s owls were brain-dead-- his Dad never ignored him; actually loved the whole “mail by Owl” thing really. And the boy hadn’t heard from his Mum since his kind-of “Go to Hell” response to her request to quit Hogwarts and come on “sabbatical” with her. In short-- the whole Hakim family was a bit of a mess currently, and it made the Slytherin Alum’s head spin.
With a sheepish smirk, Mo pulled back away from the bench and began walking toward the doors of the Great Hall: he couldn’t tell if Dom or Ari or any of them really cared or not about his smoking habit, but he had a feeling that it would be better not to let them know that he was about to sneak out for a few quick puffs again. Especially if he wanted to actually enjoy his time and his boogie shoes tomorrow night at the Ball.
He was still grappling through his robes, trying to pull out his rolling papers, when the world around him seemed to explode. The sound caught him off guard, and as he jerked his head upwards, the tobacco went flying to the floor along with the rest of it. His eyes went wide as he saw the black robes, the red masks-- cowards through and through. He may not know them on sight, but it didn’t take a genius to guess who the hooded figures were. And while there couldn’t have been a ton of them-- what, eight? ten?-- crowded in the corridor in their black flowing robes made them seem infinite.
Another flash of light whizzing past his face, and the screams that followed, finally jolted Mo into the reality of the situation. They were being attacked-- his school, his kids were being attacked. Despite not being much of a duelist, Mo thrust his hand into his robe for his wand, bringing it out and thrusting out a hex at the first face he saw.
It missed by a mile; and worse, drew the Brothers’ attention toward him. Mo breathed deeply, opening his mouth to call out another spell--
Suddenly Mo found himself flying backward, hitting his head hard on a suit of armour from a spell that felt like it might have caused a few bones to crack. The boy gave a strangled cry as he shifted, trying to find a way to his feet. Adrenaline coursed through him, propelled by the cries of panic and flashing lights around him, and he quickly forced himself back to his feet and back toward the Hall and its assailants.
His right arm was injured from the collision, and while Mo wasn’t terribly accomplished at ambidextrous spell-casting, he had dabbled in it (he’d pretty much dabbled in everything) and so the boy didn’t hesitate to grip his wand in his left hand and cast another spell.
This one carried a bit more luck-- that is to say, it did hit one of the “Brothers”. However, his Knockback Jinx was weak, only pushing the figure a few steps, in which time another cloaked person called out a curse, shooting a white beam of light toward the TA.
If his arm had been injured before, the searing agony that burned through his body now caused Mo to believe he might lose the appendage altogether, it cut so deep. The boy collapsed to his knees, dropping his wand as he desperately grappled at what he was certain was a dismembered arm held on with the slashed sleeves of his robes. Mo’s vision grew blurry as his hand stained crimson with the sticky blood that was flowing freely through the wounds, and everything seemed to be moving much slower. Even the screams seemed to be fading further and further away.
The Brother apparently had lost interest in him as Mo swayed and crumbled alongside his scattered rolling papers, moving to sidestep the boy’s body as his wand shot out yet another spell. Mo weakly reached out with his reddened hand (it wasn’t like he could save his arm anyways, right?) and squeeze his fingers around the hem of the black shape.
The red face turned back to him. It raised its wand. And Mo’s world went black.
When he finally regained consciousness, the first thing that Mo’s mind would register was that it was his smoking habit that had almost killed him. And despite the paid from his mending ribs, he’d still laugh good and hard about it.
