edgar’s big day out, part 1.
Edgar Bones was never one to run away from a fight. He was always that way – ever since he was a kid, he’d run headfirst into danger, considering the repercussions only long after the matter. It certainly didn’t help his danger-sense, or his ego, that he often came out of these situations unscathed. Joining up with the Order had been an easy decision that came along with the terrible danger-sense and equally terrible ego years ago, and with every stopped attack, every messy battle, every fight, Edgar continued to go untouched. When he’d gone into professional quidditch and openly mocked Voldemort, spoke against blood supremacy, he’d gotten into many an argument during post-game press conferences, and yet still everything was easy living. Honestly, Edgar was slightly convinced that he had some sort of extra-special magic gene that had given him super luck at birth – he was untouchable.
But not this time. This time was different. Edgar figured that much out when he opened his eyes and saw nothing but burning white light. His eyes finally adjusted after what felt like several years, but was truly only a few minutes, to reveal nothing but approximately a metric fuck-ton of snow all around him. A blink, another blink, a quick full body status check: Everything was working, maybe. No broken bones for sure, no torn muscles, all the things that were supposed to move did, in fact, move. He wasn’t cold, which might have been concerning, if the blood in the snow hadn’t caught his attention. Was it his blood? He touched his head, his face, his shoulders, his chest, no blood. Or, no fresh blood, at the very least. That was good! He wasn’t bleeding. Still untouchable.
Status check part two: where the hell was his wand? It wasn’t on him, and digging through the snow just stung his bare hands like shit after a few seconds. Merlin fucking shit damnit fuck balls ass, that’s probably what he’d say, if the cold wasn’t finally getting to him. He wasn’t dressed for a damn tundra, he was dressed for a casual, relaxing summertime fight against some Death Eaters. That meant athletic clothes and a cap he liked to wear to Quidditch practice, which he’d just noticed was also missing, infuriatingly enough. When was he even knocked out? He remembered arriving at London, he remembered tossing a few spells, and then... he was here, apparently. Was there something in between those first few spells and now? There had to have been, right?
Status check part three: look around, figure out where he was. He could barely see past the squint of his eyes with how horrendously bright the sun reflecting off the snow was, but he came up with three quick and easy facts: One, there was a ridiculous amount of snow, probably more than he’d ever seen in one sitting, but we already knew that. Two, there weren’t any buildings near enough to see, only a bunch of trees absolutely everywhere. Three, there were footsteps in the snow, and though he was absolutely not a detective, Edgar figured he wasn’t jumping to any superhero-level conclusions if he was to guess those weren’t his own.
Seriously, where the hell was his wand, and more seriously, where the hell was he?