Twinsensibility Part Forty Eight
Feb. 10th, 2010 10:13 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dysonrulesOMG it's still Twinsday!!!! WOOT!
Lorcan tightened his grip around his mother’s waist and watched tensely as Harry Potter cast a succession of spells on the box that had contained the Portkey. His mother stroked his hair and gripped his hand more tightly. Normally, Lorcan was not the type to seek comfort from his mother, but this was a special circumstance. He wanted to lash out with rage, but there was no one at whom he could direct his anger.
He bit his tongue to keep from babbling ridiculous questions as the famous Auror looked up from his task. “He was clever, at any rate,” Harry said. “The magical signature is marred. Few people even know it is possible to trace an item by signature, and fewer still know how to keep us from doing it.”
Luna nodded sadly and Lorcan’s jaw tightened. He had suspected it would not be as simple as that, but there was always hope.
“There is, of course, no such company as Bamboozles. It was the first thing we checked. The clerks at the post had no recollection of who might have sent it—there were dozens of customers that day. They have agreed to deliver us Pensieve memories, but it will take days to go through them all and attempt to find the culprit. By then…” He broke off with a quick glance at Lorcan.
His mother squeezed Lorcan’s hand again. “I’m sure Lysander will be fine. People tend to underestimate him.”
“You can’t know that!” his father burst out. “We don’t have any idea who has taken him, nor what they want! I can’t believe there are no clues at all! Is it ransom they want? Is it a personal vendetta? Why has there been no word?”
Lorcan shifted his gaze to his angry father, glad that he had asked the questions Lorcan had suppressed. He knew there were no answers, but it felt good to have them in the open. Harry Potter looked guilty, as though the lack of anything useful was his fault.
“I’m sorry, Rolf. We don’t have enough information, yet. Frankly, if it’s ransom they seek, we should have received word by now. Or there would have been a note left with the parcel. At this point, it’s beginning to look more like a personal vendetta.”
“Who would have a personal vendetta against my son?” Lorcan’s father’s voice was anguished. His eyes went to Lorcan, who looked away. He had already asked himself the same question, and returned with no answer but one. Maribeth Coventry. However, since she was the most obvious culprit, Lorcan had sent word to Lily Potter, who checked his theory with no positive result. Maribeth had been sent away to Beauxbatons. According to Lily’s source (who knew someone who knew someone at the French school) Maribeth was still in attendance.
“It won’t necessarily be someone with a grudge against Lysander, Rolf,” Harry said quietly. “In most kidnapping cases, the victim is chosen for his proximity to the real target.”
“What?”
“He—or she—could have taken it to get back at one of us, Rolf,” his mother explained.
His father stared at her and then shook his head. “But we are researchers. We’ve done nothing to anyone.”
“I will try to come up with a list for you, Harry,” his mother said in a matter of fact tone. “It will be hard to account for every possibility. One never knows when a casual encounter might have a more lasting impression on one party than another.”
Lorcan tried to drink in her calm, but she was a poor substitute for Lysander. The only thing keeping him from lashing out in rage was his knowledge that somewhere, Lysander was alive. Lorcan would know if he wasn’t. He would know.
He held more tightly to his mother, feeling five years old again, and afraid of the dust creatures that lived beneath the bed. She stroked his hair again and said, “Don’t worry, Lorcan. Lysander will be fine.”
Harry Potter’s eyes seemed to burn as they stared into Lorcan’s. “We’ll get him back.”
His mother nodded. “We certainly will.”
Lorcan should have felt comforted by their words. Harry Potter was the most powerful wizard in the world and his mother had survived the war, fighting alongside him.
Instead, he only felt lost.
Hold on, Lysander, he thought desperately. Please, hold on.
ooOoo
Lysander held onto the Omnioculars as he walked a second slow circle around his unusual cell. He had come to the conclusion that it was definitely a cell, although it was not obvious at first glance.
It was a circular room, built of grey stone with a slate flagstone floor. There were no doors or windows, and the arched ceiling was visible high above, bisected with two pairs of heavy wooden beams that criss-crossed one another. From that evidence, Lysander concluded that he was in some sort of tower. An underground room would have been more likely to have a lower ceiling and no structural wooden supports.
Either way, he was well and truly trapped. He still had his wand, but attempting to Apparate out would be tantamount to suicide. If he was underground, there was a good chance of Apparating into solid stone; if in a tower, he could be stories high with a chance of plummeting to his death. He tried, anyway, hoping to send himself home, but the spell did nothing. Apparently, his captor did not want him to escape even to death. The Anti-Disapparition wards were successful. He was slightly surprised that a Nullification Field hadn’t been set up, but most of the spells he had tried worked normally. Lumos allowed him to see as he walked, and a Flying Charm had taken him close to the ceiling to search for clues as to his captor, or his whereabouts. There hadn’t been as much as a crack in the ceiling, although two of the beams held deep grooves that suggested damage by a rope or chain hoisted over it.
Lysander hoped they had been used to hang lamps, rather than bodies.
The room was not terribly cold, at least, so Lysander took off his hat and scarf and spent some time transfiguring them into a comfy purple and white chair. It was always more difficult to turn something small into something large, rather than vice versa. He settled for something that resembled a misshapen bag of beans, but it was much cosier than sitting on the hard floor.
He sat down and peered through the Omnioculars, cataloguing each crack and crevice of the wall while mentally creating a checklist.
One, he had no idea where he was. Two, he had no idea who had taken him, or why. Three, there seemed to be no way out of this room.
As he thought about the third, he lifted his wand and levelled a Reducto at the nearest wall. The bolt shot toward the stone and then fizzled into bright sparks. Lysander sighed. It had been worth a try.
Four, he was hungry. That bit had little relevance, except for the fact that he might die of hunger or thirst before anyone found him. He did have a secret stash of lollipops in his robe, which would not be satisfying if he really started to get hungry, but at least it was something. And it would remind him of Lorcan, who was surely looking for him.
He had tried to cast a Patronus during the first two minutes of his captivity, to no avail. The cell did not prevent him casting spells, but the ceiling and walls were certainly resistant to anything hitting or passing through them.
Lysander frowned and supposed he ought to list the items properly. Four, the walls and ceiling were resistant to most spells. Surely not all, hopefully, and he would have to keep trying until he found something that worked. Five, Lorcan was searching for him. Of that, he was completely certain.
Lorcan would never stop looking. Not ever.
Lorcan tightened his grip around his mother’s waist and watched tensely as Harry Potter cast a succession of spells on the box that had contained the Portkey. His mother stroked his hair and gripped his hand more tightly. Normally, Lorcan was not the type to seek comfort from his mother, but this was a special circumstance. He wanted to lash out with rage, but there was no one at whom he could direct his anger.
He bit his tongue to keep from babbling ridiculous questions as the famous Auror looked up from his task. “He was clever, at any rate,” Harry said. “The magical signature is marred. Few people even know it is possible to trace an item by signature, and fewer still know how to keep us from doing it.”
Luna nodded sadly and Lorcan’s jaw tightened. He had suspected it would not be as simple as that, but there was always hope.
“There is, of course, no such company as Bamboozles. It was the first thing we checked. The clerks at the post had no recollection of who might have sent it—there were dozens of customers that day. They have agreed to deliver us Pensieve memories, but it will take days to go through them all and attempt to find the culprit. By then…” He broke off with a quick glance at Lorcan.
His mother squeezed Lorcan’s hand again. “I’m sure Lysander will be fine. People tend to underestimate him.”
“You can’t know that!” his father burst out. “We don’t have any idea who has taken him, nor what they want! I can’t believe there are no clues at all! Is it ransom they want? Is it a personal vendetta? Why has there been no word?”
Lorcan shifted his gaze to his angry father, glad that he had asked the questions Lorcan had suppressed. He knew there were no answers, but it felt good to have them in the open. Harry Potter looked guilty, as though the lack of anything useful was his fault.
“I’m sorry, Rolf. We don’t have enough information, yet. Frankly, if it’s ransom they seek, we should have received word by now. Or there would have been a note left with the parcel. At this point, it’s beginning to look more like a personal vendetta.”
“Who would have a personal vendetta against my son?” Lorcan’s father’s voice was anguished. His eyes went to Lorcan, who looked away. He had already asked himself the same question, and returned with no answer but one. Maribeth Coventry. However, since she was the most obvious culprit, Lorcan had sent word to Lily Potter, who checked his theory with no positive result. Maribeth had been sent away to Beauxbatons. According to Lily’s source (who knew someone who knew someone at the French school) Maribeth was still in attendance.
“It won’t necessarily be someone with a grudge against Lysander, Rolf,” Harry said quietly. “In most kidnapping cases, the victim is chosen for his proximity to the real target.”
“What?”
“He—or she—could have taken it to get back at one of us, Rolf,” his mother explained.
His father stared at her and then shook his head. “But we are researchers. We’ve done nothing to anyone.”
“I will try to come up with a list for you, Harry,” his mother said in a matter of fact tone. “It will be hard to account for every possibility. One never knows when a casual encounter might have a more lasting impression on one party than another.”
Lorcan tried to drink in her calm, but she was a poor substitute for Lysander. The only thing keeping him from lashing out in rage was his knowledge that somewhere, Lysander was alive. Lorcan would know if he wasn’t. He would know.
He held more tightly to his mother, feeling five years old again, and afraid of the dust creatures that lived beneath the bed. She stroked his hair again and said, “Don’t worry, Lorcan. Lysander will be fine.”
Harry Potter’s eyes seemed to burn as they stared into Lorcan’s. “We’ll get him back.”
His mother nodded. “We certainly will.”
Lorcan should have felt comforted by their words. Harry Potter was the most powerful wizard in the world and his mother had survived the war, fighting alongside him.
Instead, he only felt lost.
Hold on, Lysander, he thought desperately. Please, hold on.
ooOoo
Lysander held onto the Omnioculars as he walked a second slow circle around his unusual cell. He had come to the conclusion that it was definitely a cell, although it was not obvious at first glance.
It was a circular room, built of grey stone with a slate flagstone floor. There were no doors or windows, and the arched ceiling was visible high above, bisected with two pairs of heavy wooden beams that criss-crossed one another. From that evidence, Lysander concluded that he was in some sort of tower. An underground room would have been more likely to have a lower ceiling and no structural wooden supports.
Either way, he was well and truly trapped. He still had his wand, but attempting to Apparate out would be tantamount to suicide. If he was underground, there was a good chance of Apparating into solid stone; if in a tower, he could be stories high with a chance of plummeting to his death. He tried, anyway, hoping to send himself home, but the spell did nothing. Apparently, his captor did not want him to escape even to death. The Anti-Disapparition wards were successful. He was slightly surprised that a Nullification Field hadn’t been set up, but most of the spells he had tried worked normally. Lumos allowed him to see as he walked, and a Flying Charm had taken him close to the ceiling to search for clues as to his captor, or his whereabouts. There hadn’t been as much as a crack in the ceiling, although two of the beams held deep grooves that suggested damage by a rope or chain hoisted over it.
Lysander hoped they had been used to hang lamps, rather than bodies.
The room was not terribly cold, at least, so Lysander took off his hat and scarf and spent some time transfiguring them into a comfy purple and white chair. It was always more difficult to turn something small into something large, rather than vice versa. He settled for something that resembled a misshapen bag of beans, but it was much cosier than sitting on the hard floor.
He sat down and peered through the Omnioculars, cataloguing each crack and crevice of the wall while mentally creating a checklist.
One, he had no idea where he was. Two, he had no idea who had taken him, or why. Three, there seemed to be no way out of this room.
As he thought about the third, he lifted his wand and levelled a Reducto at the nearest wall. The bolt shot toward the stone and then fizzled into bright sparks. Lysander sighed. It had been worth a try.
Four, he was hungry. That bit had little relevance, except for the fact that he might die of hunger or thirst before anyone found him. He did have a secret stash of lollipops in his robe, which would not be satisfying if he really started to get hungry, but at least it was something. And it would remind him of Lorcan, who was surely looking for him.
He had tried to cast a Patronus during the first two minutes of his captivity, to no avail. The cell did not prevent him casting spells, but the ceiling and walls were certainly resistant to anything hitting or passing through them.
Lysander frowned and supposed he ought to list the items properly. Four, the walls and ceiling were resistant to most spells. Surely not all, hopefully, and he would have to keep trying until he found something that worked. Five, Lorcan was searching for him. Of that, he was completely certain.
Lorcan would never stop looking. Not ever.