TWINSENSIBILITY PART FIFTY THREE

[dysonrules]

A bit late this week!  DOH!



They Apparated into the back room of a closet-sized pub in Nottingham.  James kept a grip on Lorcan’s arm and towed him through the smoke-filled room, avoiding the grim-looking patrons who watched them suspiciously.

 

“Merlin, what a horrid place!  How do you know about it?” Lorcan asked, coughing, when they had climbed a rickety set of stairs that led into a grungy alley.

 

“Albus,” James replied.  Lorcan needed no additional explanation.

 

“All right.  Where is this place?”  It was early afternoon and Lorcan was getting worried.  It would be dark soon and he did not want Lysander spending another night in captivity.

 

“I dunno.  Let me ask a local.”

 

They exited the alley and Lorcan waited impatiently while James chatted up a pedestrian—an old woman who kept talking as James sidled away, putting more and more distance between them until she was shouting.

 

“…and then I fell and hurt my hip!  I have to walk with this cane now, see?” she hollered and brandished her wooden walking stick.

 

“That’s dreadful!” James shouted back.  “I do hope you’re feeling better soon!  Thank you for the assistance!”  He waved at her, turned, and hurried past Lorcan with a muttered, “Hurry!  Before she catches up!”

 

They walked at a blistering pace for ten minutes, leaving the garrulous old girl behind.  Finally, Lorcan demanded, “Do you know where you’re going?”

 

James stopped and grinned at him.  “Naturally.  The escaped medical patient back there gave me directions.  We just go this way.”

 

“This way” turned out to be a twenty minute hike.  Lorcan was tired, perspiring, and covered in bramble scratches by the time James stopped and gestured toward a crumbling edifice that had one day been a stone keep.

 

“That’s it?” Lorcan demanded angrily.  “It’s a wreck!”

 

James nudged him with an elbow, nearly knocking him down.  Lorcan glared at him and fingered his wand, itching to use a hex.  “That’s for Muggles,” James said.  “Once we penetrate the wards, you’ll see.”

 

Lorcan felt like an idiot.  Of course.  A typical anti-Muggle glamour.  He must be more worried about Lysander than he’d thought to have missed something so obvious.  Before he could ask how James planned to get through the wards without tripping an alarm, James tugged a small pouch out of a robe pocket and opened it up.  He shook two golden rings into his palm.

 

“We have to get married,” James said solemnly.

 

“What?”

 

James burst into laughter.  “Sorry.  Merlin, your face!  And you might want to keep the shouting to a minimum, in case the residents are wandering around.”

 

“Can’t you be serious you… you insane person?”

 

James’ features moved back into an expression of mock seriousness, but his eyes sparkled with merriment.  “Merlin, you’re even more serious than Malfoy, and that’s saying something.”

 

Lorcan nearly reminded the prat that his brother was missing and being tortured by some unknown madman (or woman), but he bit his tongue because James was at least trying to help him, albeit in his own irritating fashion.

 

James waved his wand over the rings and they grew until they were roughly the size of coronets.  James lifted one and dropped it onto Lorcan’s head.  It immediately slipped down and banged the bridge of his nose.

 

“Oops, too big.  You’ll have to shrink it a bit.  It should sit on your head like a crown.”

 

“What is it?” Lorcan asked, shoving the ring back up to his forehead and casting a spell to shrink it to the proper size.

 

“Anti-ward Halos,” James explained.  “Top secret.  Not even available at the Ministry, yet.  Uncle George has been working on them.”

 

“Do they work?” he asked dubiously.

 

“We’ll find out in a minute, yeah?”  With that, James turned and trudged toward the ruins.

 

Lorcan sighed and followed.

 

xxx

 

Lysander’s wrists were bleeding.  He tried to ignore the pain and concentrate on the matter at hand, even though he was frustrated nearly to the point of tears by his inability to succeed thus far.

 

He was limber, damn it.  He could do handstands and contort himself into practically any position—as Lorcan could attest—but this seemed to be just beyond his ability.  Still, he refused to give up.

 

He wrapped his hands around the chains once more and prepared to let his weight rest entirely on his wrists, trying to ignore the agonizing strain on his arms and shoulders.  He swung his right leg up, stretching as far as he could, this time using a snapping movement and letting go of the right chain in the same motion.  This time—finally—his fingers snagged the edge of his trouser leg.  He clutched it desperately and let out a half-sob, amazed that it had worked.

 

He held tightly and gently eased his weight back to his left leg, to try and ease the pressure on his left wrist.  Every muscle in his body seemed to be shaking in protest at the maltreatment.  But he was so close now…

 

Lysander moved his fingers, one at a time, inching them along the hem of his trousers and bunching the cloth in his fist so as to not let go of it.  He doubted he would have the strength to try again.  The first knuckle of his index finger brushed his wand, still firmly wedged in his boot.

 

Don’t rush, he scolded himself.  Keeping a tight grip on the material with three fingers, he stretched out his index finger and thumb, slowly and steadily, until they touched his wand.  He tugged, sliding it bit by bit out of the confining leather.

 

“There you are, baby,” he whispered.  “Just a bit more.”

 

He snared it with his other fingers and released the hem, holding tightly as his leg dropped and the wand yanked free of boot and cloth, snagging for a heart-stopping moment and trying to tear loose of his aching fingers, but he refused to let go.

 

Lysander panted in amazement, gripping his wand and nearly sobbing in relief.  He had done it.  He sent a quick Severing Charm at his left wrist, not caring how difficult it was to cast.  The chain split and he sagged for a moment with one arm free.  The muscles in his shoulders burned like fire, but he only clenched his teeth and took his wand into his left hand, to cast the same spell—albeit much clumsier—on the remaining chain.

 

He nearly staggered to his knees, finally freed, but forced himself to remain standing.  He had no idea how long he had been trying to extract his wand and it was possible for his insane captor to return at any moment.  He could not give in to weakness.  He cast a very dim Lumos and made his way to a wall near the door, hoping the light was not bright enough to leak beneath the door and give away his armed status.

 

He unfastened his trousers and quickly relieved himself against the wall, nearly crying out as the pressure on his bladder relented—he had refused to soil himself, despite the growing need and the fact that it had probably made his task more difficult.  Once finished, he cleaned himself up and straightened his clothing.  He tore off the shredded remains of his shirt, wincing at the sound of the dangling chain links that clinked against his shackles.  He did not dare attempt a charm to remove them in the dark and in his less than coherent state—he would likely slice off his own wrists.  They would be dealt with once he escaped.

 

Lysander took several large swallows of water from the end of his wand, steeled himself, and put his hand on the door latch.  It was time to face whatever awaited him on the other side.