[ The rebuke dies in his throat, extinguished, like a flame snuffed out with a quick pinch. Trailing after is a thin noise: not a whine or a whimper, but a hiccuped gasp of shock, the puff of his breath freezing in the air before him. Despair sweeps over him, creeping inch by inch and sinking through his skin to his bones, his marrow, deeper, until it's clenching with icy fingers at his very soul.
Nothing, in this moment, could convince him to open his eyes; not at the monster that's somehow here and mere feet away. Damn Constantine.
It isn't the thought of his parents he reaches for. What few happy memories with his parents have already been tarnished, no matter how much he convinces himself otherwise. His mind lunges, instead, to last winter. To fireplace at his grandfather's estate, tucked away in a room no one visited. To a desperate fire-call home, in the middle of the night. It was futile, he knew no one would be awake to hear, except--
"Nightmares, kiddo?"
Even when pride wouldn't allow Damian to confess what he'd witnessed that night, couldn't even bring himself to beg to be taken away, it helped the horrors fade. The fire's warmth, Grayson's chattering voice, gave him some childish sense of protection; a reassurance that, on the first day of spring, he would be back in his father's house. Safe.
Wand clutched in a death grip, he grits, pushing his voice out in a fierce mumble through fear and chattering teeth: ]
[ Puffs and sparks of silver lightning, one after the other, mounting in strength and substance. ]
Expecto patronum!
[ His snarl cracks on the last word, warmth washing up against his face. Except when he dares to squint an eye open, there's no large, grand creature stampeding down the enemy, but an absurdly small bird in layers of silver flitting around the Dementor, cheerful song haranguing the thing.
saw this comin a mile away
[ The rebuke dies in his throat, extinguished, like a flame snuffed out with a quick pinch. Trailing after is a thin noise: not a whine or a whimper, but a hiccuped gasp of shock, the puff of his breath freezing in the air before him. Despair sweeps over him, creeping inch by inch and sinking through his skin to his bones, his marrow, deeper, until it's clenching with icy fingers at his very soul.
Nothing, in this moment, could convince him to open his eyes; not at the monster that's somehow here and mere feet away. Damn Constantine.
It isn't the thought of his parents he reaches for. What few happy memories with his parents have already been tarnished, no matter how much he convinces himself otherwise. His mind lunges, instead, to last winter. To fireplace at his grandfather's estate, tucked away in a room no one visited. To a desperate fire-call home, in the middle of the night. It was futile, he knew no one would be awake to hear, except--
"Nightmares, kiddo?"
Even when pride wouldn't allow Damian to confess what he'd witnessed that night, couldn't even bring himself to beg to be taken away, it helped the horrors fade. The fire's warmth, Grayson's chattering voice, gave him some childish sense of protection; a reassurance that, on the first day of spring, he would be back in his father's house. Safe.
Wand clutched in a death grip, he grits, pushing his voice out in a fierce mumble through fear and chattering teeth: ]
Expe-pecto, expecto pa-patronum, expecto patronum--
[ Puffs and sparks of silver lightning, one after the other, mounting in strength and substance. ]
Expecto patronum!
[ His snarl cracks on the last word, warmth washing up against his face. Except when he dares to squint an eye open, there's no large, grand creature stampeding down the enemy, but an absurdly small bird in layers of silver flitting around the Dementor, cheerful song haranguing the thing.
A... robin? ]