John, somewhat selfishly, relishes in the wash of relief through his heart as the child and his bird take on the the Dementor, lessening the pressure on him to keep it contained. He'll add his own spell in a moment, once he's sure Damian's got it, that it's not a fluke.
Then he breathes in, welcoming the cold. The chill of the air sharpens his focus and electrifies his thoughts.
"John, you're a right bastard" a friendly voice teases in his memories. He says it over a pint at the pub, from beyond a haze of smoke in one of their flats, from behind the steering wheel of his cab. He's joined by a chorus of a few more voices repeating the sentiment: his niece, another muggleborn Slytherin, in her fifth year. The Big Green fella on days they could get on. A certain American mage who had a cute way of saying things backwards.
Even Damian's own father voices in his mind, just so John can prove fuck you, I can do this.
When John says 'expecto patronum' it's almost incidental, the energy and intent already boiling over in him so that the words themselves sprout as naturally as an apple.
And does a British bulldog emerge in silver light from his wand? How about a great lion? Maybe a noble steed like those whom drew his ancestors' chariots?
No, instead a rabbit springs forth, unremarkable in features save for some nicks in his ears. It wastes little time in joining it's kindred spirit, taking a bite out of its bony hand.
Really, the image of a robin and a rabbit facing down an unknowable scion of death is rather dole. John permits himself a chuckle, which should make their spells stronger, at least.
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Then another.
John, somewhat selfishly, relishes in the wash of relief through his heart as the child and his bird take on the the Dementor, lessening the pressure on him to keep it contained. He'll add his own spell in a moment, once he's sure Damian's got it, that it's not a fluke.
Then he breathes in, welcoming the cold. The chill of the air sharpens his focus and electrifies his thoughts.
"John, you're a right bastard" a friendly voice teases in his memories. He says it over a pint at the pub, from beyond a haze of smoke in one of their flats, from behind the steering wheel of his cab.
He's joined by a chorus of a few more voices repeating the sentiment: his niece, another muggleborn Slytherin, in her fifth year. The Big Green fella on days they could get on. A certain American mage who had a cute way of saying things backwards.
Even Damian's own father voices in his mind, just so John can prove fuck you, I can do this.
When John says 'expecto patronum' it's almost incidental, the energy and intent already boiling over in him so that the words themselves sprout as naturally as an apple.
And does a British bulldog emerge in silver light from his wand? How about a great lion? Maybe a noble steed like those whom drew his ancestors' chariots?
No, instead a rabbit springs forth, unremarkable in features save for some nicks in his ears. It wastes little time in joining it's kindred spirit, taking a bite out of its bony hand.
Really, the image of a robin and a rabbit facing down an unknowable scion of death is rather dole. John permits himself a chuckle, which should make their spells stronger, at least.