*With Dearborn upstairs snoring loud enough to wake the dead, Esmerelda has the enormous manor house to herself. It's late--very late--but she is sitting up next to the window in her dressing gown, reading the latest Transfiguration Today. The knock, then, comes as something of a surprise. She pulls her dressing gown tighter around her throat--wondering, idly, if this is the moment when the Ministry finally comes to raid, or if it's Antonin, or her son with some emergency--and the magazine is folded, at that thought, and she goes quickly to the door.
But when it swings open, there's no posse, no masks or badges, and only a bit of blood.*
*This is the point at which he'd like to say something bitter and sarcastic and sort-of-tough like everything or what fucking isn't or nothing, just murders left and right and maybe light up a cigarette. But Peter hasn't eaten or slept or spoken in a good long while and just the sight of her is such a tremendous relief that what comes out instead is a dry little croak, half-sob.*
*Ah. So he's not stupid. He's put together the pieces. Well, time to move along the plan--slightly ahead of schedule, but that's nothing but good news to her.*
You poor thing. Come in, I'll fix us both a drink.
*He tries, then, to assure her he's really all right, just a little shaken is all, or make some kind of self-deprecating joke of any of this. But it can't make it past the lump in his throat, and he drops his eyes as he steps over the threshold and into the house.*
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But when it swings open, there's no posse, no masks or badges, and only a bit of blood.*
Peter? What's wrong?
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--the paper--
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You poor thing. Come in, I'll fix us both a drink.
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Thanks. I--I didn't know where else--
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