Stand-Off
An abandoned house, Unknown
25th september 2003
I shift, wiggle, buck, throw my head back – try almost everything feasible and probable to free myself, try to reach for the distressed little mirror-me, barring using magic and wailing to match up the tiny one. Everything meets up with failure, though. I am held too securely for me to free my hands, I am placed too far away for my head to be able to reach the one restraining me, and I can neither move to my feet nor twist my body round because of the awkward position I am held in.
The grip, however painless it comparably is to the other instances in which I’ve found myself being restrained in the past, doesn’t slacken even when I slump in place, half dangling by my arms.
These people are alarmingly competent, and yet shockingly soft for the type of criminals who like to bodily restrain their victims, according to all the experiences in his former office that Neville has shared with me and those that I’ve experienced myself in my “ever-so-idyllic” childhood and teenhood. They’re totally silent, at that, even now, which contributes to most of the unnerving factor, even beyond the experience of being restrained by possible criminals in a totally foreign land.
Come to think of it again, neither of my friends have spoken past Luna’s comment when we’re firstly ambushed, and neither of them seem to have been gagged, whether physically or magically. It has only been a few moments, true, but Luna at least should have spoken up, if not Neville, especially regarding the still-wailing bundle of our latest finding.
It would be quite different, I absurdly reflect, if these were Hermione and Ron instead….
Now, the question is: Dare I try to free myself with magic?
My eyes wildly roam the tableau we’re forcefully held in, trying to catch those of my friends’, trying to gauge their readiness to flee should my magical attempt succeed.
Luna’s eyes catch mine. She shakes her head subtly, mouthing what seems like, “Dangerous.”
I frown.
She shakes her head more visibly and vigorously.
I sigh. – Well, yes, it makes sense. Using my magic now might be dangerous both for myself and for others. With this new body of mine, there’s a very, very good chance that my magic has changed in some way as well. Not to mention, I’ve spent so much magic to help warm my friends and our dinner, to clear some of the debris from downstairs, to try to restore my findings from that effort, and also to make everything we needed – or we thought we’d need – to come up here. But I still hate that it makes sense. Being restrained like this just reminds me too much of all the beatings Dudley’s gang gave me at the end of their games of Harry Hunting, the horrifying, horrible spectacle at the graveyard of Riddle Manor, and the smug condescension of Umbridge’s Inquisitorial squad.
There’s only one way left, as much as I despise it.
“Please let us go? I need to help the little one!”
Acting like a begging little child, it is.
Our assailants, burly and huge as they are, look and seem decent enough, with eyes flat but not cruel and faces politely rather than coldly impassive, so maybe I can appeal to their sense of decency?
“Please? My arms hurt. It can’t be good for that little child to cry for so long, too.”
I wiggle my arms and grimace for emphasis. “Please?”
The holder of the crying baby shifts their head a little. The flatness of their mossy-green eyes ripples likewise, as if a still pond being disturbed by a small stone, flickering towards the one restraining me.
A few moments after, when I’ve stupidly relaxed my guard given the lack of immediate action of any of our captors after that minute, brief disturbance, I suddenly find myself cradled sidewise in my captor’s arms, pressed against their leather-vest-covered chest, much like a baby, complete with comfy but secure rest for my neck on the nook of the said captor’s arm.
Humiliating.
I try to buck my head and kick out my feet.
With try being the keyword, because all the efforts don’t avail me any in actuality.
Even worse, the futile thrashing only serves to make me be cradled snugger. My captor even sways back and forth on their own volition, as if I were a tantruming little baby in need of soothing movements.
“Let me go!” I yell and squirm, my cheeks burning hot.
And then, almost gradually, I become aware of the silence, which is broken only by my struggles.
I stop dead right away.
My captor lets out a questioning hum and jostles my head a little, as if to provoke me into moving – into trying to get free – again. I lie rigid in their arms, regardless, not responding to their weird babying effort, petrified on one thought alone: `What has happened to the baby? They were crying so loud! Why did they suddenly stop?`
Uncharacteristically, the calm, silent giant of a human – or humanoid? – then sighs and looks pointedly down at me. And for the first time in our forced acquaintance, I hear them speak; as calmly and silently as their behaviour has been thus far, although tinged by some muted exasperation mixed with amusement; and in a lower-timbre androgynous voice that also perfectly matches their visage, at that.
“You wanted the littler one to be taken care of. Now you are displeased that they have been taken care of. Shall they be woken up again, then?”
I scowl up at them.
“No! Let us go! Please! We weren’t doing anything bad!”
They smile. This way, they look like an amused, indulgent caretaker when faced by the excuses of a mischievous little child heavily suspected of doing mischief.
I huff. It’s so hard to concentrate on being a proper twenty-three-year-old when in this body and being treated like this!
“What did you do to the little one?”
`Ha! I can behave as my age dictates, still! Take that, you condescending oaf!`
But there hasn’t been any condescension involved, thus far, surprisingly, if I’m honest with myself. It’s more akin to my delight when witnessing Teddy’s foibles, if less personal and thus less warm.
Oh, well.
And then they drone about the little one’s holder being an expert in health and medical practises for little ones, about how the said so-called paediatrician expert gradually induced a natural rest in the little one’s mind through a careful and soft implementation of “elða” and pretty soft-toned “m’aë,” about how little ones need much sleep and milk and cuddles and attention, about some amusing anecdotes of them taking care of their own little ones, and so on, and so on.
I am aware that I have been entranced by all the recountings only when a very, very careful something that might be a fingertip cards through my hair, making that section shift a little.
The owner of the tentative gesture is not my captor, that I know. The said captor has just fallen into a somehow respectful silence on that gesture, anyway, even though they’ve been in the middle of explaining about lessons that little ones could enjoy very much.
A pair of apple-green eyes replaces the silvery ones of my captor’s in my field of vision in short order, and I can feel my captor shift their arms, proffering me to the newcomer.
`Wha–?!`