She can't help the way she throws him a little bit of a shifty look, almost petulant as she holds on to her wand and grips it all the tighter. She's used to being on edge, months wandering and camping in a forest making her a little more alert and ready than she might have been otherwise; she knows when there's danger afoot. The animals notice first, they disappear and that's a call to arms if there ever was one.
"Be careful." Her voice is soft and she breathes out, tilting her head from side to side. It's a few steps towards the clearing, where they had left Adela with their horses; it had been nice, despite being able to apparate, and Hermione did assume she needed a little bit of practice. A part of her thinks that maybe it was a bad idea, that they might have done better having just walked, but it's a little bit too late to worry about that now.
She wishes she had when she stepped into the clearing.
The first thing she notices is the sickly, familiar smell of blood, metallic in the air, like iron on her tongue, her throat catching with it. She stumbles forward, her hands shaking even as she moves to shove Dorian behind her, heart racing too fast in her chest, her eyes flicking here and there, desperate and unsure. There's so much that she can't focus on one thing in particular, there's nothing she can do except move forward and try and follow the trail - Adela had to be alright, there was no reason, why would anyone --
she looked up.
Hanging from one of the trees is the body of the woman, swinging in the barely-there breeze. It was high, higher than she thought would be possible, but they had been gone a while and there had been time enough, to make a point, to leave this mark for Hermione to see, to make her hands shake and cover her mouth, the violent urge to throw up twisting inside of her. She could see the inside of the neck, the blood dripping down, a spoiling the simple dress Adela had been wearing, and for a moment, in her hysteria, all she could think about was Nearly Headless Nick.
If she keeps hanging she will be just like him.
Down on her face, drawn, pressed in with a deep slice of a blade, is a twisting cut, from brow to the tip of her mouth, the skin peeling under the pressure, as if the person had wanted to reach inside and pull out all that was left in her face.
cw: gore for anyone reading
"Be careful." Her voice is soft and she breathes out, tilting her head from side to side. It's a few steps towards the clearing, where they had left Adela with their horses; it had been nice, despite being able to apparate, and Hermione did assume she needed a little bit of practice. A part of her thinks that maybe it was a bad idea, that they might have done better having just walked, but it's a little bit too late to worry about that now.
She wishes she had when she stepped into the clearing.
The first thing she notices is the sickly, familiar smell of blood, metallic in the air, like iron on her tongue, her throat catching with it. She stumbles forward, her hands shaking even as she moves to shove Dorian behind her, heart racing too fast in her chest, her eyes flicking here and there, desperate and unsure. There's so much that she can't focus on one thing in particular, there's nothing she can do except move forward and try and follow the trail - Adela had to be alright, there was no reason, why would anyone --
she looked up.
Hanging from one of the trees is the body of the woman, swinging in the barely-there breeze. It was high, higher than she thought would be possible, but they had been gone a while and there had been time enough, to make a point, to leave this mark for Hermione to see, to make her hands shake and cover her mouth, the violent urge to throw up twisting inside of her. She could see the inside of the neck, the blood dripping down, a spoiling the simple dress Adela had been wearing, and for a moment, in her hysteria, all she could think about was Nearly Headless Nick.
If she keeps hanging she will be just like him.
Down on her face, drawn, pressed in with a deep slice of a blade, is a twisting cut, from brow to the tip of her mouth, the skin peeling under the pressure, as if the person had wanted to reach inside and pull out all that was left in her face.