Who: Caradoc Dearborn!
What: TIS COLD AND GRUMPY OUT
When: Now!
Where: NYC!
It had become so unbelievably cold that Caradoc charmed the insides of his pockets to stay much warmer than normal. With his chin tucked into his scarf, he
almost felt warm; a feeling that would never completely be fulfilled as he had forgotten his hat at home, and felt incredibly disgruntled about that. His ears were frozen, made heavier by his glasses, and not for the first time on his way home had Caradoc wished it was possible to apparate closer to the house. He and Emmeline lived on a relatively busy street, the closest hidden alley three blocks away, making it virtually impossible to apparate any closer than that. At the time, Caradoc had thought it a very smart idea. It was insuring that no one person could ever just pop up at their front door, or take them by surprise. But, that meant
no one, including himself or Emmeline, would be able to pop up at the front door. Ever.
It had been a minor error, one that he had told Emmeline was completely purposeful. Caradoc would swear it to his grave rather than admit he’d made an annoying mistake.
With just a block left, Caradoc hurried his pace. The moment as he set foot on his street, a jogging passerby thudded heavily into his shoulder, sending Caradoc spinning out toward the road. And he rounded away from not getting near a muggle vehicle, his slitted eyes briefly glanced upon the oaf that decided it pertinent to infringe on his personal space. And, was about to get an incredibly uncomfortable (and invisible) boot in the arse when---
Was that---Caradoc froze, unsure whether to believe the face his eyes may or may not have just happened upon. He strained to get a better look at the quickly retreating form.
Issuing not much more than a grunt in acknowledgment or apology, he rounded the corner and flicked a glance at his watch face. Digital, a bizarre and somewhat offensive change to his eyes, which indicated that it was three minutes earlier today than the previous day, but still nearly on the nose of six o'clock. He'd established a routine. Routines were good.
The weather was only a slight deterrent, ready as he was for anything. There was a bitterness to the breeze that slashed right through the warmest of clothing, but his skin was slick with sweat and his skin radiated a pink hue from his warmed blood.
Down one block, three streets, and a rounded corner later, he nipped into an alley and slowed to a halt, skidding a bit in the icy snow. With his hands braced on his knees, he breathed in the cold, sharp air and felt it burn in his lungs as adrenaline continued to pump into his body. His eyes swept the alley, the sparse doors that lined it, and the mouth of the street before it.
Straightening, he rotated his neck experimentally while he stretched one arm, then the other, before disappearing with a
pop.
Derek Dobbs had work to do.
