(1941-06-30) It's the Thrill of the Fight
Details for It's the Thrill of the Fight
Summary: Anson makes a rather terrifying discovery in Morrow's apartment!
Date: June 30th, 1941
Location: Selwyn Apartment, Mysticked District
Plot: Zoanthropy Epidemic
Related:
Characters
AnsonMorrow

The first week of the summer holidays has been passing most pleasantly. The weather has been warm, if not quite scorchio yet, and for the most part families have simply been enjoying being reunited. Not exactly the case for Morrow, though she's no doubt been perfectly content all the same. With her absentee mother off in Europe with her boytoy and her father still sequestered away, working on the ever-forthcoming Magnum Opus, the young Ravenclaw has been granted the use of one of their leased apartments for the next couple of months. And, according to rumour, she intends to make the most of her newly-established freedom with many parties.

An apprenticeship at Twilfitt and Tattings keeps her suitably occupied through the day. What better way to do a convincing impression of 'working' than to be permitted to faff about with beautiful clothing? Admittedly yesterday was less fun.. a customer apparently wandered off mid-fitting, leaving behind a most ill-tempered little lapdog, which promptly nipped her fingers when she tried to shoo it out of the shop. That's why she's always been a cat person. At least cats have some dignity when they imply you should sod off out of their vicinity.

Speaking of which… within the elegant, opulent surroundings of her summer home, Selwyn's gorgeous part-kneazle is guarding the living room. There's no sign of his mistress - which is odd, considering she invited a visitor to stop by for 'tea' - but the animal is for once wide-awake rather than lounging; staring fixedly at the bedroom door from his perch atop the grandfather clock, tail swishing in time with the aged pendulum.

Anson has taken care with his appearance today. Of course, he does so every day, but this is a special occasion. There's a hint of sandalwood about his body, barely noticeable to the waking mind and no doubt borrowed from his father — on his mother's advice. He's wearing a rather snappy outfit. A white button-down that might have been far too formal, except that he's left the top button undone and rolled up its sleeves in acknowledgement of the warmth — or perhaps to show off his golden-haired forearms. Gray dress pants fit perfectly, clearly tailored, and he's perched a snap-brim fedora atop his head at a rakish angle.

He knocks lightly on the door. Waiting, he paces a few steps back and forth, whistling under his breath. No answer. He must've been too gentle. So he steps back to the door and knocks more firmly. Still nothing. Hmm. Perhaps Morrow is testing him. When Anson finally tries the door-knob and finds it open, he frowns slightly and steps into the apartment. A slow look around for his 'friend'. "Morrow?" A pause. His gaze alights on the kneazle in the center of the room. "Hullo, mate. Where is she, then?"

In quite typical cat fashion, Raleigh haughtily casts his gaze over the newcomer, that fluffy tail continuing to swish to and fro in a steady rhythm. Then his large ears flatten back and he returns his focus to the fractionally ajar interior doors.

Entering the apartment, as a sidenote, one would be unable to help at least a smidgen of admiration for the classical decor. It's airy and spacious, fresh air meandering in through the large bay window that overlooks the streets below. A comfortable looking leather couch dominates the living room, with a piano and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves occupying a far wall, and the flooring is beautifully stripped and waxed oak. Basically, it's exactly what one would expect of the little Princess. Beautiful and ever so slightly show-offy.

Anyway. The only immediate sound to greet Anson comes from that clock; a solemn, echoing tick. After a moment, however, there's the faintest of sounds from the other room… and that's enough to send Raleigh promptly to the floor and slinking under the couch, adding a disgruntled, feral mrrrrrrrr to proceedings. Hm. On the one hand, happy day if she's in the bedroom! Come on, what teenage boy wouldn't have some notions, no matter how fantastical, in that scenario. On the other… surely her own cat wouldn't be afraid of her? What's Morrow playing at?

Anson is not only a teenage boy — he is the quintessence of teenage boy, boiled down and distilled and dumped into a pretty, empty, head. He stares around the apartment, perhaps admiring the decor, but more likely noticing the various places where Morrow has not laid out tea, where she is not lounging in a chair or on a couch. He seems to be convincing himself that this is no trick. That there really is a beautiful girl waiting for him behind that door. He takes in a small breath and advances to the door. Raleigh's fear really ought to alert him, but it seems all his blood has rushed away from his brain.

He raises his hand to tap on the door, then seems to think otherwise and decides on a bolder course. Morrow values decisiveness. Anson rolls his neck from side to side, cracking it repeatedly, and pulls the bedroom door open. He steps into the room without really looking — too possessed with nervousness and determination to see beyond his own tunnel-vision. "Morrow?" The question is asked in a forcedly playful voice. "Not wasting time, are we?" And then he falls silent, just standing there, finally starting to notice that something is — well, slightly off-kilter.

Well, well. The bedroom probably was as exquisite as the rest of the apartment. Suffice to say that's no longer the case. Feathers drift and float languidly through the air, no doubt stirred by the opening fling of the door. The comfy chair that sat in one corner is toppled. Blankets and sheets are strewn about the floor.

And oh yes. There's a tiger draped across the bed.

Roused from a peaceful slumber, the majestic animal raises it's head reluctantly, flicking one rounded ear then shaking its large head. Blinking eyes of a vivid blue at the boy in the doorway, the big cat thankfully seems relatively docile… for now. A wide yawn reveals horrifyingly large, sharp teeth, and a lazy stretch of forelegs has viciously hooked claws unsheathed in a reflxive manner, before they sink into the remnants of the eiderdown.

Alright. So there's a tiger in the room, and Morrow's missing. Alright. Anson's a Gryffindor. He's the Gryffindor, really. At least in his own mind. He can handle this. Right, yeah. He stares at the tiger, and then at the room, his face losing its golden tan, replaced with an ashen complexion. But his hand is steady enough as it reaches, very slowly, toward his sleeve. He takes a cautious, shuffling step backward, keeping his eyes locked on the vividly blue — shockingly familiar, for some reason — eyes of the giant predator.

No wonder Raleigh is hiding. Anson opens his mouth to speak, then closes it again, struggling to keep his composure. And then, with the calm voice of one in a quite deep state of shock, "Raleigh.. if I were you, I'd slip out that door." That's it. A Gryffindor has to protect someone. If the only person to guard happens to be a kneazle, that's alright. It's Morrow's kneazle, possibly the only thing left of her. He seems to draw some inward strength from his self-appointed task.

Still with gradual, delicate, motions, he draws out his wand and assumes a duelist's stance. "Don't run," he murmurs, perhaps to Raleigh, perhaps to himself. "Running is an invitation to die. Slow. Slow steps."

Hm. Is it dinner time yet? It would seem the tiger can't quite decide. Still, she's awake now and there's some new entertainment in the form of this boy thing. Rising to her feet unhurriedly, the big cat pads to the foot of the bed and hops down first forelegs then hind, landing gracefully but still with a pointed thud given her size. Licking her chops with a lap of a long pink tongue, she strolls toward Anson - not stalking, exactly just… following. With interest.

Whether Raleigh has taken the advice offered him by the Gryffindor is impossible to say. The grumbling from beneath the couch has stopped, though. Which could mean either he's fled, has the sense to be silent in the presence of a far greater predator… or he's keeled over.

Regardless, it's not the pet that the tiger seems curious about, right now. Padding across the floor after Anson as he takes a step or two back, she continues to regard him with those striking eyes; paying no mind whatsoever to the little stick he's suddenly brandishing. Sticks don't taste good. Know what tastes good?

Fresh meat.

Right. It's moving. The thing is moving. Don't panic. Anson -reeks- of fear, the scent as tangible as his rather delectable-looking flesh. He levels his wand at the tiger, then hesitates. There's something about those eyes. Tigers don't have blue eyes, do they? "Stay back," he warns it. "Stay back." He's not really sure why he's speaking to a tiger, but the eyes.. there really is something there. And, in kind, he takes a step backward again. Not a retreat, really — he's bracing his back leg, as though he expects to be able to keep his footing when the glorious animal pounces onto him.

"This doesn't make sense," he mutters. "How did you get here?" The color is returning to his cheeks as he swallows hard, his eyes wild with adrenaline and with fear. But he holds his ground with the true idiocy of a teenage lion, convinced that he is the predator in this room, despite all. "You killed Morrow." His voice is level now, hard. But he's talking to a cat — a tiger — like it can understand him. Not the act of a rational young man. Except — where's the blood?

The tiger, of course, doesn't understand the words. Nor even the tone, really. But she understands that this boy thing isn't showing suitable cowering defrence. And she understands that scent. Afraid but not backing off or fleeing, so she can enjoy a decent chase? That suggests a challenge rather than easy prey. The nerve! Without lowering her head, the mighty cat slowly bares her teeth, still advancing upon Anson, and looses a rumbling growl. In her mind, it's a warning. Know your place, stupid male creature! No? Holding your ground? Fine, then.

Raising a massive paw, she swipes at the arrogant young man, claws gleaming. It's still half-hearted, for the moment. She's not starving… he's just irritating her, for some reason she herself can't quite fathom. Little more than a pestilence. A biting gnat, perhaps. Something to be swatted at til it goes away.

But no, there's not a trace of blood. There's no sign of Morrow at all, in fact. Did she even come home from work yet? Who can say.

Anson slip-slides back, more instinct than deliberate reaction. A half-hearted swipe that might have been, but it is still a tiger's swipe — far faster than it really ought to be. Now that he's forced into a confrontation — for, to Anson, that swipe seemed like a genuine attempt at gutting him — he seems steady enough. He opens his mouth, wand flicking through the air with a surprisingly deft twist. "Stupe—" And then his back foot seems to go shooting into the air. Oh no. The throw rug he's slipped back onto comes out from underneath him.

It's like something out of the movies — both feet leave the ground, he's falling, his wand outstretched toward the tiger. But his first spell is gone. He lands hard on his shoulder, gasping with pain, barely managing to hold onto his wand. Everything is out-of-joint now. "Shit," he moans, the fear-reek increasing. And then, hastily, desperately, a completely poor choice that just springs into his mind, "Rictumsempra!" Cats like to be tickled. Right?

The tiger quickens her pace slightly as the boy-thing stumbles and falls, instinct dictating she pounce just as any cat would do in response to a swift motion of a toy dangled before them. But the second choice of spell, while it doesn't land too well, stalls her enough. Flattening her ears and wrinkling her nose, she shakes herself fully, fluffing up the scruff around her neck as a ticklish sensation scurries through her glossy, striped coat. Well… that didn't do anything much except piss her off more, it seems. Her long tail flicks to and fro as she comes to loom over Anson; a massive paw either side of his torso and a rumbling sound still emanating from low in the big cat's chest. Lowering her large head, she sniffs delicately at his clothing, as if trying to decide whether he's really worth the trouble of maiming. Yes, he's annoying. But he might also be hard to digest.

Reaching his features, she huffs a sigh into his face. Honestly, she'd been perfectly happy sleeping. It's his own fault for disturbing her!

This is really happening. This is real. It's been sinking in on Anson for the past few moments — for all this has really taken very little time atall — that this really is a tiger, it really is in London, and it really is now straddling him. That wet sigh seems to wake him up from whatever dreams of heroism he's had and restores him, hard, to reality. He twists his wand upward, pointing it at the tiger's belly. One last chance, it seems, before the thing makes its decision.

There are tears in Anson's eyes — tears of humiliation and fear, from the scent of him. His body does what any self-regulating system does when confronted with the need for flight — it empties itself of excess weight. There's a spreading dampness down around the seat of his fancy britches. But he has one last chance, perhaps, to survive. "Stupefy!" Red light jets from the tip of his wand, slamming into the tiger's belly.

Snuffling thoughtfully at the boy's golden hair, and still grumbling low in her throat, the tigress pitches to a warning snarl as she feels the wand-tip at her vulnerable, white-furred underbelly, drawing back to ensure the foolish boy can see her displeasure. Yes, those are some very sharp teeth, and she glares down at him, flattening her ears against her head and visibly preparing to shred him into little bite-sized pieces for his insolence.

And then "Stupefy!"

The impressive force of the casting actually knocks her back from him bodily, and the big cat falls unconscious to the hardwood floor, coming to a halt with her haunches resting against the doorframe of the bedroom. She's massive, when one can observe her like this, with paws easily the size of dinner plates.. and probably best not to ponder over the curved length of those claws…

Anson scurries backward, becoming aware for the first time that he's pissed himself. A moan escapes his lips, embarrassment more than fear now. He has a few minutes, at least, to escape. "Raleigh. Raleigh! Come on." To his credit, the boy hasn't forgotten the poor kneazle. Scrambling to his feet, his eyes about as wide as those paws, he backs toward the door with his wand pointed still at the tiger. His hand is trembling.

"Get help. Get help.." Whether the kneazle comes with him or not, the boy turns and darts for the door, finally realizing that, at any moment, that tiger is going to awaken and be very, very, pissed off. His fedora is lying on the floor now, his dress pants are stained and wet, and his shirt is soaked-through with sweat. He can be heard pelting down the staircase.


Gamine joins as NPC Constable Angle

Thud-thud-thud-thud-thud! Anson's footfalls as he sprints down the staircase are audible even in the apartments of the other witches and wizards in the building. His usual grace is forgotten, replaced by violent haste and the need to fetch assistance. Brave he may be, even in the face of tigers, but he is still a boy and his first instinct is still to find an adult. He bursts out onto the cobblestones of Mysticked Street, wild-eyed, his wand in hand.

"I need help!" His voice is trembling, though he tries to steady it. And anyone who looks at him can see that this is quite true. His shirt is soaked with sweat, and his pants are soaked with — well, something else. He searches the passing faces in the crowd until he gloms onto a constable on her rounds, rushing forward. "There's a — there's a — a tiger! A tiger in Morrow's apartment! I stunned it, but I dunno how long.. how long.." He's gasping for breath, bending over and grabbing his knees before he continues. "…I dunno how long that'll keep it down. It's enormous."

A constable meanders through the Mysticked District, just making her rounds. This beat has always been one of the dullest. If only the Sergeant would give her a REAL assignment. He may as well have her handing out tickets for illegal broom parking.

The shout for help grabs the constable's attention at once. Turning towards the sound, she catches sight of the terrified boy and approaches, hands lifted in a calming gesture. Her eyes widen as he mentions a tiger. Her heartbeat quickens. But the boy could also just be confounded. "Easy there, easy. I'm Constable Angle. I can help you. Show me where you last saw the tiger. Your friend's apartment, you said?"

Already, she is ushering the boy back the way he came. This could be her big chance!

"I.. I can do that. I can do that. I can do this." Anson is slowly regaining control of himself. He draws himself upright, still looking rather ashen, his normally handsome features reduced to a sickly gray. "It was up there." He points with his wand — whatever happened to muzzle safety? — up at the window to Morrow's apartment. "Come on. I'll show you."

He hurries back into the apartment, licking his lips nervously. When he tells this story to his friends, he might leave out the part where he wet his pants. Already calming in the steady presence of Constable Angle — she can handle this, he just has to help — he's beginning to unconsciously craft the narrative in a better light. But then a worry suddenly stabs at him.

"I think.. I think something happened to Morrow," he tells Angle. "I came by for tea and she was gone and the tiger was there and the bedroom is a wreck and.. Merlin's beard, there wasn't any blood, but where was she?" The words come pouring out. But instead of sending him back into a panic, the questions seem to give the boy strength. "We have to find Morrow," he tells Angle. As though he's in charge. "She could be in real danger." Or, very possibly, shredded into little bite-sized pieces.

Constable Angle follows Ansonn through the streets at a brisk pace, eyes glittering with excitement. It's all she can do to maintain a calm, professional expression. She follows the boy into the apartment building, drawing her wand as a precaution.

Climbing the stairs behind him, she responds in a reassuring tone, "We'll get to the bottom of it," she assures with a decisive nod. "If there was no sign of your friend, it makes sense that she escaped, yes? Or she could be hiding well enough that the tiger won't find her. Don't you worry."

The interior of the apartment the Constable is led to is glamorous, airy and spacious; beautifully laid out with one might say the bare minimum of furnishing… only that furnishing is obviously expensive. And includes such necessities as a grand piano. The kitchen, the initial greeting through the main door of the residence, is spotlessly clean - likely because it's never seen use - and there's a comfortable looking leather Chesterfield over there that looks ever so inviting. Beyond this, there's the bedroom door, still flung wide and with a wrinkled throw left rather carelessly before it. Someone could trip on that! And it looks so untidily out of place, given the rest of the beautiful decor and surroundings. Tsk.

An expansive bay window allows sunlight to flood the living room, curtains of soft white fabric billowing gently in the summer breeze. That, somehow, only seems to further enhance the complete lack of threat apparent here. As the pair enter, a gorgeous long-haired part kneazle hops up onto the back of the couch, pacing to and fro a few times and purring loudly, one paw batting at the air somewhat insistently as he regards the new visitors. He err… doesn't look particularly ferocious..?

Anson steps into the apartment with his wand out, elbow cocked, aimed steadily at — well, not to put too fine a point on it, but aimed steadily at nothing. He stares at the space just before the bedroom door, where the throw-rug lies, so out of place. "It was.. It was right there." He points. "I swear it was." His jaw is slack. "It must've woken up.. and… and…" He looks around the beautiful apartment. No sign of a tiger, though there is the kneazle.

"It must've gone out the window. See? Raleigh's not hiding under the couch anymore. It's gone." He points to the open bay window, then turns back to Angle. "We have to get down to the street! It has to be out there right now." His urgency is accented with more than a little desperation to be believed. If someone else sees it, then surely he hasn't gone mad. Right?

As if on cue, there's a shriek and a sudden flurry of commotion from the streets below. A glance out of the open windows would reveal an elderly witch directly below, staring after something, wand in hand and the other palm pressed to her chest in shock. It must be said, however, that other passers by merely look at the woman askance, perhaps naturally assuming the animal to be an Animagus or a pet. I mean, this sort of thing just doesn't happen. Does it?

As for Anson's tiger, there's no immediate sign of it… only the grey-haired woman pointing and spluttering mutely toward the dense thicket of rose bushes in the park across the street. Oh dear. On such a nice day, there are people everywhere on the grass - couple enjoying lovely picnics, children playing together, folks out for a leisurely stroll in the sunshine. If the lad's tale is to be believed (and that's a safe assumption even with just the one upset eyewitness) then this is practically a buffet.

Constable Angle eyes the kneazle-cat with distinct dissappointment. The poor boy must be confunded after all. So much for that commendation from the chief. She follows Anson, humoring him for the moment. With a glance off at the bay window, she places a hand on Anson's shoulder. "Listen, lad-" A shrill shriek from the street below interrupts her.

Dashing to the window, she does what she should have at once and checks for herself as to whether there is an escaped tiger down there. Nothing on the street, at least not that she can see. But she quickly spots the grey-haired woman pointing toward the rose bushes. From the window, she shouts, "Stunning charm! And keep your eyes on it. Don't turn your back!" An old trick her grandfather told her about from his time in India.

Not losing a second, Constable Angle shoves off from the window and sprints out of the apartment. Her boots clatter down the stairs as she takes them three at a time.

Hitting the street, she sends up sparks from her wand high into the sky, alerting her fellow constables that she needs back-up.

Anson is right on Angle's heels as he dashes down the stairs. He's regained his composure somewhat, likely because he is now at the center of a rather fine drama. If he does die here today, at least now he'll have had an audience. And an audience is important.

He looks around the crowded street, taking in those children, that lovely-looking couple eating their picnic meal, the old lady standing with her wand at the ready. A grim cast comes over his features, and he steps toward the rose bushes hesitantly. Perhaps the tiger will remember him. His wand is leveled at the thicket.

"Here, boy." Why does he assume that the tiger is male? Chauvinist. "Here. Remember me?" And, over his shoulder, "Please don't miss." Back toward the presumed hiding space. "Here, boy. Come on. Let's get you your payback." Foolhardy little git.

The poor old witch on the street tries, she really does, to stammer the spell called to her from some disembodied voice… but she's just too shaken. Credit where it's due, though, she keeps pointing at the spot she last saw the massive feline. Or.. maybe she's just frozen in shock, rather than helpful. Ah well.

As Angle and Anson approach the bushes, there's a faint rustle of motion… which could just be the stirring of the breeze. Right? Nearby, the occupants of the well-tended park remain blissfully ignorant of their peril, not even noticing what's going on as yet.

Oh. Maybe the rogue tigress does remember the boy, after all! Or his distinctive scent, at any rate. Ahem. Either way, as he edges closer, there's a warning growl that sounds distinctly like distant thunder. It only momentarily precedes a rush of activity! Launching itself from the undergrowth, the enormous cat leaps for Anson, massive forepaws - and those razor sharp claws! - outstretched and teeth bared in a snarl. She's not going to be caught offguard this time, boy thing!

"Get back, lad!" barks Constable Angle. She steps forward and thrusts her arm out across his chest to impede any further approach. Her grip tightens around her wand at the sound of the growl. She lifts her wand, ready. A witch can only be so prepared for a fully-grown bengal tiger launching out of the shadows, but Constable Angle recovers fast. "STUPEFY!" she shouts, shooting a red jet of light from her wand.

Anson is pale and trembling beneath Angle's hand, but he is prepared. And it will be remembered that Anson Abbott stepped forward and baited the tiger into the trap. Really, that's what matters. And there's that tiger, leaping at him. His wand comes up, a touch too late, a touch off in his aim, as he echoes Angle. "Stupefy!" The red jet that emerges from his wand seems to have no real effect, touching as it does only on the tiger's tail.

Fortunately for him, Angle is a trained combat-caster and the tiger that hurtles toward him is suddenly dead-weight. Well. Is it really fortunate for him at all? The beast hits Anson full-force and sends him toppling to the cobblestones beneath it. His wand bounces and rolls down the street a few paces. For a long moment, there is no sound from the Gryffindor. And then, muffled by the thick pelt covering his mouth, "..Bugger."

One then two constables apparate on-site, alerted by Constable Angle's sparks shot into the sky. "What the-" Exclamations and gasps abound. But they set to work at once to lift the tiger up off poor Anson with a hover charm. Then they stun the beast with a far stronger 'STUPEFY'. And for good measure, they add a full-body bind curse.

As other constables clear the area of civilians, Constable Angle examines the tiger more closely. Her search turns up a golden necklace hidden in its fur, which no doubt Anson will recognize. So, rather than sending the tiger to a cell, Constable Angle directs her fellow constables to take her to St. Mungo's.

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