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--They were in your house?

[ Did he mention that on the phone, before? She can't remember. But if that's true it's a bit more than paranoia. Like the woman said: "There are plots against people, aren't there?"

Who are you, Peter Graham? ]

What else can you tell me about them? Do you remember anything about the rituals? [ Her tone is professional, diagnostic, like a mechanic asking you what noise your car is making. ]

[ Peter pauses again, looking uncomfortable. ]

I uh, I think so. It's hard to remember what was real and what... wasn't.

[ It felt real. He could hear and smell and see everything as clear as day. But he'd tried to wake himself up, slapping his own face — You just gotta wake up. Wake up. ]

....In my attic, I think there was like... an outline. Like when a person dies, or something, you know how they draw it? Only it was in dust. [ ....He has no idea it was because a dead body was up there for so long. ]

And in that was um... a photo. Of me? [ His voice catches against a particular snag. ] Only the eyes were burned out. And there were candles everywhere. Um. It smelled funny.

[ What came just after that isn't something he can talk about. The sawing sounds, his mother's eyes wide and fixed right on him, her legs dangling—

Peter gives an odd little sound, eyelids fluttering for a moment as his heart flutters rapidly with a swell of anxiety, and his eyes are suddenly glossy and burn. ]

There were people up there. I didn't notice them at first. They were just....standing there, in the shadows. Smiling at me. ...They didn't have any clothes on. Um. I'd seen one before. In— in my house. I think they'd been following me for a long time.

....But I didn't know what was real. Everything— everything felt like a bad dream.

[ Johanna watches him sorting through the memories of -- whatever it was that happened to him -- with concern. When his eyelids flutter, she crosses the room to him, touching his shoulder carefully. ]

All right. You're all right here, you're doing well.

I'm sorry to make you do this, mate. C'mere, let's sit. [ She nods towards the couch, rather than trying to physically guide him. ]

It'd be easiest to make a ward if I had something that came from one of these people, but I'm betting you haven't anything like that. So the next best thing I can do is get as much information about them as you have. All right? They wanted something specific from you, so we need to make something specific to fuck 'em over.

Do you remember if they said anything? Words or songs or anything?

[ Peter finds himself stunned and surprised by how.... "easily" might not be the best word for it, but how readily all of this comes out. Things that he's never told anyone before, never thought he could.

But it's almost like there's been a cut sliced through his skin, and things come bleeding out, quick and messy. All of it feels surreal, and maybe it's only now, that he's faced with a professional in all of this... spooky shit that he can open up in a particular way. ....Someone who's treating it like it's real. Even if there's parts that he still can't bring himself to say, this much right now is a lot.

And he doesn't know how to handle it, how to pace himself well, threatens to get overwhelmed abruptly — the touch to his shoulder is grounding in the way he maybe needs it to be, and he's giving a soft sound. A nod, that same obedience, grateful this time as he moves to sit down on the couch, hands shuddering slightly as he places them in his lap.

'All right. You're all right here, you're doing well.'

He takes a few moments, stares down at the floor. Wanted something specific from him..... ]

There um. There was a woman. Earlier that day. I saw her when I was at school, or... I thought I saw her. No one else seemed to notice. But she was... across the street. She was angry at me or something, I don't fucking— I don't know. She was shouting.

[ He'd felt so... dazed as it had happened. Like being in a fever dream. But looking back on it now frightens him, and his fingers curl into his palms, tightly. ]

She knew my name. She said.... 'I expel you.'

[ Slowly, the teen looks back over to Johanna, eyes wide and throat tight. ]

Do you think they were trying to.... kill me?

[ Burned out eyes in a photo. "Expel," expéllit in the Roman Ritual if she remembers right. She feels like there's something there, a shadow of something slinking around the edge of her perception like a cat. But there aren't enough details.

Not for the first time since getting here, she wishes she had access to her office. Even Aleister fucking Crowley couldn't keep every esoteric secret that came to him after a good wank in his head; Constantine certainly can't remember every possible occult ritual out there. She wants to look this up in a grimoire or three and see what it could be. Instead she gets to take a swing in the dark and hope she doesn't clock this poor kid in the jaw. ]

That doesn't sound like it, exactly. [ Her gaze is off in the distance as she considers. ] More like evict you, maybe.

[ Which seems worse, to her. Killing someone is theoretically cut-and-dried. Off your soul goes to the most appropriate afterlife. Kicking a soul out of its body creates a lot more possibilities, most of them unpleasant to contemplate. ]

[ Evict him...? There's a lenghty pause before Peter voices something that, in retrospect, will sound incredibly stupid— ]

Like from my house?

[ ....But actually it doesn't feel that far out-there. Not really. After all, they'd come into his home, so maybe.... maybe they were trying to fucking kick him out?

(What about the other part? His parents, their impossibly brutal deaths. Was that real? That his mother finally lost her fucking mind, burned his father into something unrecognisable as a human except for a wedding ring on its finger, chased Peter into the attic snarling and screaming, and then, finally, sawed her own head off with a wire from the piano. Or was that all just Peter's own broken mind? He's gone crazy, hasn't he. He's absolutely fucking nuts.) ]

[ Slowly: ] Yeah, possibly.

[ This could not more obviously be a deflection. Constantine just has a bad feeling about how he'd react to her saying "no, from your body." ]

Well, so, that's where we can start, making this place a little safer from negative influences and eviction notices. You can't go wrong with a plain old deadbolt or three, if I'm being honest, but some energy cleansing to go with it never did anybody any harm.

[ He doesn't miss the way the woman's voice sounds, slow and drug out, like.... like maybe that's not it?? Then what could it be? Or maybe.... she's just thinking it through?

Either way, Peter's heart is doing nervous flip-floppy things in his chest again, so hard that it makes his head feel a little dizzy. He sits there on the couch, staring widely at her as he listens, finding himself nodding quickly along to the suggestion. ]

Yeah— yeah, I'm down for that. Energy cleansing.

[ He says the term like it's foreign in his mouth and tastes a little funny. But his concerns are rising now, bubbling up to the top. ]

Do you think it'll be enough? What if they can do.... magic, too? Can they do a spell to just like.... get past a deadbolt?

Not if I can help it.

Peter, have you seen any of them here, though? Anything that makes you think they're here already?

[ It's a serious question, asked not like she doubts him, but like she wants to make sure. The fear that they might show up in future makes sense to her; it's not like she hasn't wondered every so often if the next train will bring Kit, or Chas, or for-fuck's-sake Logue into the City. ]

Sounds like they weren't shy in your house.

[ He has no idea how the fuck magic — assuming that magic really is real, which is still a very hard pill to swallow — works. Does it have limits? Can someone just... use it to do whatever they want?

It seems like there might be limits, by the way this lady's talking about it, though. If she can use it to stop other people's magic, then... there's got to be rules, right? Fuck, this is wild. ]

.........I'm not sure. [ He feels bad admitting that again, knows it can't be helpful for her to hear. But he adds on, thinking seriously about it— ]

Like, I haven't outright seen any of them here, no. But.... sometimes it feels like someone else has been in here? Maybe when I'm gone, or something. I'll find my stuff moved around, or... things just feel weird?

[ He hesitates again, before adding on. ]

....And I feel weird. I have a hard time remembering shit. Sometimes I forget stuff I shouldn't. Like um. My name. [ He's looking nervous again, fingers worrying themselves in his lap. ] What if that means they're here, like... doing shit to me?

[ "I expel you." Yeah, that feels like it tracks with forgetting your name. Did they hex him, maybe?

They could go in circles for hours, she realizes, him describing things he's got only the vaguest vocabulary for and her speculating. Better to get to cleansing. Something with some oomph to it, too, not just mumbling some nice words and lighting a candle. Though, to be fair, the external difference between a fake cleansing for the "live, laugh, love" crowd and a real one is pretty slim; intent makes a larger difference than anything.

And once the cleansing is done -- a binding. Something to keep Peter within his body, within his self. Sort of a reverse exorcism, she supposes. ]

I think it could be whatever they tried to do before, still hanging around. Sort of like a shitty hangover, if you've ever had one. [ He's what, like, seventeen? He's probably had one of those. ] So we'll clear the space, and then do what we can to sort of blow the cobwebs off you, too.

[ She gives him a smile, professional and cool and reassuring. Everything here is under control. ] And I'll need two things from you, even if they sound absolutely fucking stupid, all right? First, I'll need your full name, middle name and all. And second, when we start, I'll need you to really focus on what makes you feel safe. What makes you feel like yourself.

[ Peter pauses at that explanation, quiet for a few moments as that sinks in. Then he's nodding, because— ]

Yeah. Yeah, that... makes sense. That it's still like, hanging around.

[ It does make sense. And as creepy as the thought is, at least it's something to hang onto. Some avenue of thought and reason, and a problem that can be... fixed. Right? With what she's saying?

And then maybe he'll be.... fixed. Maybe not all the way, but. This weird shit. The forgetting things, losing track of time and self and so much else, even the little... hallucinations; he thinks that what they are, anyway.

He nods again, more firmly this time. ] Okay, yeah. I uh— it's Peter (insert middle name here because he has no canon one lmfao) Graham.

[ ...A safe place, though. That one's not so easy. He pauses, a soft frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. ....He doesn't have anything like that. Not really. Nowhere felt safe, not for a really long fucking time. Not even sleep was safe. ]

...Can it be a place that used to?

[ Something about that pause gives her a pang in her chest. When she was Peter's age her home felt ... not unsafe, usually, but never once comfortable. Most of Liverpool felt like a gray iron box pressing in on her, and nowhere more than the small house she shared with her sister and the old man. ]

Yeah. [ Her voice is gentle for that. ] Doesn't even need to be a real place, if that's easier. It'll work best if it's real, but -- it's about the feeling.

[ Then, clapping her hands lightly together, she stands up. ] You think on it. I'm going to draw on your floor. Mind if we chuck that mattress in a corner for a bit?

[ It doesn't have to be a real place? Maybe he can do that. If he makes the feeling really strong.

Maybe... if he thinks about what would feel safe. A real life place he already knows, but better.

Yeah. He can do that. He'd thought about it many times before, after all. Everyone does, right? Imagines how things could be. Watches a movie where the mom is a little like yours, has the same hair and eye colour and maybe dresses the same, except she can actually stand the kid, and they do things together, and they enjoy each other. You wish your mom could be like that. You imagine that she is. Peter hasn't imagined things like that since he was a little kid, but he can again.

He nods, then— his eyes widen, startled. Draw... on the floor? It's a bit of a frightening thought, but he's not about to second-guess the exorcist lady. ]

Yeah, sure. [ He moves to one end of it, going ahead and tugging the thing up and propping it against the wall. A mess of clothes fall off in the process, which Peter nudges aside with his foot. Totally fine. ]

What uh... are you gonna draw with?

Just chalk. [ She helps with the mattress before going for her own bag to start pulling out supplies. ] You'll get the deposit back, don't worry.

[ Conversation pauses for a few minutes while she gets to work. She's aware of Peter as she moves around, always keeping him in the corner of her eye, but she can't take care of him and make sure her lines are straight at the same time.

What takes shape over the next little while is a hexagram drawn in white chalk, taking up most of the open space on the living room floor. The triangular points are just barely big enough that a person could sit inside one without touching the sides. Johanna moves very carefully as she completes her drawing, making sure every line is solid and that she doesn't smudge or break any of them as she steps around to dig a box of plain white candles out of her bag. ]

Stupid question, but you don't have any candle holders, do you?

[ Honestly, he's not super worried about the apartment or anything like that. He just... has no idea what to expect, with this. And maybe a braver person would ask more questions, since there's a shitton to ask, but Peter finds himself anxious by the thought, falling silent as he watches her work, standing off to the side, well away from the lines she's drawing.

As it becomes revealed, his heart's giving a funny flop in his chest, and his breathing feels a bit tighter again, and he's trying to coax himself to stay still and calm. But it's... fucking terrifying, really, seeing a shape like that on his floor. He may not know shit about this kind of thing, but he's seen some movies, you learn things. A shape like that... it reminds him of something from some horror movie. It's weird, it's creepy; every part of him wants to flinch away from this.

(And he remembers, again, the circle of candles up in his attic, and the picture of himself inside it, and he's flinching in startle when Johanna speaks up to him again, eyes snapping right to those candles she's pulling out.) ]

Wh— oh, no, I uh. I don't think so? [ A beat. That anxious feeling in him is getting worse, and he swallows, looking a bit green around the gills. Alarm rings, but it's all still kind of numbed down, and through it he's remembering something, projects Charlie used to make. She loved using hot glue and candle wax, fusing things or melting things down, reshaping them into something new. He remembers something she'd made once with a candlestick in a bottle. If they're thin enough, they could fit. ]

....I've got like, soda bottles, though. Could that work?

[ The way he startles is concerning. If he panics during this, who knows how it could throw things off? ]

Yeah, probably, if you've got four.

[ Probably to be expected, if he's scared of people doing weird rituals. That can't really be helped. Maybe she can get him re-focused, though. ]

Did you think of somewhere safe?

I should, let me just— [ Peter ambles towards the small apartment kitchen, and it's one time that the state of things actually comes in handy. There's three half-finished sodas in the fridge, which he dumps down the sink, and the fourth is secured out of the garbage, which hasn't been taken out. Awesome.

Bottles tucked in his arms, he returns to Johanna, handing them over to her. ]

I think I've got it, yeah. Do I need to say it aloud, or just... think it?

[ And, once she starts getting to work on the candles, he'll add something, because okay he can't help asking a few questions here and there... ]

Why're candles... important? For things like this.

Just think it. Hold it. Really try and feel yourself there.

[ She pulls out a lighter and lights one of the candles, using the flame to melt the base of another and get it situated in the bottle. The old occultists probably wouldn't approve, but she thinks it'll get the job done. Hopefully without ruining Peter's floor. As she answers his question, she carefully gets the four candles situated in four of the points of the hexagram, leaving two empty points opposite each other. ]

Well, fire is powerful. It's energetic. It sustains life, but it can destroy as well. Lots of symbolism to it. And when you're cleansing, it's a purifying force. Burning out the impurities, like.

And candles just help you focus. Think of 'em like the ones on your birthday cake, if it helps. At the end we'll blow them out and start something new.

[ He knows it's coming, but Peter can't help a kneejerk flash of anxiety, and it's brighter than he expected it to be. It's like a flare going off behind his eyes, making his vision strange, his head dizzy. He blinks, staring at the flames she starts spreading, watching them flicker.

His mom never struck the match, he woke up before she could, but in his nightmares it's struck, it's spreading, it's all over his body, and he's screaming and screaming, and Charlie's beside him just as wet, coated all in paint thinner the same as he is, but she isn't screaming. Isn't reacting at all. It's like she's already dead, and it's just him, alone, screaming. There'll be nothing of him left — no, that's not right. There'll be something, he saw it in his living room, what it'd be like. Charred up black, fingers curling inwards, looking more like some puppet than a person anymore. It's what happened to Dad. What she did to him. What she was trying to do to him and Charlie, too.

He can't forget the smell of it.

Peter's throat convulses all of a sudden; he almost gags. He's trying to listen to Johanna's words, hears most of them, but he's remembering that circle of candles in the attic again, and he doesn't want to get anywhere closer to this thing she's drawn on the floor. ]

I don't like fire. [ He admits, staring down at the hexagram. ] Do I have to go in there?

[ Johanna looks up from placing the last candle, making sure it won't fall over, and takes a deep breath. Christ. What does this kid like? What a mess. He needs a hippie who wears loads of silk scarves and smells like potpourri. Or maybe a ketamine trip. Something.

Well, he's got her. She shrugs. ]

It's like going to the dentist, luv. You've either got to muscle through it or we call it off here.

[ He should back out of this, he thinks, suddenly. Maybe it's not too late. It's not like last time he... participated in some weird shit, with Mom grabbing his arm, desperate, begging him and his father to do the séance or whatever the fuck it was, with her. He can say no this time.

....But what if this really can... help him? Fix some things? Protect him from.... the after-effects of a curse, or whatever's going on with him? And keep any of those people out if they show up? And keep him safe?

What if?

The teen stands there, clearly angsting over it, chewing at his bottom lip so hard that it turns raw and red. His heart's beating like a hummingbird trapped in his chest, and he's light-headed, and he's so fucking afraid. ]

.....Will it hurt?

[ Whatever she's going to.... do. Will he feel it? Will it be painful? ]

[ Johanna stays where she is, squatting by the last candle she placed, elbows on her knees and hands loosely clasped, and watches him think. Come on, kid, let her help. Let her do something that makes something better for some-fucking-one. ]

I don't think so. Not going to lie to you, though, I can't say for sure. But I don't think so. And if it starts to hurt, you tell me, and we'll end it.

[ That's the lie. If it starts to hurt, and he tells her, and she thinks it's a good idea, she'll end it. If he tells her and she thinks it's a better idea to push through, she will.

But it's a lie she tells with complete sincerity and steady eye contact. She can't think of any reason it would start to hurt. ]

[ He stands there, looking down at the woman from a few feet across the living room, hesitating to draw any closer. But.... there's something to that answer that is kind of relieving. Some kind of control given to him in a situation where he feels like he has hardly any at all. If it starts to hurt, it can stop.

He can stop it this time.

Peter lingers for a few more long moments, staring down at the thing drawn on the floor surrounded by flickering candles, heart still hammering. More what ifs are flooding him, worse and worse. What if something goes wrong? Something seemed to go wrong, when his mother did that séance. ...But Mom didn't know what she was doing. This woman's a professional. It's different.

After a few moments of fretful silence, he's nodding again, fingers nervously rubbing the sides of his shirt, curling into fabric. ]

Okay. I'll do it. Do I just... do I walk in?

Good man.

[ Her tone is warm, and a touch relieved. Straightening up, she steps carefully over the lines to her bag one more time. There she retrieves the bottle of holy water -- which just looks like a standard plastic water bottle, a bit battered from banging around in her bag -- the container of salt, and a handful of rosemary sprigs, the best purifying herb she could find at the grocery. ]

So that empty point, there, you're going to sit in it, and I'll sit over here. Be very careful of the lines, all right? They're there to keep the power flowing the way we want it, like a circuit. You don't want to break it.

[ She settles into her own spot, arranging her materials close at hand, and gestures for Peter to take a seat. ]

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cw: mention of parental death (via immolation and decapitation.... hashtag Hereditary Things)

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cw: nightmare description of being on fire.... and a dead body

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