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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. ]

[ Yeah, okay, fuck, this is really happening, isn't it? Peter stares at the spot, the empty point she directs him too, and takes a deep breath before he starts moving that way. Careful of the lines, got it. Fuck, he'll be careful; he's terrified to mess something up.

So he moves slowly, mindful of where his Converse sneakers nudge, stepping lightly. When he finds the right place he's slowly sinking down to sit, pulling long legs in crossed, looking up at her for a moment to make sure that's okay. ]

Think about the uh, safe place, right?

[ He can do that, even if at first it's sheer willpower forcing his mind away from the anxiety of what's going on around him. After a moment he closes his eyes, and he's picturing a room in his house. The little nook off of the living room, a place he didn't really go anymore as he got older, no reason to hang out there anymore. But when he was a kid... he liked taking naps there.

Maybe in this dream scenario, it's a lazy Saturday, and there's nothing to do. No school, no obligations. He's home and he's young enough to think things are okay. He's alone, but there's the awareness that his parents are somewhere. Close enough he could find them if he needed to. (Maybe his dad's in the home office, working on his computer, and he's made fresh coffee and it smells good. Maybe his mom's outside working in the little flower garden. It's back when she used to do things like that. And Charlie... Charlie's in her treehouse, probably, content to be alone the way she always is. No one's together, but they're all okay. He wishes he could go back to something like that, and he knows he never can.)

Most of all, it feels safe. It's before Mom started getting worse, before he was old enough to start feeling hopeless about everything. He's just closing his eyes on the couch, sun shining through a window, warm. It's safe. ]

Right.

[ She watches him for a second while he closes his eyes, finds the place he's looking for. At least, she hopes he finds it. The air in here feels dry, to her, like she'd get shocked if she touched something metal.

Well, there's some shit going on, isn't there? Whether it's a hex or PTSD or just the City's bad vibes, there's some shit, and now she's trying to channel it away. Best get to it. Taking up the salt, she pours it in the central hexagon of the circle, letting it pool into a rough circle. When she speaks, her voice is quiet and calm, almost rhythmic. ]

I invoke earth and water. And by earth and water, I consecrate this home, and protect it from harm. Let this home be strong as earth and pure as water. Let no ill or evil enter, through earth or water.

[ You can tell when a spell starts working, even if you're halfway making it up as you go along. Things begin to have a gravity, a momentum, like a ball starting to roll down a slight slope. Except just like when she tried divination with Loki, starting this ball rolling is hard. What would take a nudge back home takes heavy push. But she's going to fucking push, god damn it.

Johanna takes up the rosemary and her lighter, and lights a sprig. It takes several tries for the leaves to catch and start smoldering, a strong, spicy smell threading up from it into the room. ]

I invoke fire and air. And by fire and air, I consecrate this home, and cleanse it of evil. Let this home be strong as fire and pure as air ... Let no harmful thing or ill will remain. [ Deep breath, keep it going. ] In fire or air.

[ It's easy for the quick pulse of anxiety to force his mind away from more intentional things, but Peter keeps his eyes closed, keeps thinking about where he's at in his head. He remembers a technique his dad talked about once. Concentrate on what you can see, smell, hear. Choose five each. In this dreamscape scenario, this memory he's created for himself, he can feel the sun against his eyelids. He can hear the coffee pot going in the kitchen. He can smell it. He's aware of his body, how it feels, limp and comfortable on the sofa. He starts to feel calm, even when he hears the woman begin reciting words, and he tries not to think too much about them, doesn't want to risk hearing something that might frighten him out of his calmed state.

But something shifts. Maybe it's when she lights up that strange plant, and he feels something in him flinch a little. It doesn't smell like normal fire (and certainly not like paint thinner), but it's something burning. Maybe it knocks him out of himself just a little, unsettles something within him. Opens up a door where something was already peeking, widens a gap (and in turn, the thing widens its eyes.)

I invoke, the woman says, I consecrate, I protect, I cleanse; these are powerful words, coming from someone with a particular power, and even if things are numbed in this strange city, numbed on both sides — the ancient, powerful, misplaced thing still feels it. Feels her.

Let no harmful thing or ill will remain

Peter's eyes suddenly open as his insides feel like they're coiling, a wave of unexpected nausea rolling through him. He tilts forward where he's sitting, one hand against his middle, eyes widening with a dose of surprise, and seconds after— fear. The fine hairs at the back of his neck are prickling, and he's shivering like he's freezing. Something's... wrong? He feels something, and he doesn't want to interrupt her, but.... he's giving a soft gasp. She said if he felt pain, it could stop. This isn't pain, not exactly, but.... ]

—Um. Ms. Constantine? I feel.... kind of sick. I don't feel good. Is that okay?

[ Ah, shit, what the fuck. Could be normal, could be a problem, could even be the desired effect. Constantine's gaze focuses on Peter, sharp and calculating. ]

Think you're going to throw up?

[ Even as she speaks, she puts the smoldering rosemary down onto the circle of salt, letting it burn down. ]

If you're going to throw up, try not to break the lines.

[ He... kind of feels like he might throw up. But maybe if he just tries to swallow back the nausea....

If Peter were anyone else, he might say something snarky to that or, alternatively, something humourous, laugh about it. Being Peter, he's just nodding quickly, comically obedient as ever. Okay, fuck, yeah, don't break the lines. ]

Sorry. [ He takes a moment to try and collect himself, takes a few deeper breaths against the odd prickling chill from the inside out. It's like when you have the flu, sickness ravaging your organs, making them tight and achey. After a moment, he nods at her — sorry, please, carry on.... He'll be okay.

(No, everything's just going to get worse, clearly) ]

Hang in there. [ She gives him a tight smile. ] Something's working. Keep that safe space in your head.

[ Of that, she has no doubt. Something's happening. Peter looks like shit. The candles are still burning, but the room feels darker, as if the sun went down outside. Was the sun already down when she came in?

She repeats the invocation as she picks up the burnt rosemary twig and uses it to draw a smaller version of the hexagram in the salt, speaking a little faster now, trying to push that rock uphill. A third time, drawing a circle to enclose the hexagram. It feels like it should be taking hold, but there's something precarious about it, like she's trying to tie a door closed with spiderweb.

Maybe the next part will help. When she looks across the diagram at Peter, there's sweat on her hairline and an effortful set in her jaw. ]

Okay. First part. Good, we're doing good. [ She reaches her hands out across the diagram to him. ] Take my hands, hold 'em as tight as you like.

This is your home, kid. This place is your place, this body is your body, and we're gonna make sure nobody can fuck with that. Okay?

[ He nods, quickly, firmly — though less with any real confidence and more a sort of desperation, like he's holding onto the concept as tightly as he can, fully expecting he might lose his grip any moment. Keep that safe space. Keep thinking about it. Keep going.

Even as that odd sick feeling within him begins to build, on a level deeper than Peter can know, can control or understand — there's energy and intention and power here, and by the time Johanna's reaching across for his hands, he's also sweating. It's a cold sweat, one that leaves him shuddering soft and uncontrolled, beads of perspiration at his forehead and the back of his neck, and his complexion's paler, eyes a little wet and weepy, like he's sick.

But he reaches for her hands even if his own are shaking, hangs on tightly, lowers his head with a grimace as another wave of nausea and ache coil through his gut. He's panting, feeling dizzy, eyes going half-lidded suddenly.

'This is your home. This place is your place, this body is your body'

Abruptly, Peter's head snaps backwards, exposing the slender line of his throat, which begins to ripple with movement — the boy's slack mouth giving a few soft gagging sounds before they build to something else. Something that sounds distinctively like growling. It builds and builds, and with it, the energy to the room begins to change — something crackling, buzzing, like white-hot static. Oppressive.

He isn't letting go of her hands, and in fact is slowly holding on tighter, nails beginning to dig into the woman's skin. The sounds become louder, animal-like, yowling — angry. ]

[ Oh. That's. ]

That's not good.

[ She's not really aware she said it aloud. ]

Peter! Peter!

[ His nails start to dig into her hands and she gasps in pain. This isn't a hex. This is something else. This is something worse. ]

What are you? [ Her voice is rising, commanding but not a little scared, to match the thing that's using Peter's vocal cords. ] Who are you?! By the power of the Art here wrought I conjure you to tell me who you fucking are!

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

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cw: demon business

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