#the case of the vicious wall eater | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

five-rivers · 4 years

Text

Goals

Hey! @puns-are-great-and-so-is-danny! Here is your gift fic! It got a little out of hand, and it doesn’t have a super solid ending, but I hope you like it. :)

Dear Albus,

I hope this letter finds you well. I know these are trying and troubling times, both here and in Britain, and part of me hesitates to ask this of you for exactly that reason. But, as ever, circumstances leave us with few viable options.

News of what happened to Amity Park this Spring has spread far and wide at this point, so I won’t waste your time repeating what you already know. What is not common knowledge, however, is that after the dust settled, the Aurors assigned to the case encountered several irregularities, not the least of which was a disturbingly high number of completely untrained young witches and wizards.

Once news of them gets out, I have no doubt the official line will be that they simply fell through the cracks, that, unfortunately, our spells for finding young magically-gifted persons are imperfect, that the nature of Amity Park obscured them from view. This, I fear, is a lie.

I have no proof, but I believe they were deliberately removed from MACUSA files on account of their heritage. Albus, they are descended from Scourers.

Perhaps that should be obvious, perhaps you had already guessed, considering the so-called reasoning behind the attack on Amity Park, the ideals those murderers professed, but I want to make myself and my own reasoning clear. Though it shames me deeply to say it, those children will not be safe at Ilvermorny, nor, I believe, will they be at any other school on this continent. For all the time that has passed, the Barebones Incident and its repercussions are too fresh in the minds of the people.

There are seven of them. Well, seven that are of concern to me. The others have found or are seeking alternate arrangements. They have been staying at the school, for the time being. My colleagues and I have been attempting to give them a good grounding in magical basics. They would not come to you without foundations.

Albus, I am begging you, accept these students into Hogwarts. I know this is a poor time. I have heard rumors, horrible, horrible rumors, about what is happening in Britain, about what happened at Hogwarts last year, but I fear for these children’s future, for their spirits, should they be forced into a place where they will be hated simply because of who their ancestors were.

I know that even in Hogwarts they would be unable to escape that, but it would be less. Britain does not have the same history with Scourers that we do. More, for some of them, they would not be forced to walk in the same halls as the kin of their parents’ murderers.

I will understand if you refuse, but I am relying on your compassion.

Eagerly awaiting your reply,

Agilbert Fontaine

Headmaster of the Ilvermorny School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore looked down at the letter from his old friend and colleague and sighed, his heart heavy. Agilbert was not a member of the Order of the Phoenix. Albus knew more about the situation in Amity Park than Agilbert assumed and likely was aware of things that Agilbert himself was not.

For example, while the bulk of the group that had devastated and decimated Amity Park were indeed Magical Separatists and those looking for generations-late revenge on Scourers, their core leadership included American Death Eaters.

He was also aware of the children Agilbert had mentioned. Most of the truly astonishing number of magically inclined children and adults in Amity Park had chosen to find private tutors, go through correspondence or summer courses, or attend one of several small schools in North America that had quickly shuffled to make accommodations for them, on the condition that they hide their origins.

The seven mentioned… Well. They didn’t really have those options. Either their names were too infamous, or they had no one to stay with while they puzzled through correspondence courses. Or both.

And the names. Even here, some of them were well known.

Albus could understand why Agilbert had asked for his help.

But was it responsible to drag these children here while Voldemort was lurking in the shadows, building up his power base once again? To offer them safety he could not give?

For those students already attending Hogwarts, it was one thing, they were already involved, simply by virtue of where they were born and where they lived. But those seven, in America, they would be—

Well. Not safe, perhaps, not with their parents killed and their home ravaged by hostile magic. But… farther away from the direct line of fire.

But would they be? Beyond simply spreading fear and hate, was there another reason for the attack on Amity Park?

Albus heaved another sigh.

At times he enjoyed making decisions like this. Enjoyed power, knowledge, experience, those things people tended to mistake for wisdom, even though he had made more mistakes than anyone else he knew, and all the privileges and responsibilities that came with it, all the control over other peoples’ lives. This was a failing, a flaw, he knew, and time and time again it had come back to bite him. Karmic vengeance for being an old man who kept too many secrets.

But times like these… In times like these, he despised the choices he was forced to make.

“What troubles you, Albus? I can hear you sighing from the other room.”

Albus did not flinch or startle at the ghost’s approach and gently chiding tone. He looked up and smiled thinly at his former and present colleague. It seemed Cuthbert was having a good day. It was a pity so few students saw him at his best, and regarded his lessons as utterly boring, but Albus could never find the heart to replace him. Nor, sadly, the budget. Damn the board of directors.

In answer, Albus turned the letter to face him. Cuthbert Binns was not a member of the Order, either, but he, like every other member of the Hogwarts staff, had been informed of what had transpired at the end of the Tri-Wizard Tournament. He would understand Albus’s dilemma.

“Amity Park?” murmured Cuthbert, tapping the second paragraph. “That sounds… familiar. That—” Cuthbert broke off.

If Albus had not spent significant portions of his life surrounded by ghosts, he would not have caught the subtle change in Cuthbert’s silvery complexion.

“Perhaps you heard about the tragedy that happened there recently.” Which would be a first, even alive, Cuthbert had never really cared about anything that happened more recently than a hundred years ago, but not impossible.

“Tragedy? No.” Cuthbert shook his head. “Amity Park it’s—It is…” He trailed off, looking down at the letter, disturbed. “Albus, I have known you for many years. You have been here for many years, with all us ghosts, and… You know there are things the dead do not speak of to the living.”

Albus did know. “Are you saying Amity Park is related to one of those things?” Could this be another attempt on Voldemort’s part to defeat death? His suspicion regarding horcruxes was bad enough, what that could mean for Harry… But if that man had yet another way to stave off death…

Cuthbert dithered, and Albus wished fiercely that he could trust him enough to tell him about the Order, about Voldemort’s plans, to impress upon him how important this was, how vital that Albus know.

But he couldn’t. It would just take one bad day, and one misplaced question from a student related to someone unfortunate, and everything would come tumbling down.

No. Albus could not push him.

“I—I must go,” said Cuthbert, halfway through the wall. “I have to look into something. I’ll be back before you know it.”

He was not.

Albus had still not made a decision on Agilbert’s letter the next night. He had consulted Minerva, Severus, and the other teachers who were also in the Order on the matter, and had distracted himself with other, arguably more important, matters.

(The eyes on Number Four Privet Drive, the movements in and out of the Malfoy residence, the horribly dangerous games Severus was playing, the master schedule for the next school year, the still-empty Defense Against the Dark Arts post, extra protections on Hogwarts’ boundaries, how to keep the Order safe…)

But he shouldn’t put something like this off for much longer.

It would be much easier to deny Agilbert’s request. As tragic as the seven students’ circumstances were, they weren’t his responsibility, and he had so many.

Would you feel the same if the attackers had been Gellert’s people?

They’re children. Like your students. Like Adri—

Albus closed his eyes and forced the tiny and vicious voice away, out of his mind.

“Sir Nicholas wants to speak to you,” said one of the portraits.

Surprised, Albus turned his head to face the image of his predecessor. “Of course. Could you tell him he can come in?”

A few minutes later, the Gryffindor ghost floated through the wall. “Hello, Albus,” he said, the outlines of his figure crisper than they usually were, and continued before Albus could greet him, “I am sorry to interrupt you like this, but is it true? Seven students from Amity Park?”

“Cuthbert told you?”

“He told all of us,” said Sir Nicholas, shrugging in a way that made his head roll unsettlingly. “You should accept them.”

Albus raised his eyebrows.

“There is a certain element of risk involved,” the ghost’s voice was careful, “but if they come to Hogwarts, there is a possibility that you may gain a powerful ally, and that…” Here, Sir Nicholas hesitated. “Certain ancient wrongs might be righted.”

“I suppose it is that second the ghosts are interested in?” asked Albus, both curious and, despite himself, amused.

Sir Nicholas gave him a gentle smile. “Do not imagine that we are careless of your struggles, Albus, but many of us were long dead before you were born. We care, but… sometimes the picture in front of our eyes is not the same as the one before yours.”

That was reasonable.

However.

“Can you give me any more detail?” asked Albus, hopefully.

“I’m afraid not,” said the ghost, drifting backwards.

The next letter from Agilbert was much thicker and contained the records of seven new Hogwarts students.

The wand turning in his fingers was made of pear wood. Not that Danny could tell, just by looking, but the wandmaker, who had accompanied her wares to Ilvermorny, had been very talkative, even when Danny had… not.

Pear wood, cut from a tree that had grown up through a chain-link fence on the wandmaker’s property. She had meant to cut it out, she said, but by the time she had gotten around to doing so, there had been bowtruckles in it, and she wasn’t about to cut down a good wand wood tree.

Danny still wasn’t entirely sure what bowtruckles were to be honest.

The wood of the wand was normal. The core, apparently, was not. It was hair from a magical creature, which most wand cores were, but the wandmaker had cheerfully admitted to having no idea what the hair was from. It had shown up in her workshop one day, in a little box, black and white, in neat little bundles.

Danny had suspicions about where it had come from.

Suspicions that had been exacerbated by the fact that both Sam and Tucker had been ‘chosen’ by wands with the same core.

Anyway, Danny had liked the wandmaker, even if he thought she was a bit weird, for using components that just showed up out of nowhere in her work.

(She reminded him a bit of Mom.)

Danny wasn’t sure why he was thinking of her. It had been months since then. But he was feeling lonely, even though his friends were just in the next room, and Jazz was here, and maybe she was the closest he would let his mind get to…

To…

“If you keep doing that,” said Jazz, “you’re going to put your eye out.”

Danny glanced over at her. There was an east-facing window behind her, and the sun was shining through her shoulder, lighting her up like stained glass.

“If they catch you in color, they’re going to have questions.”

Jazz rolled her golden eyes, but the color drained out of her, leaving her ‘properly’ silver and gray. “If they actually listened, instead of dismissing everything weird in Amity as untrained magic acting up, then they wouldn’t need to have questions.”

“Yeah, but they didn’t, and I don’t think they’re going to. So, considering what we have to do…”

“We need all our advantages. You don’t have to tell me again,” said Jazz. She pulled a face. “Well, you did, actually, I guess. I’m sorry about that.”

“It’s fine,” muttered Danny. “You only died a couple months ago. It takes time to recalibrate.”

“Mm,” said Jazz, sticking her head through the windowpanes and looking down. She pulled back. “Your escort’s coming up.”

“Oh? Yeah?”

“Or at least someone. It’s hard to tell who, what with the hats and all…”

It was time to go, then. Danny gathered his things and joined the others in the common area.

Hours later, as the sun was setting, nine Americans stepped out of a fireplace in the Ministry of Magic. Seven were students. One was a very haggard chaperon. The last was a ghost whom aurors and representatives from the Department of Spectral Affairs hadn’t quite been able to dissuade from haunting her brother.

Such was life. Such was death.

“Alright, kids,” said the chaperon, chivying them towards a central area. “We just have to go through customs, and then we can find a place to relax until the representatives from Hogwarts get here.”

“I thought we already went through customs,” protested Dash.

“Yeah,” said Paulina. “The American side. To make sure we weren’t smuggling anything out. Now we have to go through the British side, to make sure we aren’t smuggling anything in.”

“Smuggling isn’t really the main issue,” said the chaperon, “but, yes. MACUSA knows you aren’t in the states anymore, and we have to make sure the Ministry over here knows you are, so you can comply with their laws and such. Oh, and so you can get the Trace, but that isn’t important.”

“The Trace?” asked Sam, doubling her word count for the day. Ever since the attack, she had been rather taciturn.

“It’s how they keep track of underage magic over here,” explained the chaperon. “MACUSA phased it out a few years ago. It isn’t very reliable, and besides, recent studies show that magical persons of any age can use magic accidentally, and there’s no good way to tell if there is a magical adult nearby, so…” She gave herself a little shake. “But it’s the law here, and it doesn’t matter. You’ll be at Hogwarts the whole time, anyway.”

“You mean they’ll be tracking us?” asked Danny, trying to keep the alarm from his voice. That could be… problematic. Considering what he was really here for, and all.

“Not you in particular,” said the chaperon, snagging Tucker by the back of his shirt before he could make a detour to investigate a guarded cart of ominously sparking electronics. She pulled him back. “It’s my understanding that every child with the trace on them shows up as a dot on a map, and the dot changes color if magic is performed near them. Some of the more sophisticated versions can determine what kind of magic, but, well… it isn’t like they ever know which dot belongs to which person, so unless you’re living with all no-maj family members—They call them muggles, here, I think—in a particular house, it is very difficult for them to determine who did what. I’d tell you more, but this isn’t my area of expertise. Perhaps the customs agents will know more? You should ask when we go through…”

Danny began to tune her out. He caught Sam’s eye, then Tucker’s, and they all nodded at each other a little bit. Not that they had a plan or anything, but sometimes it helped to know that other people also found a situation to be sucky.

Where would the Minister of Magic be in all this mess, anyway? Danny let his eyes rove over the hall. There was no guarantee that he was even here today, and Danny wasn’t to the point where he wanted to reveal himself. He had been given lots of instructions, but one of them had been to keep himself safe. Clockwork had even said it was a priority.

Best to stick to letters, for now. Even if none of them had been answered, yet.

They reached the long, winding line that was customs, had their luggage gone through yet again. Tucker lost another PDA, and Danny had to wonder how many more he had hidden. The American side of customs had done a pretty good job of finding them. Sam got taken aside for questioning, because some of her goth paraphernalia had a passing resemblance to ‘Dark’ objects. Star had to explain her medications. Valerie set off some sort of magical metal detector, and the customs agents started arguing about what had caused it. No one had found out about her suit yet.

Meanwhile, Danny was sent to another table, to fill out forms for Jazz. Again. Because, for reasons Danny didn’t fully understand, even with everything Clockwork and the other Ancients told him, wizards thought they could control and regulate what ghosts did and where they went.

Danny did not particularly care for wizards, as a group. The paperwork—The stupid, pointless paperwork, because Jazz was going to do what she wanted and no one would stop her, he’d make sure of it—made him angry. A lot of things made him angry, lately, when they didn’t just make him depressed or sullen.

“Breathe, Danny,” said Jazz, leaning down, next to his ear. “The language in this is stupid, but I don’t mind being called names. We both know they’re wrong, and what they think isn’t important anyway, yeah?”

“Yeah,” said Danny, forcing his muscles to relax. He finished the paperwork.

They passed through the last customs barrier together, and soon found themselves in a large atrium with a large, extremely gaudy, gold fountain in the center.

Now, Danny had to admit, he had only the briefest of encounters with house elves and goblins, and none at all with centaurs, but he couldn’t imagine that the look of adoration on their faces was at all accurate. At least not for the species as a whole.

He tried to imagine the statue with a ghost in it, with a half-ghost in it, and he just—

Yeah. No.

Wizards.

Or, at least, these wizards. Whatever.

They found a bench off to one side, to wait for the Hogwarts representatives. Danny had to wonder how they’d find them. Would they hold signs? Seemed probable. Everything in the ‘wizarding world’ seemed to be stuck fifty years back in time, if not more.

Or, maybe, the chaperon knew who they were meeting and would wave at them. Like she was doing now.

Okay, so, Danny had to check himself to make sure he wasn’t coming up with random prejudices. Ancients. If his first encounter with the supernatural had been those people in cloaks showing up out of thin air and starting to kill people, he’d probably never be able to pull himself out of that mindset.

Not all wizards were terrible. Like the wandmaker. She was okay.

He took the time to assess the two witches who had come to pick them up. They were opposites of each other, at least in appearance. One was tall, thin, and severe, almost sharp. The other was short and round and sort of soft around the edges. The only areas in which they demonstrated similarity were their age and apparent gender.

“Alright, kids. This is Professor McGonagall,” she gestured to the taller woman, “and this is Professor Sprout. They’re the heads of Gryffindor and Hufflepuff, respectively. Minerva, Pomona, these are Dash Baxter, Daniel Fenton, Tucker Foley, Valerie Grey, Samantha Manson, Paulina Sanchez, and Star Thunder.”

“And Jazz,” said Danny, annoyed that his sister had, once again, been left out.

“Hey,” said Jazz. “Nice to meet you.”

Professor McGonagall nodded. “We will be taking you to Diagon Alley to pick up school supplies for the year before we go to Hogwarts.”

“Yeah,” said Star, eyes tracking a flock of apparently animate paper airplanes, “we know.”

McGonagall raised an eyebrow but otherwise didn’t comment. “Do you want to come with us, Cerise?”

“No, I have a few other things to do on this side of the Atlantic. That’s why they sent me. Have a good time in Diagon Alley, kids, it’s a historic place!”

Danny had to wonder about goblins. Did they just… really like banks, or were they forbidden from holding jobs elsewhere? Or effectively forbidden by prejudice? Because, thus far, he had only seen goblins when changing currency. ‘No-maj’ money to the denominations used by American wizards, and now from that to the infinitely more confusing British ‘galleons.’

It would probably be rude to ask.

Maybe he could find a book…

But were these people self-aware enough to write about stuff like that? He shook his head. Prejudice, prejudice… He barely knew anything about any of these people, he shouldn’t jump to conclusions prematurely.

Not that he didn’t already know several unsavory things about their system of governance, thanks to the Ancients. And their not-so-little terrorist problem. And the fact that they thought erasing people’s memories with a spell that could cause long-term brain damage was A-Okay.

Yeah. But that didn’t mean all of them were bad. Just that their government sucked. Which was true for almost all governments, so it didn’t mean anything.

McGonagall and Sprout were very efficient as they went through the shops, giving the impression that they had done this, or something like this, many times before. They did not allow detours, despite the many, many distracting things on display on the street and in the windows. Professor Sprout, however, kept up a running commentary on what things were, so it wasn’t too frustrating.

About halfway through the shopping trip, they stopped at the place that sold uniforms. Sprout stayed with them, while McGonagall left to go get other supplies. It was an experience. Other than his jumpsuit, Danny had never had any clothing fitted specifically for him before.

The fitting made him… nervous.

The tape measures and needles flew close to his skin. The seamstress who had been assigned to him also kept touching him, which was part of her job, and it wasn’t invasive or anything, but still. Also, there were a lot of other teens, and even some preteen kids, in the store, getting their uniforms, and they were all staring.

What they were staring at wasn’t the same from person to person, Paulina and Jazz seemed to be the biggest targets for whatever reason, but it was still staring. The parents waiting with their kids were staring as well, and Danny started to fidget. Which meant that he got stabbed by the needle a few times. Which wasn’t fun.

But eventually that was over, and they were on their way to Hogwarts.

Considering that Agilbert had tried to compress years’ worth of magical education into the space of a few months for these students, the results were remarkable. True, with one notable exception, none of them were on a fifth-year level in Transfiguration, but Minerva didn’t feel the need to put them all in first-year or remedial classes, either.

She could only hope they did as well in their assessments in other subjects. They would have a hard enough time figuring out schedules for these seven, without having to account for them bouncing across year levels.

She picked up the written assessment from the one student she would be accepting into fifth-year Transfiguration. His penmanship was shaky, none of them had quite mastered writing with quills, and his grasp of the theory behind the spells was incomplete, but it was better than some. She tried not to roll her eyes as she thought of Crabbe and Goyle.

As a teacher, she should be above that. Alas.

Mr. Fenton did have some insights in his essay questions that were truly extraordinary for a person who didn’t even know magic existed at the beginning of the year. Perhaps they had another Hermione on their hands, although he didn’t give off the same air as she did. Or he had spent the summer focusing only on Transfiguration. Or Mr. Fenton had a singular talent in Transfiguration. Regardless, gifted and motivated students were always a pleasure to teach.

Minerva gathered her papers and left to meet Filius, who had tested the students before her. She was tempted to go look in on them now and see how the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor was handling her first teaching experience but suppressed the urge. She would see them, and, sadly, Delores Umbridge, at lunch in only an hour.

Which was why she was so surprised to find the children in a hall so far away from Delores’ room.

Then she reminded herself that, appearances aside, these were not fifth-year students. They had no experience navigating the castle.

“Are you lost?” she asked.

The students exchanged glances. “Uh, sort of?” said Miss Sanchez, twirling a curl of hair around her fingers. “We weren’t sure if we should try to find Mr. Snape, or if we should go to the lunch hall.”

“Professor Snape,” corrected Minerva, mildly. “Did you already finish Professor Umbridge’s assessment?”

“She didn’t give us an assessment,” said Miss Manson, angrily.

Minerva’s eyebrows went up. “Excuse me?”

“Yeah,” said Mr. Fenton. “She basically said that she was doing the same curriculum for everyone, so she didn’t need to. So, we were wondering if we should move on to, um, potions? Potions. Or if we should go to lunch, or just hang out, or what.”

“Professor Snape is unlikely to be expecting you at this point,” said Minerva, feeling a headache growing behind her eyes. What was Delores thinking? The same curriculum for all years? For eleven-year-olds and eighteen-year-olds? There would be riots. Or at least hexes. “I can take you to the Great Hall.”

“Thanks, Ms. McGonagall,” said Mr. Foley. And what was that he was hiding in his robes? How many cursed muggle machines had he smuggled in?

Minerva sighed. Honestly, it was probably harmless, though she possibly should speak to Charity about it. “Professor McGonagall.”

“Sorry,” said Mr. Fenton. “It’s just… hard to adjust.” He rubbed the back of his neck.

“I suppose it is,” she said. “This way, children.”

Jazz floated through a wall, carefully avoiding the paintings. Their inhabitants weren’t quite ghosts, from what she and Danny could tell, but they also weren’t not ghosts.

It hadn’t taken her long last night to find the actual wizarding ghosts. They’d been expecting her, in more ways than one. But they had been weird. Empty. They didn’t have any ectoplasm in them, and the intensity that was a part of every other ghost Jazz had ever met, Danny included, was absent.

Clockwork and the Lady had warned them about that, before sending Danny, and by extension Jazz, Sam, and Tucker, off on his mission. Jazz just hadn’t quite believed it.

Wizarding ghosts weren’t made of passion, need, want, duty, or even stubbornness. They were made of fear. Fear, by itself, didn’t hold ectoplasm well, especially not fear of death. Wizarding ghosts might as well be mere imprints for all the power they had.

From the beginning, Jazz had been less than enthusiastic about pretending to be one of them. Now, she was even less so.

It wasn’t their fault, though. At least, it wasn’t entirely their fault. None of the ghosts here were around back when the Ancients and the wizards of the day came together and put their names to the Tenebris Carta, and they were trying to make amends. It sounded like they hoped the old treaty could be renegotiated, or that they hoped Danny and Jazz could get them an exception.

Jazz didn’t hate them. Didn’t dislike them or anything, and Danny would probably try to help them, so long as they didn’t turn evil or anything. That was just the kind of person Danny was.

She just needed more time to… adjust to them. And the paintings. Because wow.

“Ah, Miss Fenton!”

Jazz twisted herself over, mid-air. “You can call me Jazz, if you want, Sir Nicholas.”

The silvery ghost smiled. “If you insist. We’re going down to the Great Hall, to introduce ourselves to your companions over lunch. I was wondering if you would like to join us.”

“Sure,” said Jazz, descending to float by the other ghost. “But who do you mean by ‘we?’”

“All the castle ghosts,” said Sir Nicholas, “and possibly Peeves, though he won’t be invited.”

“Peeves?”

“The poltergeist. He isn’t really a ghost. At least… he’s not a ghost like us.”

“Mhm,” said Jazz. “Should I look forward to meeting him, or should I be very afraid?”

“Ah, neither, I suppose? He tends to play pranks, but he never does anything terribly dangerous, and he couldn’t hurt you if he tried.”

“Well,” said Jazz, “as long as he doesn’t mess with my brother, we’ll probably get along just fine.” She flexed her hands to disperse the pale green flames that had started to creep up her fingers. “If he does, I’ll tear him apart.”

“Speaking of your brother, do you have any guesses as to which house he will be joining?”

“I wasn’t under the impression it was a choice,” said Jazz.

“It isn’t, exactly. Students are sorted into the houses with, well, I don’t want to spoil the surprise, but houses are selected based on a student’s personality, aptitudes, and values. Normally, if they came in as first-years, they would be sorted on the first, but given the circumstances, they’ll be sorted tonight. I’m rather hoping to have a few new students for my house.”

Jazz grinned, detecting a note of competition. “And what does your house look for? Gryffindor, right?”

“Bravery,” said Sir Nicholas, proudly. “Considering your brother’s accomplishments, I’m looking forward to seeing him join.”

“He is the bravest person I know,” said Jazz.

Several dozen ghosts phasing through the walls didn’t just set off Danny’s fight-or-flight response. Sam readied her wrist-lasers, while Tucker grabbed Danny’s wrist and started hunting for a place to hide Danny so his transformation wouldn’t be noticeable. Dash and Star took cover under one of the tables. Paulina pulled out her wand. Valerie materialized a hand blaster.

It wasn’t entirely clear what weapon went off first, but it didn’t really matter. The end result was chaos.

“Oops,” said Jazz.

“I am so, so, sorry,” said Jazz, hovering over Danny. Literally.

“It’s fine,” said Danny. “Really.”

“No, it isn’t. I should have realized how everyone would react. I should have told them to stop it, or something.”

“They were already on their way through the walls when you got there, weren’t you?” asked Tucker, swinging his legs back and forth as he sat on the end of the hospital bed.

No one had been seriously injured, but a few tables had been exploded before the teachers had calmed everyone down and confiscated the ‘bizarre muggle weapons.’ On the other hand, everyone had a number of inconvenient scrapes and bruises that Madam Pomfrey insisted on taking a look at.

“Still,” said Jazz. “I know all of you have PTSD from repeated ghost attacks and those people, I should have known what that would look like to you.”

“Er,” said Dash. “It really is fine.”

“Yeah,” grunted Valerie, which was surprising.

Outside of ‘Team Phantom,’ none of the others interacted with Jazz very much. They didn’t seem to know how. Valerie, however, outright avoided Jazz most of the time.

Which, well. Danny wasn’t about to call her behavior reasonable, but it was definitely in-character. This seemed like a good sign, though.

“Yes, dear,” agreed Madam Pomfrey. “It isn’t your fault. We adults should have said something before things got out of hand like that.” She waved her wand back and forth over Star’s prominent black eye, and the bruise just… vanished. Like Star had never been hurt.

Danny inhaled slowly. It wasn’t the first time he had seen magical healing—The aurors who had arrived a few hours after the attack on Amity Park had done a great deal—but if there was anything of magic that Danny wanted to learn, it was that. And anything protective.

“Is there a class for that?” he asked.

“For what?”

“Healing.”

“Yes, it’s an elective,” said Madam Pomfrey. “Though it does have a few required courses. Perhaps you will be able to take it next year?”

Danny swallowed down envy and nodded. “Yeah, I guess we aren’t going to have time for electives, for the most part.”

“You may be surprised. Now, I think you’re all set, unless you’re hiding something from me?”

The students shook their heads.

“Good. I believe Professor Snape is expecting you?”

“Did that seem… weirdly easy to you?” asked Sam.

Danny thought about it for a second. “Not the ‘what does this plant or animal part do’ questions,” he said, finally, “but the practical part of it? Yeah. It was just… cooking. Really fiddly cooking, but still cooking.”

“Speaking of,” said Tucker, “how did you get by the parts where you had to use animal body parts.”

“Oh, I didn’t,” said Sam. “I just skipped those. I’m pretty sure I failed, judging by the look on Professor Snape’s face. My end result was pretty nasty-looking. It smelled bad, too.”

“You’re the reason we were stuck in an unventilated basement breathing in burnt hair fumes?” asked Paulina.

“Yeah. I mean, it didn’t smell like burnt hair to me, but probably.”

Paulina sighed. “I have to hand it to you, girl, you stand by your convictions.”

“I don’t think it’s unventilated,” said Star, contemplatively. “I wasn’t really paying attention, but there was definitely movement in all the, uh, vapors, or whatever. Professor Snape totally needs a better teacher face, though. Like, does he just have the one expression, or what?”

“No, no,” said Sam. “The look he gave me when I turned in my disaster was way more pronounced.”

“Still needs more than disdain and mega-disdain,” said Tucker. “Even Lancer had a wider range.”

“Come on, guys,” said Danny, “he can’t be much more than, what, thirty? He has time to develop more emotions.”

“Yeah,” said Valerie, flatly. “Give it a couple more years, and maybe he’ll nail down hyper-disdain.”

This surprised a snicker out of everyone. Almost everyone.

“Uh, guys?” said Dash. “I think I might have been the one who made it smell like burnt hair. What was it supposed to smell like?”

“I’m so glad I don’t need to breathe,” said Jazz.

“Oh my gosh, Jazz, that’s way too soon.”

“What do you think?” asked the hat.

The hat.

Danny could understand the paintings. He could almost understand how the paintings worked, even. They had the shapes of people who had once lived, their image, their likeness, and had by virtue of magic snagged a piece of their soul as they left this world.

But a hat. Who would try to give a hat sentience? And how? Was the thing possessed by an extraordinarily unfortunate ghost?

“Um,” said Danny, shaking off the shock. “I liked it!”

“Sorry,” said Star, “I’m just a little surprised. Are you really a… a hat?”

“Yes, I am the Sorting Hat! It is my job to divine which of our four houses each of you should belong to. Weren’t you listening?”

“We were,” assured Star, “it’s just…”

“You’re a hat,” finished Tucker. “Did you used to be a wizard or something?”

“Goodness, no, I was Godric Gryffindor’s hat! He enchanted me.”

“So, are you like a computer program?” continued Tucker. “Are you an AI?”

“No Skynet,” muttered Sam.

“Why do you guys keep thinking I’m going to make Skynet?”

Professor McGonagall cleared her throat. The other teachers were all present, except for the headmaster and Professor Umbridge. Their absences had not been explained.

“When you hear your name,” said McGonagall, “please come up and put the Sorting Hat on. It also usually helps if you sit down on the stool. Once the hat has determined your house, take it off, and put it down for the next person to use.”

Alright. That sounded easy enough. Danny wasn’t quite sure why such a big production was being made of this. A few comments from the teachers and the ghosts—not that Danny had talked to them very much, this was the first full day they’d been at the school—suggested there was some kind of rivalry between the houses, but it couldn’t be that bad. It was school.

Except Casper High had its nasty cliques, too, and he could just imagine how school-sanctioned cliques would work out. Especially if they were backed up by centuries of history and a magic personality test.

Fun.

Not.

He hoped he, Sam, and Tucker would all be in the same house. And that Dash wouldn’t revert to being a bully as soon as other students were added to the mix. And that… Oh, he hoped a lot of things, but he would be thankful if the ‘school’ part of this whole ordeal was as easy and drama-free as possible.

After all, he had other things to worry about.

“Baxter, Dash,” said McGonagall, evenly.

“Good luck, man,” said Tucker, holding up his thumbs. Everyone mirrored him.

Dash looked very strange, sitting on that small stool, but he wasn’t on it for more than a second before the hat shouted, “GRYFFINDOR!”

The hat was very loud. Dash returned to the bench with a confused expression on his face.

“Fenton, Daniel.”

Danny stood up slowly. He had expected something more like a conversation. Was this a mind reading hat? Was the ‘take a peek inside your head’ bit literal?

Ugh, this was going to be a pain. Good thing he had a lot of practice in compartmentalizing.

“Ah, a burgeoning occlumens!” said the hat in its warm voice. “How unusual.”

“I have no idea what that means,” said Danny, mildly.

“Oh, I’m sure your teachers will explain it to you. I won’t take the pleasure from them.”

The voice was, Danny decided, more than half in his head, which was… Unsettling. Voices in his head usually either meant mind control, some jerk with telepathy, or someone trying to overshadow him. He didn’t like this. He really didn’t like this.

“No need to be so nervous,” said the hat. “I keep everything strictly confidential.”

“Forgive me if I’m not reassured,” said Danny.

“Hmf. In any case, you have traits that would do you well in any of the houses. Perhaps not Ravenclaw, though. As clever as you are, you are behind academically. You need a more nurturing environment, I imagine. As for the others… You are brave. You love your friends. You’d do anything for them?”

“Yeah,” said Danny.

“And there’s… something else you need to do?”

Danny was silent.

“I can’t see it very clearly, but it is an important task?”

Danny shrugged.

“A goal.”

“Sure.”

“I think, then, the choice is between the badger and the snake,” said the hat. “But I believe the decisive phrase here is ‘do anything.’ Therefore, you will be SLYTHERIN!”

Wow. Even bracing himself, that had been loud.

Danny stood up and carefully deposited the hat back on the stool. He noticed on his way back to the bench that more than one teacher looked flabbergasted, and several spectating ghosts looked disappointed. Almost crushed. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Yes, he was a celebrity among the undead, no he couldn’t be in two houses at once. They should have prepared themselves.

Not to mention that, as important as education was, it was somewhat secondary to his true goals here. Which the ghosts partially knew about.

“Foley, Tucker.”

“I can’t believe it,” said Filius later that evening when all the teachers (sans Umbridge) gathered for a drink.

“I did say you would find the results surprising,” said Sybill, smugly.

“Two muggle-born American transfer students in Slytherin,” said Filius, wonderingly. “I didn’t expect to get any of them for Ravenclaw, but Slytherin?”

“I would appreciate it if you didn’t denigrate my house, Filius,” said Severus.

The diminutive teacher waved his hand. “Oh, that’s not my intention. But you have to admit, it seems like a strange choice.”

“They aren’t really muggle-born, though, are they?” asked Wilhelmina Grubbly-Plank, opting for tea instead of wine. “I’m not sure about the Sanchezes, but the Fentons were quite prominent, back in the day, weren’t they? At least, one of their ancestors wrote the first English book on new world magical creatures.”

“Muggle-borns and half-bloods are chosen for Slytherin all the time,” said Severus, annoyance clearly increasing. “Not, perhaps, as often as for the other houses, but it does happen regularly. You don’t have to be so shocked.”

“It’s nothing against Slytherin,” assured Pomona. “We were just expecting them to get split between Hufflepuff and Gryffindor. American stereotypes in play, I suppose.”

“Mm,” said Septima, who was doodling equations on the back of her wrist. “On my end, my thought process was more that they wouldn’t do well trying to play catchup in Ravenclaw, and they wouldn’t have the ambition and drive to hold their own in Slytherin. The Sorting Hat disagreed.”

“Evidently,” said Severus. He didn’t look especially pleased, but then he never did.

“Better you than me,” said Filius, after a few minutes. “I can’t imagine it will be easy integrating them.”

Minerva, who had three of the students, laughed, “You aren’t getting out of it that easy, Filius. They still have charms. How did they do, by the way? We never really got around to discussing it.”

“None of them were brilliant,” said Filius. “But they have promise. I was wondering what you all thought about doing an accelerated class for some of them, to get them to a higher year-level.”

Being on the Hogwarts Express without Ron at his side felt wrong. Sure, he wasn’t entirely alone, Ginny was with him, and Hegwig, but it felt different. He felt exposed.

Although, that might have had something to do with all the people staring and pointing at him.

The Daily Prophet had spent most of the summer convincing everyone he was a lying show-off. The only things that had really competed with the ‘Harry Potter is delusional’ articles were the ‘haha, America is going to hell in a handbasket, aren’t we glad we aren’t them?’ articles.

(Harry wouldn’t have even cast a glance at the second, except that he and the others had overheard some of the Order members mention Death Eaters had been behind the attack on the muggle town. Even so, reading them made him feel grimy.)

They had to go all the way to the end of the train to get away from the unfriendly eyes, and that’s where they found Neville.

“Hi, Harry,” he said, out of breath. “Hi, Ginny… Everywhere’s full… I can’t find a seat…”

Ginny squeezed past him to look at the compartments behind him. “What are you talking about? There’s room in this one, there’s only Loony Lovegood in here—”

“I don’t want to disturb her—”

“Don’t be silly, she’s alright.” She slid the door open and pulled her trunk in. “Hi, Luna. Is it okay if we take these seats?”

It took a couple minutes to get situated in the compartment, during which time Harry tried not to stare at Luna Lovegood very much. The blonde girl was surrounded by an aura of almost impenetrable oddness.

“Have a good summer, Luna?” asked Ginny.

Luna opened her mouth to answer, then closed it, frowning. “No, actually. My father had some friends in Amity Park. The town in America, you know.” She turned her head slightly. “You’re Harry Potter.”

“I know I am,” said Harry.

The four of them then proceeded to have a fairly enjoyable conversation, right up until Neville’s mimbulus mimbletonia sprayed them all with rancid sap and Cho Chang opened the compartment door.

Cho Chang who he had a crush on.

Yeah.

Harry had a strong desire to curl up and die.

Ron and Hermione did not turn up for over an hour, by which time the food trolley had come and gone, and most of the bounty acquired from it had been eaten.

“Oh, you have food. Brilliant,” said Ron, taking a Chocolate frog from Harry and throwing himself into the seat next to him. “You won’t believe what happened.”

“Malfoy’s Slytherin prefect?” asked Harry. The fear had been buzzing in the back of his head ever since Ron and Hermione had gotten their badges.

“Well, yeah,” said Ron.

“And that complete cow Pansy Parkinson,” said Hermione.

“But that’s not the real surprise,” said Ron, oddly dismissive. “You remember all those articles in the Prophet? Not the ones about you. About that town, in America?”

“Yeah?”

“Well, some of kids who survived were wizards.”

“And witches,” added Hermione. She pulled Crookshanks into her lap.

“Well, apparently their ministry didn’t think they’d be safe over there, so they sent them here. Seven of ‘em.”

“What? They think it’s safe here?” In Hogwarts, maybe it was, except Harry had been snatched away even with all eyes on him, in the middle of a heavily attended competition. “With Voldemort on the loose?”

Everyone flinched.

“Well, that isn’t exactly being publicized,” said Hermione. “Not—Not in the right way. Besides, none of them knew about magic before this summer. They’re all our age, though. It must have been a shock. Especially after losing their families like that.” She shuddered. “We’ve been asked to help them acclimate. That’s why the meeting ran so long.”

“Are they in Gryffindor, then?” asked Luna.

“They’re sort of spread out,” said Hermione. “They’re in all the houses but Ravenclaw.”

“And I’m still not sure how they got put into Slytherin if they’re muggleborn,” said Ron, who had tilted his head back to stare at the ceiling. “It doesn’t make sense,” he complained.

“Merlin was muggleborn,” said Luna. “He was a Slytherin. I’m sure there were others.”

Ron pulled a face.

(Harry thought about Voldemort—About Tom Riddle and his muggle father.)

“Anyway,” said Hermione. “We have three of them. Hufflepuff and Slytherin each have two.”

First Death Eaters in America, and now Slytherins from there? Harry shook himself internally. No, it probably didn’t mean anything.

“We probably won’t see much of them,” said Ron. “They’re taking mostly remedial classes. First and second year stuff.”

“Say,” said Luna, “do you know who the prefects are for the other houses?”

“Anthony Goldstein and Padma Patil for Ravenclaw,” said Hermione.

“And Ernie Macmillian and Hannah Abbot for Hufflepuff,” added Ron. “You know, other than helping keep track of the younger kids and patrolling corridors every so often, there’s not really much we’re supposed to do as prefects. From how Percy talked about it, I always sort of thought there’d be more.” Then he grinned. “We can give punishments out if people are misbehaving. I can’t wait to get Crabbe and Goyle for something…”

Predictably, this set off Hermione.

“There’s nothing else about the Americans?” asked Draco, frowning. “I’m not sure how we’re expected to ‘help them acclimate’ with so little information.”

The Head Girl rolled her eyes. “You’re expected to talk to them,” she said. “Considering that they’re real human beings and all. They’ve been through a lot, apparently, and I can appreciate them not wanting to have it spread around.”

Unspoken was the ‘do you?’ at the end of her sentence. Draco let his lip curl. People from other houses were always so eager to think the worst of Slytherin when all they were trying to be was logical.

“I’ll do that, then,” said Draco, stepping out of the prefects’ carriage. He needed to find Crabbe and Goyle. Annoying. As much as he was their leader, and he watched them, they were also there to watch him and—

(Draco chose not to think of the people who had arrived at Malfoy Manor over the Summer, of the things he’d seen.)

(When he was quite young, he’d read a book about muggle Germany during the time of Grindelwald, and how Grindelwald had subtly influenced things in that country. He’d always been struck by the use of informants, of how everyone had been convinced to watch one another and report those who stepped out of line. He found he could appreciate it even more now that he was inside a similar trap.)

But the Americans. It was so odd. They couldn’t have any lineage to speak of. Not if they were living like muggles in some backwater town.

… some backwater town the Dark Lord had seen fit to destroy.

… ‘Fenton’ sounded vaguely familiar.

… Perhaps ‘Sanchez’ was from a Spanish pureblood line.

Draco would have to do research. He was good at that. But whatever he found, he’d have to keep an eye on the Americans.

If nothing else, it would be good to have friends overseas.

“We’ll be in different dorms after this,” said Danny, vaguely depressed. “Different classes, too, most of the time.”

“We can still see each other during the day,” said Sam. “I think the only meal that’s segregated by house is dinner, anyway. We should be able to hang out at all the other times.”

Danny sighed. He had yet to have much success in his missions.

He’d felt something wrong on the seventh floor, but he hadn’t been able to pinpoint it. He’d found a giant inaccessible dungeon full of snake statues, a snake skeleton, and a number of other somewhat questionable things underneath the school. There had been an echo of something there, but whatever it was had been long gone by the time Danny got there. He also had the faint sense of a ghost—a real ghost—beginning to form there, and he hoped he hadn’t messed it up by spreading his ectoplasm around.

On the second front, he hadn’t heard anything from any of the leaders of the wizarding world. Unless he counted a reply from a secretary who thought he was disturbed.

But there was one bright spot. They’d met the Headmaster yesterday, and Danny was certain the man’s wand was one of the two subjects of his third quest. Which was hilarious. Out of everything, he’d thought the Hallows would be the hardest to find.

Not that he could just take it. Not now. Not yet. Not with everything else still so uncertain and Clockwork’s quiet assurance that he would find most of what he needed to at Hogwarts.

(Clockwork and the Lady had made a deal with him, bound in old magic and ghost law. Three tasks. Three nearly impossible quests, but at the end of them, the one who had destroyed half of his world, who had harmed his people, would be gone, and in the meantime Amity Park would be protected. Danny knew he had gotten the better half of the deal, with Clockwork practically on his side. Even with the… other requirements. Still, he couldn’t help but feel discouraged.)

So, he’d stay, and wait, and keep a careful eye on the Headmaster, and try to find the thing on the seventh floor, and figure out what spells worked on ghosts and if he could circumvent them, and figure out how to intercept at least one magical head of state, and, and, and…

Ugh.

“If we aren’t too busy,” said Danny.

“You know we’re here to help,” said Tucker, prodding Danny’s side. “And even if the rest of them don’t know about, you know, I think they’d be willing to help, too.”

“Within reason,” said Sam.

It was true. Surviving near-death experiences together tended to make people—well. Not necessarily friends, but something more than mere acquaintances. Allies, at the very least.

(Especially if a lot of other people had died at the same time, and the survivors were holding on to the relationships they still had with all their strength.)

“I know,” said Danny. He bit his lip. “There’s something on the seventh floor, I think. Need more time to figure out what, though.”

“We’ll keep an eye out,” promised Sam.

“And an ear, too,” said Tucker, tapping his. “I’m sure there’ll be lots of rumors and legends in a place like this.”

“Me too. Jazz has been interrogating the paintings, you know.” He frowned. “They’re so weird.”

“Everything about this is weird,” said Sam. “Can’t believe we thought ghosts were the whole extent of the supernatural. It seems so dumb, now.”

“Not really,” said Danny. “I mean, ghosts were all that we saw, and they didn’t really mention anything else.” He sighed. “Guess we should get ready for the feast or whatever?”

“Yeah,” said Sam, standing. “Good luck meeting your classmates. Housemates? How are we even supposed to say that?”

“I don’t know,” said Danny. He sighed. “At least we each have at least one person from Casper with us.”

“That’s true,” said Tucker. “Can’t say I feel like I have much in common with Star, though. Other than,” he gestured, vaguely, “all the Amity Park stuff.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “And you think I have a lot in common with Dash?”

“You have a lot in common with Valerie,” offered Tucker.

Sam shrugged. “We do both fight ghosts.”

Tucker’s grin turned slightly wicked. “And have a crush on the same guy.”

“Take a walk off a

Danny let himself smile. It had been a while since the three of them had gotten some good banter in. It was hard to verbally spar when you were depressed.

Sitting next to Paulina at an otherwise empty table felt strange. But it would feel even stranger to sit not next to Paulina at the very large empty table. Danny let his eyes drift over to the other three house tables. It seemed that the others were of the same opinion, sitting together in little, painfully awkward clusters.

All the close friend groups had been pulled apart, after all.

“Danny,” said Paulina. Her voice wavered at the end.

“Yeah?”

“The wizard kids will have cliques.”

“I mean, yeah, they’re still human, right?” And even ghosts formed groups.

Paulina nodded and clenched her jaw. “We’re going to get into one,” she said, firmly. “We’ll have to find the best one, and fast, otherwise we’ll wind up at the bottom of the pecking order. You know how much that sucks.”

“Yeah,” said Danny, his eyebrows raised. He was a little surprised to be included.

“The wizards we’ve met so far are pretty weird. You know how to deal with weird.”

“Uh,” said Danny. “Is this a strategy thing? Isn’t it a bit too late for that?”

“It’s never too late to salvage social standing, and we haven’t even started,” said Paulina. “Anyway, you’re the backup plan, in case they’re aliens who don’t fall for my charm.” She put a hand to her heart and fluttered her eyelashes.

“Should we even use charm like that here? I mean, since it’s a class, now.”

“Hmf. I’m good at that, too.” She examined her fingernails. “We’ll probably attract a bunch of people, just because we’re here and visible and new. We just need to make sure that people stay interested in us.”

“I’m not sure I want attention, Paulina.”

“Then pay attention and follow my lead. If you’re in the right clique, you can fade into the background. Like Star. No one notices the stuff she gets up to. They’re all too focused on yours truly. As they should be.”

This was true, actually. People didn’t really pay any attention to Star, except in her person as Paulina’s satellite. Even Danny, before becoming Phantom and gaining a new perspective on life and the people in it, hadn’t.

“Besides,” continued Paulina, “now that we, well.” She didn’t quite blush. “You guys don’t suck as much as I thought you did.”

“Uh, thanks. You, too?”

Wow. That was quite possibly the worst response he could have had.

Paulina sighed heavily.

However, she was distracted from whatever she might have said to him by the first of the Hogwarts students coming in. Paulina turned her attention away, her eyes flicking from one set of green and silver highlights to the next. Whenever a student looked their way she smiled and waved, pouring on the charm.

Danny didn’t know how she did it. Social engineering was never going to be his strong point.

(Perhaps he could set Paulina and Star on the Minister of Magic’s trail. They might have more luck.)

Before he could follow the train of thought, they were surrounded. In a simply physical sense. There was no malice and very little aggression from the students that sat near them, more than one of whom had prefects badges. Still, Danny did have to fight down a knee-jerk reaction. He saw Paulina shift uncomfortably as well, and he gave her robe what he hoped was a steadying tug.

She returned it with a tight smile.

There wasn’t much time to talk before Professor McGonagall stood up with the hat and started calling names. Everyone went very quiet during the sorting, except for the cheer that rose with the hat’s every shout.

Then there was food. A lot of food. Most of it was recognizable, but some of it was sort of weird. Many things were pumpkin flavored. There was even something Danny was fairly certain was pumpkin juice.

He didn’t know how to feel about that.

Paulina took the time to engage in social engineering. Danny took the time to watch. They were both watched back, of course, but Paulina naturally drew more attention.

However, there was one boy who kept staring at Danny. He was about their age and had pale blonde hair. Really pale blonde hair.

(Danny had thought Star and Dash were blonde.)

“You’re Daniel Fenton, correct?” asked the boy.

“Um. Yes. And you are?”

“Draco Malfoy. I’m the fifth-year prefect.”

“Oh, Draco like the constellation?”

Draco blinked. “Yes.”

“Did your parents like astronomy a lot, then?”

“Astrology,” corrected Draco. “Astronomy is what muggles do.”

Danny carefully forced down the white-hot rage he felt at that statement. Yeah, he had more than a normal admiration for astronomy, and, therefore, a more intense than normal reaction to astronomy and astrology being confused, but magic was real, apparently, so maybe astrology wasn’t useless. Right. Yeah. And they were both about stars, planets, and space. Nothing to get mad at.

“It’s been a tradition in my mother’s family for generations,” Draco was saying, “although we occasionally make some allowances for other traditions. My mother’s name is Narcissa, for example. Is there anything similar in your family?”

“Dad’s side does ‘J’ names for the first born. Jazz got stuck with that.”

The boy’s eyebrows went up. “You have a sister? She isn’t magical?”

“Magical enough to haunt me,” said Danny.

“Pardon?”

“She died. She’s around here somewhere, though.” He gestured vaguely. “Didn’t want to be around big crowds. I think she said she was going to hang out with Myrtle?”

“Myrtle? Do you mean Moaning Myrtle? Who haunts the bathrooms?”

This time, the reaction Danny suppressed was a cringe, the emotion embarrassment on behalf of the young witch ghost. “She just introduced herself as Myrtle. Well, Myrtle Warren, but… Yeah. It’s kind of rude to describe someone as moaning, isn’t it?”

The boy puffed up, slightly, clearly offended.

Oh, dear.

The Americans were… interesting, Harry thought.

Ron and Hermione had sat near them as part of their ‘prefect duties,’ with Harry and therefore Ginny and Neville following after.

Well. That may have had more to do with curiosity than anything else.

They introduced themselves by their first names only. Dash, Valerie, and Sam. Dash was… well. Harry had encountered people like him both before and after coming to Hogwarts. For example, McClaggen. Harry hadn’t ever interacted much with McClaggen, even if they were in the same house, but Dash definitely gave off the same feeling. Meanwhile, Valerie just sort of glared at everyone, resisting all attempts at conversation while tearing at her food with extreme aggression. Sam had managed to engage Hermione and Katie Bell in a conversation about dark magic that was getting Hermione progressively more flustered.

Harry couldn’t tell if it was because of the misconceptions Sam had about magic in general, or because Sam seemed to think some kinds of dark magic should be legal.

He was starting to get a very bad feeling about these Americans.

“Hey,” whispered Tucker, while the students around them were distracted by something a rather round ghost was saying.

“What?” whispered Star.

“Is it just me, or is everyone here sort of depressed? Like, I can understand us being depressed, but…”

“No, no it’s not just you. Wasn’t there something about a student death? Some kind of freak accident.”

“Oh,” said the student sitting across from them. “You heard about Cedric.”

Danny wondered if he could get to the Minister of Magic through Dolores Umbridge. He hadn’t gotten a good read on her during their very brief encounters the previous week, but now... She gave off the impression of having some kind of political power. His understanding was that the headmaster had a lot of influence among the wizards and witches of this country, so for her to be interrupting him like that…

Or maybe he was like Danny and weak against social awkwardness.

Also, her speech seemed to have a deeper meaning he couldn’t decode. He didn’t understand wizarding culture or their political climate enough, despite his research.

Eh. He’d have to get a better grasp of her personality and position. Hopefully, that wouldn’t be too hard. He did have a class with her.

“The events of last spring have left a mark on the whole school,” said Severus Snape into the muffled quiet of the Slytherin common room, his voice just barely more emotive than during the placement test he had given the Casper High students, “and no doubt on many of your home lives as well. I want you to know that if you have any… concerns… regarding the behaviors of fellow students or… more sensitive topics, you can come to me.”

The man blinked slowly at them.

“That is all,” he said, finally, and with an overly dramatic swish of his cloak he departed.

The room quickly filled with light chatter, students breaking off into little cliques, some of them slipping away down shadowy corridors.

Paulina tugged him towards one of those groups.

“Hi, Pansy,” she said, giving the girl a little wave, “hi, Draco. We were wondering if you guys could show us around? We were told our stuff would be moved here, but…” She trailed off, shrugging elegantly.

Danny tried to echo the movement.

He most likely did not succeed.

(It wasn’t like he could tell. His superpowers did not include seeing himself from the outside—Or maybe they did. There could be a spell for that, he supposed.)

He had to admit, as the prefects made a (just slightly supercilious) show of presenting the Slytherin dormitories to them, that he rather liked the space. It was surprisingly well-ventilated and warm, but there was still a general air of closeness, of security of bone-deep chill that spoke so well to his ghost half.

Of course, a lot of that would probably evaporate once Danny tried to sleep in a room with half a dozen strangers, but, well, he’d deal with that when he got there.

Magic was great and all, but Tucker would trade it all away in a second if only to get his PDA to work properly.

In the tent formed by his bedsheet and his body, Tucker hissed and rapped on the staticky screen, hoping an impact adjustment would do… something. He didn’t know what. The last three hadn’t done anything.

The way the metal casing was heating up under his hand was disturbing. Quickly, he thumbed the power button. He didn’t have a lot of these left, and he wanted to be able to use them to communicate with Danny and Sam. He missed their late-night Doom sessions.

(Along with everything else about his life in Amity Park. He at least had the power to make talking to his friends possible. The rest? Not so much.)

He groaned into his pillow. He’d been working on this off and on all week. Another night wouldn’t matter in the long run.

Maybe one of his classes would help him understand what he was doing wrong.

Sam had sort of enjoyed needling Hermione (the girl reminded her a lot of Jazz), even if she knew she shouldn’t, but the nasty fight between some of the fifth year boys in the common room had really ruined the mood. Hermione’s friend, Harry, was apparently some sort of celebrity. Like, in the same way Phantom had been a celebrity following Walker’s invasion.

So. Not really a great thing for him.

Ugh. Sympathy. Feelings. She sighed and stared up at the red and gold ceiling. If the color scheme didn’t do her in…

Danny met Jazz in the air over the school.

“I didn’t see you much today,” he said, twisting hands that he is keeping carefully transparent.

“Yeah,” said Jazz. “I’m just… I’m still adjusting. I think you’ll like Myrtle, by the way. She’s lonely, but fun. I think there might actually be a bit of ectoplasm in her, believe it or not.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. She can flood the toilets, apparently. Although… I’m not sure if she meant the toilets themselves, or just the room in general.” She frowned. “Because she said something about sinks…” She shook her head. “Not important. Want to hear what she told me about the secret underground room and the giant snake skeleton? Not to mention all the other ridiculous stuff that’s happened here. If this is ‘safer,’ I don’t want to know what the rest of the wizarding world is like.”

“Like what happened in Amity, I guess,” said Danny. “But! Yes. Please tell me what you found out.”

Breakfast was nice. Especially when Sam, Danny, and Tucker compared schedules and realized that they had more classes together than they expected. Not with all three of them at once, but even just two of them together was better than nothing.

Yes, they got a lot of strange looks, especially when Jazz joined them. Evidently, eating breakfast with people from other houses just wasn’t done. Which was stupid, in Sam’s opinion. Actually, the whole house system felt increasingly stupid to Sam. She just didn’t understand the point. Was it for sports?

It was probably for sports. Sports were the root of all evil. Just look at Dash. He hadn’t had any sports for a whole Summer, and now he was acting like an actual decent human being.

Okay. That reasoning was suspect. Sam would have to come back to this when she was more awake. Early mornings were the worst.

Anyway. She had an acceptable breakfast with her friends and the people she’d grown to tolerate, then she set out to find History.

Which is how she overheard the conversation between Hermione and her friends.

“What’s S.P.E.W.?” she asked.

Hermione’s two friends glared at Sam. Probably for the sin of eating with people from another house. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

“Well,” said Hermione, just slightly hesitant. “It’s the Society for the Promotion of Elvish Welfare…”

(Sam found a new cause to get incandescently angry about. Wizard society sucked.)

Harry was surprised to see five of the Americans, the three Gryffindors and the two Slytherins, standing by the door to Defense Against the Dark Arts, quietly talking to each other.

“What’re they doing, then?” asked Ron, scowling. “Consorting with the enemy?”

“Honestly, Ron,” said Hermione, rolling her eyes. “They aren’t the enemy. And they’re from the same place. It must be difficult, being so far away from home.”

Ron grunted and shrugged. “What d’you think Umbridge’ll be like, anyway?” he asked, changing the subject.

They filed into the classroom, the remainder of the class, including the Slytherins, their green looking horribly out of place amongst all the red trim, following shortly after. No one knew what Umbridge would be like, regarding punishment, so they didn’t want to immediately get on her bad side.

“Well,” she said, in a sickly-sweet tone, “good afternoon!”

There was a mumbled response.

Umbridge said “Tut, tut.” She actually said tut tut. Out loud. “That won’t do, now, will it? I should like you, please, to reply ‘Good afternoon, Professor Umbridge.’ One more time, please. Good afternoon, class!”

“Good afternoon, Professor Umbridge,” said the class, in something approaching unison and the least enthusiastic tone Harry had heard since Ron had tried to convince Hermione to help him with his Divination homework last year.

“There, now,” said Professor Umbridge. “That wasn’t too difficult, was it? Wands away and quills out, please.”

Many of the students exchanged gloomy or exasperated looks. Lessons without wands tended to be uninteresting, with very few exceptions.

(Instead of quills, the Americans produced pencils and pens from their bookbags.)

Umbridge opened her handbag and pulled out her own wand, which was as stubby as she was, and tapped the blackboard. Words appeared on the board at once: Defense Against the Dark Arts, A Return to Basic Principles.

Harry couldn’t quite repress a groan. Luckily, he wasn’t the only one.

“Well now, your teaching in this subject had been rather disrupted, hasn’t it?” stated Professor Umbridge. She turned to face the class, her eyes briefly lingering on Harry, and then the Americans. “Or completely nonexistent. The constant changing of teachers, many of whom do not seem to have followed any Ministry-approved curriculum, has unfortunately resulted in your being far below the standard we would expect to see in your O.W.L. year.

“You will be pleased to know, however,” she continued, still acting like she was talking to kindergarteners, “that these problems are now to be rectified. We will be following a carefully structured, theory-centered, Ministry-approved course of defensive magic this year.”

Each word Umbridge spoke made Harry’s heart drop farther. How could Dumbledore let this woman teach them? This year? When knowing how to fight dark magic was more important than ever?

Umbridge rapped the board again, and new words appeared. Course aims: 1. Understanding the principles underlying defensive magic. 2. Learning to recognize situations in which defensive magic can legally be used. 3. Placing the use of defensive magic in a context for practical use.

Oh. This year was going to be bad. As for the day, it got worse when Umbridge assigned a reading from what had to be the dullest book Harry had ever read. Including that one time—No. Focus.

He massaged his temples and wondered if he needed to get a new prescription for his glasses. The words on the page refused to stay sharp.

Harry looked up when the Americans started to whisper among themselves and caught sight of one of the most shocking things he had ever witnessed: Hermione not reading.

Soon, everyone was staring either at Hermione or the Americans, who had left off whispering after some pointed glaring from Umbridge but had replaced the whispers with passionate gesturing at something in the back of the book. Those, too, died down after a while, in favor of looking at Hermione.

Eventually, Umbridge could no longer ignore the situation.

“Did you want to ask something about the chapter, dear?”

“Not about the chapter, no.”

“Well, we’re reading just now.” Umbridge smiled. It wasn’t pleasant. “If you have other queries, we can deal with them at the end of class.”

“I’ve got a query about your course aims,” said Hermione, undeterred.

“And your name is—?”

“Hermione Granger.”

“Well, Miss Granger, I think the course aims are perfectly clear if you read them through carefully.”

“Well, I don’t. There’s nothing written up there about using defensive spells.”

“There’s nothing in the book about using spells, either!” said the Slytherin boy, waving his copy angrily. “There aren’t even any of the, um.” He paused and looked at Sam for a second.

“Incantations,” said Sam. “I mean, that’s what I’d call them? I don’t know the official term.”

Umbridge inhaled through her teeth.

“Using defensive spells?” she asked, voice pitched unnaturally high. “Why, I can’t imagine any situation arising in my classroom that would require you to use a defensive spell, Miss—”

“And what about outside of the classroom?” interrupted the Slytherin boy.

“Like, this is supposed to teach us how to not die, right?” asked the girl next to him, examining her fingernails.

“You have to practice self-defense to actually get good at it,” agreed Valerie, crossing her arms. “What’s the point of this class if we’re not going to actually learn how to do stuff?”

“Yes,” agreed Hermione, “surely the whole point of Defense Against the Dark Arts is to practice defensive spells?”

“Students,” gritted Umbridge, “will raise their hands when they wish to speak in my class.”

At once, a dozen hands went up.

“Miss Granger?” Umbridge asked, voice dangerous.

“Isn’t the whole point of Defense Against the Dark Arts to practice defensive spells?”

“Miss Granger,” said Umbridge. “As you are not a Ministry-trained educational expert, you are not qualified to decide what the ‘whole point’ of this, or any, class is. Wizards much older and cleverer than you have—”

“I really doubt that,” interjected Ron.

Umbridge took another deep breath. “You will be learning about defensive spells in a secure, risk-free way—”

“What’s the use of that?” demanded Harry, loudly. “If we’re going to be attacked, it won’t be in a—”

“Hand, Mr. Potter!”

Predictably, Umbridge turned her back on him as soon as he thrust his fist into the air. Instead, she called on Dean Thomas.

(The part of Harry’s brain that wasn’t vibrating in frustration noted that the Americans were passing notes between each other.)

“Well, it’s like Harry said, isn’t it?” he asked, once she had gotten done with interrogating him about his name. “If we’re going to be attacked, it won’t be risk-free—”

“Do you expect to be attacked in class?”

Harry was very tempted to say yes, considering that three of his four previous DADA teachers had wound up attacking him.

… Did Professor Lupin’s werewolf form having a go at him bring the count up to four?

Umbridge talked over Dean. “I do not wish to criticize the way things have been run in this school,” she said, with the air of someone who was about to do just that, “but you have been exposed to some very irresponsible wizards in this class, very irresponsible indeed—not to mention,” she gave a nasty little laugh, “extremely dangerous half-breeds.”

The Slytherin boy stood up, chair scraping across the floor. Sam, next to him, had gone pale. Her fingers were wrapped tightly around her wand.

“Sit down, Mr.-?”

“I’m leaving,” said the boy, not deigning to give Umbridge his name. He picked up his bag. “Maybe I can sit in on an actually useful lesson. I mean, if I can figure out how to make a pineapple tap dance, I can get it to fly into someone’s face. At least that’s something.”

“Sit down,” repeated Umbridge. “I do not know what your classmates have told you, but you, all of you,” she said to the class, “have been frightened into believe that you are likely to meet Dark attacks every other day—”

“We haven’t been frightened into believing anything!” exclaimed Dash, also rising from his seat. “Our entire city was attacked! We need—"

“Which was a tragedy. One that is unlikely to be repeated! Now, sit down.”

The other Americans stood up.

“We heard about Cedric Diggory, you know,” said the Slytherin girl, coldly. “And a lot of the people who attacked us were never caught.”

“We also know about the giant murder snake that apparently lived here,” said the boy.

“I, for one, can’t believe that wizards are less likely to be murders than any other human,” said Valerie. “If normal people need to take self-defense classes, I don’t see why we shouldn’t be able to.”

“The government preventing people from learning how to defend themselves is historically a bad sign,” said Sam. “Of course, slavery is also a bad sign, and you all have been ignoring that for God only knows how long. There are actual slaves in this school.”

“Wait,” said the Slytherin boy, horrified. “Are you serious? Is that what you were talking about before? Oh my God—"

“Children!” exclaimed Umbridge. “Your hands are not up.”

The looks Umbridge got after that outburst were filled with incredulity, not

Parvati Patil raised her hand.

“Yes?” asked Umbridge.

Harry was beginning to wonder if she was looking for punishment.

“Isn’t there supposed to be a practical bit in our Defense Against the Dark Arts O.W.L.?”

“As long as you have studied the theory hard enough, there’s no reason you shouldn’t be able to—”

The room exploded into a flurry of objections, spurred on by the Americans.

“Who exactly do you think is going to attack you?” shouted Umbridge over the ruckus.

“I don’t know!” shouted Harry back, even though part of him knew this was a bad idea. “How about Lord Voldemort?”

Silence.

“Ten points from Gryffindor, Mr. Potter?”

“Points?” whispered Dash. No one else spoke.

The Slytherin boy was looking at Harry with something like hunger in his eyes.

“Now, let me make a few quite plain. You have been told that a certain Dark wizard had returned from the dead—”

“He wasn’t dead,” said Harry, “but yeah, he’s returned!”

“Do not make matters worse for yourself, Mr. Potter!” exclaimed Umbridge shrilly. “As I was saying, you have been informed that a certain Dark wizard is at large once again. This is a lie.”

“It is NOT a lie! I saw him! I fought him!”

Glee spread across Umbridge’s toad-like face. “Detention, Mr. Potter. Tomorrow evening. Five— What do you think you’re doing?”

“Um,” said the Slytherin boy, who like the rest of the Americans was halfway to the door. “Leaving. Like we said?” He hadn’t stopped walking.

“You will do no such thing! All five of you will be joining Mr. Potter for detention.”

“Pass.” His eyes flicked towards Harry again.

“Excuse me?”

“We have better things to do than humor someone who’s refusing to do their job,” said Sam.

The classroom doors slammed shut right in front of the Slytherin boy’s nose, and he took half a step back.

“Tomorrow evening, at five o’clock, all six of you will join me for detention in my office. Now. The rumors of that Dark wizard’s return are lies. The Ministry guarantees that you are not in danger from any Dark wizard. If you are still worried, if someone is alarming you with fibs about reborn Dark wizards, come see me outside of class hours, I would like to hear about it. I am here to help. I am your friend. Now, kindly, continue your reading. Page five, ‘Basics for Beginners.’”

The Americans slunk back to their seats but pulled a variety of colorful transfiguration textbooks from their bags instead of Defensive Magical Theory.

With an air of triumph, Umbridge sat down behind her desk.

Harry stood up.

“Harry, no!” whispered Hermione, tugging at his sleeve.

Harry ignored her. (Which was, in all honesty, a stupid move. Ignoring Hermione rarely had positive consequences.)

(In his defense, the preceding several minutes had been… stressful.)

“So, according to you, Cedric Diggory dropped dead of his own accord, did he?”

“Cedric Diggory’s death was a tragic accid—”

“Just like Amity Park, huh?”

“A tragic accident,” continued Umbridge, voice full of ice.

“It was murder.” Harry was shaking. He felt like he was under a spotlight, and he wanted to be anywhere but here, talking about this. “Voldemort killed him, and you know it.”

For a second, Harry thought Umbridge would start screaming, but instead her lips curled up into a parody of a smile. “Come here, Mr. Potter, dear.”

As Harry walked forward, Umbridge started scribbling on a small, pink, piece of paper, angled so that Harry couldn’t see what she was writing. Something moved out of the corner of his eye, and Harry flinched.

The… What were they even doing? Why were they sitting like that?

“Take this to Professor McGonagall, dear,” said Umbridge, holding out a roll of pink paper.

Harry took it from her without a word, turned on his heel, threw open the door, and—

Was almost trampled by the Americans all escaping the room at once.

Dash grabbed him by the upper arm, and soon all six of them were running down the hallway. It took several seconds for Umbridge to start shrieking, and, by that point, the Slytherin boy had pulled them all into a secret passage that someone who hadn’t been at Hogwarts for even a month shouldn’t know about.

“Wow,” said Sam. “You work fast, Danny.”

“Thanks,” said Danny, giving her a thumbs up. “Got to thank the Bloody Baron, though.” He paused. “Still can’t believe that’s his actual name…”

“Sorry about dragging you with us, by the way,” said the Slytherin girl. “I’m Paulina. This is Danny. You already know these three, I think?”

“Er,” said Harry, not at all sure how to deal with this situation. Part of him just wanted to shout. He was still vibrating with suppressed rage.

“I didn’t really catch your name in all that, though,” she continued, gesturing behind them.

“It’s Harry. Potter.”

It was… interesting, how his name didn’t spark any recognition in them. At least not at first. Then Danny stiffened and—

“The poltergeist is coming this way,” he said, mildly.

“You can tell?” asked Paulina.

“I could always tell. Why do you think I was always in the bathroom when ghosts were around?”

Valerie scowled, and shot a truly venomous glare at her watch.

“Do you think we can convince him to bug Umbridge?” asked Sam.

Danny shot a look of surprise at her. Then he smiled. “Maybe,” he said. He turned back to Harry. “It was nice meeting you. I hope we can talk again sometime. It sounds like you’ve been through a lot, and, well…” He shrugged.

Harry suddenly remembered that the Americans were here, for the most part, because their families were dead.

“But you should probably track down Professor McGonagall sooner than later. I’d bet that Umbridge put a timer on that. If that’s possible. Is that possible?”

“I don’t know,” said Harry, suddenly a hundred times more anxious about the paper clenched in his hand.

“Gosh, imagine if Lancer could do that,” said Dash.

“I’d take Lancer any day,” said Danny. “He actually tried to teach stuff. Anyway, I’m going to go head off Peeves. You might want to go around. I hear he can be kind of a jerk?”

“Right,” said Harry, walking further down the secret passage, because he had been here for a proper length of time and had learned about it properly.

… Although he supposed that asking the ghosts was a proper way to go about learning the secret passages.

No, he had to focus on how to explain getting kicked out of class to Professor McGonagall, not on the weirdest interaction with Slytherins he’d had to date.

#danny phantom #harry potter #fic #gift fic #prize #winner

192 notes · View notes

nommy-thoughts · 4 years

Text

Danger Noodles Chapter 2: The Other Hikers

Wordcount: 6.7 K

Summary: Virgil and Logan go looking for the third member of their party and find a little more than they bargained for.

Chapter 2 of my collab with @that-prey-lounge!

[Danger Noodles Masterpost]

~~~~~

“Wait, where’s Patton?”

Logan pulled his eyes away from the bird he’d been trying to identify, the worry in Virgil’s voice enough to warrant his full attention. He glanced around. “He was stomping leaves right over there a minute ago,” Logan said, frowning. It was painfully clear that Patton wasn’t there now. Both friends looked around the clearing in concern. “Patton?” Logan called. There was no answer.

“Patton!” Virgil called, louder. He looked around, worried. “C’mon, Patton, the one thing everyone knows is don’t wander off alone in the forest! People who go off alone don’t always come home.”

“Pairs don’t tend to do well either,” Logan pointed out, frowning.

Virgil grimaced. ��Right. Now we’re all in danger. Great.”

“Which is why we must find Patton immediately.” Logan hitched his bag up higher, and the two scoured the area. Patton’s disturbance in the leaves were evident, and after a minute, they thought they found a trail.

Thank goodness Patton enjoyed dragging his feet in the leaves.

The pair walked briskly, calling out Patton’s name every few feet. They were both set on edge by the silence that dragged on.

Eventually, they found something that made their blood run cold. A serpentine track wound across the path the two were following, and from the size of the marks, it had been made by something big.

“The ranger said that there are rumors of nagas in the woods, didn’t she?” Virgil swallowed.

Logan nodded gravely, and he pressed on, nearly jogging. “Patton!”

“Patton! Buddy!” Virgil had a louder voice, so he did most of the yelling for Patton. “Where are you?!”

Logan stopped Virgil with an outstretched arm over his chest. “Look.”

There were more tracks. Surrounding a glittering stone were a plethora of the naga’s menacing grooves in the leaves and loose dirt.

“No, no, no!” Virgil grabbed his drawstrings on his hoodie. “Patton! Patton! Pa—!”

Logan slapped a hand over his mouth, cutting him off. “Silence. We don’t know if the naga left yet.”

Virgil’s eyes widened to the size of silver dollars, and he went quiet. Logan very slowly removed his hand.

Nothing came lashing out of the woods at them, so Logan took a deep breath. Virgil slowly exhaled through his nose.

“Look for clues, quietly.” Logan instructed before examining the tracks.

One came in from the east, the other from the west. Coordinated attack. That significantly lowered the chance that any of them would make it out alive.

“Logan!” Virgil hissed.

Logan rushed over and saw Virgil clutching Patton’s glasses case in a trembling hand. Logan reached over and opened it. There sat Patton’s glasses.

“You don’t think… he got eaten, do you?” Virgil was shaking a little. “A-and that he’s been crushed to death and torn to shreds and—”

“No.” Logan stopped him there. “If he was eaten, he would have his glasses. He wouldn’t take them off and put them away if he was about to be swallowed.”

Virgil clutched the glasses close as he stood. “Then Patton might be alive!”

“We should go contact the ranger station. She can gather a search party, armed, and more numerous than us.” Logan was looking over the tracks with Virgil. He saw human footprints leading in, but only naga prints leading out.

“But they might have caught him by then, Logan! We have to go after him!”

“Be rational. What can we do against a pair of nagas who might have swallowed—”

Virgil’s glare sent chills down Logan’s spine.

“—that are at such large proportions,” he amended. “This isn’t like our pet at home. These things are vicious man eaters. They might kill us too, Virgil.”

“I don’t care!” Virgil stood tall, and Logan saw that reckless determination flare in his friend’s eyes. “I’m going to get Patton back, and you can help me or not!”

Virgil took off running in the direction the tracks led.

Logan took off after him, hoping with every fiber of his being that Patton was okay.

The tracks led up into the mountains, and eventually up into the mouth of a huge cave.

“The tracks go in here,” Virgil said unnecessarily, looking into the mouth of the cave. It was simply enormous, definitely large enough to house nagas of the size to leave the tracks.

“This is a bad idea,” Logan answered unhappily, but he still didn’t back down.

Virgil nodded, peering into the cave. Though it was large, it had a big overhang, so that the sunlight didn’t reach very far into it. After a few dozen yards, it was too dim to see clearly. Pulling his phone from his pocket, Logan turned the flashlight widget on, shining it into the cave. From this distance, it didn’t do much good against the shadows.

Virgil did the same with his own, taking the lead. He stayed by the left wall of the cave, mostly using his phone light to show the floor. Behind him, Logan followed, legs primed to run.

“Maybe you should wait outside,” Virgil whispered. Logan shook his head vigorously.

“No way,” he said. “I’m not gonna risk both my friends getting eaten without me.”

Virgil chuckled darkly, but he didn’t try to dissuade him again.

Together, they slowly edged into the cave. Suddenly, Virgil threw an arm out to stop Logan. “Do you hear that?” he whispered.

Logan listened, tilting his head slightly. There was the sound of wind, which was not exactly something one expected to hear inside of a cave. Then the wind paused for a moment, before starting again. Not wind. Breathing. Something very big breathing.

Logan slowly swept the flashlight beam across the floor to the source of the sound. Red scales gleamed back at them. Virgil stopped breathing in horror at the size of the serpent. The tracks they’d been following had given them a hint, sure, but it was something else to see it with his own eyes. It was thicker than both friends put together. Honestly, it was almost half as thick as Virgil was tall, and he suspected that this wasn’t even the thickest part of the tail.

But it wasn’t moving. Hand trembling, Logan swept the beam along its length. A few feet down, another tail twisted around the first, just as thick. Unlike the first, it was covered in drying mud, obscuring its color. And then Logan’s flashlight illuminated a human hand, draped limply over the tails.

Virgil gasped, bringing his own light up in an instant. The hand was attached to an arm, which was attached to a shoulder, and… and that was Patton. His face was turned the other way, but they didn’t need to see Patton’s face to know that was him.

“I’m glad you decided we follow the trail when you said we should.” Logan swallowed dryly. “He’s breathing,” he noted. Patton was, somehow, inexplicably, still alive, thank goodness. However, he was also currently cuddled up to two gigantic carnivorous beasts.

Why they hadn’t eaten him, Logan couldn’t fathom. Nagas’ diets consisted of whatever animals they could catch, regardless of whether they could fit it down their throats in one piece or not. Although micro nagas occasionally liked to play with their food and enjoyed the chase, they did not keep prey alive for long, and they certainly didn’t take it back to their nests for a nap. It was assumed that giant nagas were the same. Logan briefly considered the possibility that the nagas were too full, but a single glance at their tails disproved that theory. Logan knew what the tail of a recently fed snake looked like, and this wasn’t it. These nagas were hungry.

“Why isn’t he moving?” Virgil worried. “Why is he just lying there?”

“I don’t know,” Logan admitted.

Perhaps giant nagas’ venom paralyzed prey instead of killing it? Any researcher that witnessed a hunt ended up as their subject’s meal, so they had little to no information. Logan frowned. What would be the benefit of paralyzing their prey, and not eating it right away?

“Patton!” Virgil whisper-shouted.

Eyes widening in alarm, Logan grabbed Virgil’s arm. They both froze again, and Virgil winced. Luckily, the two gigantic nagas didn’t stir. But, unfortunately, neither did Patton.

“You don’t think he’s been bitten o-or crushed, do you?”

Logan stared up at Patton’s limp form for several seconds more. “It doesn’t look like he’s breathing painfully,” he said at last.

Virgil nodded tightly. “I - I’m going to try and get him down from there.” He set his phone down on the cave floor, taking a moment to position it so the beam continued to illuminate Patton.

“Please be cautious.” Logan bit his lip as Virgil approached the nest of coils. He allowed his light to stray from Patton, running up the tails. There were just visible black spot-like markings across the darker tail, and after a second, his beam found more pale flesh.

Much larger flesh.

He estimated that the hand laying on the torso was roughly five times larger than a human hand, with long, thick claws for fingernails, and several scars across the fingers and one that looked like a cat scratch on the back of the wrist.

Logan jumped slightly when Virgil hissed out a curse word, glancing back at his friend. He was standing with the tips of his sneakers mere inches from a thick, red coil and was awkwardly trying to pull Patton down without touching the scales.

Logan glanced back at the nagas. There was a large scar across the jaw of the mud caked one, several smaller scars scattered across its face, and an open red eye.

The still nest of coils exploded into movement before Logan could even gasp. Something heavy smacked into him, sending him stumbling. His phone flew from his grip. Virgil yelped as he was thrown beside Logan, and the two tried to struggle as they were wrapped up in thick, green coils.

Virgil managed to keep an arm free, pushing and struggling for all his worth. Logan tried to kick, but he was helplessly squeezed back-to-back with Virgil.

“Hey, Roman, get up.” Their captor nudged the red tail Patton still slept on. “Dinner just wandered in.”

The other naga shifted, much more slowly than the first had. “What do you mean, dinner— oh. More humans. Sweet.” He continued to move, and Patton slid down his tail out of the light from Virgil’s flashlight.

The pair gasped as the coils around them tightened even further. “Let’s do it quickly,” the naga holding them whispered, “before our snuggle buddy wakes up.”

“Patton!” Virgil screamed, thrashing now. “Patton! Please wake up!”

“Oh shit,” one of the nagas hissed.

“Guys? What’s goin’ on?” Patton said sleepily. Logan’s phone had been only illuminating the ceiling, but now it lifted and turned on them. Patton gasped from the darkness behind it. “Virgil! Logan!”

The red naga moved between Patton and the other two humans, blocking the light. “Why don’t you go back to bed, Patton. Remus and I are just having dinner.”

“What?! No!” Patton scrambled over the red tail and immediately started to tug on the coils constricting around his friends. “You can’t eat my friends!”

“Your friends,” a naga repeated flatly. Was it Virgil’s imagination, or had the coils stopped tightening? It was still very hard to breathe, though. Despite the panic that came from being currently held in the tail of a naga who intended to eat them, Virgil found himself falling into a breathing rhythm with Logan, each breathing in as the other breathed out and vice-versa.

“They’re my friends,” Patton repeated, continuing to pull on the scaled loops surrounding Logan and Virgil. “Please.”

“But—” The one holding them looked at the other, and the silence stretched out.

“If you eat them, then— then you’ll have to eat me, too!”

The nagas made eye contact with each other again, and then the tight coils slackened. Virgil gasped gratefully at the sweet, sweet air that filled his unrestricted lungs. A moment later, his breath was knocked out of him again by Patton crashing into him and holding him in a tight hug. Virgil grabbed him back. After a second, Patton pulled one arm free to make grabby hands at Logan, who joined the tight embrace.

“We’re so glad you’re okay.” Virgil buried his face in Patton’s shoulder before pulling back. “But, what are you doing here?” he hissed in a whisper. “With these things?”

“We were just taking a nap. They weren’t gonna hurt me.”

“How did you manage to convince them not to eat you?” Logan inquired.

Patton giggled. “They think I’m too cute to eat!”

“He is,” one of the nagas chimed in. “Have you seen his adorable little face?”

That jarringly brought the two humans right back to where they were: In a den of hungry nagas, after just denying said nagas dinner. Even if the nagas had decided that Patton wasn’t to be eaten, this was still a very dangerous situation.

Logan stood a little straighter. “We’ll be taking our leave now. Thank you for not eating Patton, or us.”

The dark green tail still loosely coiled on the floor around them twitched nearer, and Virgil gave it a nervous look. “Leaving?” the naga it belonged to protested. “Already?”

“Yes, we need to be getting out of these woods before nightfall, lest we run into more dangerous creatures, and your cave is far enough from the edge of the woods that we really ought to be going now to be safe,” Logan explained in a carefully calm voice.

“Oh honey, nothing out here is more dangerous than the two of us.” The green-tailed naga chuckled and glanced to the other, who gave them a sharp-toothed grin. “You’ll be perfectly safe in our little cave for the night.”

Virgil bit his tongue, trying to not offend the two very large snakes that had decided to spare their lives, and who could oh so easily change their minds.

“It’s such a long walk.” The red-tailed naga lowered himself to be closer to eye level, “The bears have been out in storm, trying to pack on the winter fat. You’d be safer going tomorrow morning.”

Virgil’s grip on Logan’s arm tightened. “We, uh, don’t want to, erm, intrude.”

Patton stepped away, looking up at the two nagas. “They’re just a little nervous about your size, don’t take it personally.”

“We’re used to much worse reactions, Patton, don’t worry,” the red-tailed naga said, patting Patton’s head gently with his huge hand. “We understand, but you all have nothing to fear.”

The green-tailed naga fully uncoiled himself. “I could go grab us something to eat if that’ll calm them down.”

Virgil’s eyes widened, and he glanced up at the naga, who laughed softly. “No humans, promise.” Virgil glared a bit, and the naga added, “Unless you’d like to join me to make sure?”

Virgil shook his head with a grimace, moving closer to Patton and Logan. He had no interest in seeing the hunt up close, especially so soon after so narrowly escaping being dinner himself.

The green-tailed naga stretched, and then shrugged. “Keep an eye on our little guests, Roman. I’ll be back with dinner soon.”

With that, the naga slithered out of the cave, humming softly to himself.

Logan and Virgil looked back towards the remaining naga and their hearts jumped into their throats. He had lazily coiled around Patton again, though he didn’t seem to be constricting him.

“Don’t do that!” Virgil blurted out before he could stop himself.

The naga blinked at him for a moment before giving a dramatic sigh. “Oh, fine,” he said, slithering off from around Patton. He instead made a loose nest of his coils a few feet off, lying on his stomach across it.

“Oh!” Patton said. “We haven’t had introductions. Roman, these are my roommates and really good friends, Logan and Virgil.” He pointed to each as he said their names, and they gave small waves. “Guys, this is Roman. The other naga is named Remus. They’re twins.”

“Twins?” Logan repeated curiously. “Did you share an egg?”

Roman laughed. “No, don’t be silly. We were in the same clutch.”

“I see,” Logan said. “How many eggs were in your clutch? Just the two of you?”

Roman shook his head, “Naw, there were others. Decoys, mostly. You might not believe this, but I used to be smaller than you are. Lotta things out there that would like to eat naga eggs.”

“Oh, Patton,” Virgil interrupted. “We found your glasses.” He pulled the case from his pocket and handed it to Patton, who gratefully opened it.

“Thanks!” Patton said cheerfully, putting them on. He looked around, grinning. “Now I can see again!”

“How did you even manage to befriend two giant nagas?” Virgil asked, still unable to fully believe it.

So, Patton told them. After he had finished his tale, the three humans continued to chat, the giant naga lazily watching them. After some time, Roman yawned loudly, shifting closer. He sprawled out comfortably on the stone floor a few feet away from their cluster.

“Are you truly no longer interested in eating us?” Logan inquired cautiously.

Roman shrugged his gigantic shoulders. “Nah. It would make Patton sad.”

Logan nodded agreeably. “I can certainly understand changing your habits so as to avoid making Patton sad.”

Roman flashed that sharp grin again.

Logan took a step closer, unable to deny his curiosity. “My, what big teeth you have,” he joked. Roman’s grin faltered. “Would you object to my getting a closer look?”

“Logan!” Virgil gasped.

“What?” Logan said, turning back to face Virgil. “This is a particularly unique opportunity! Do you understand how rare it is to be able to observe a live Serpenti Magnum in the wild without risk of being eaten?”

“Just because he promised not to eat us doesn’t mean it’s a good idea to tempt fate by getting all close up to the mouth of a giant naga!” Virgil hissed.

“I’m not tempting fate. Patton and yourself are here to ensure that nothing goes wrong, and if Roman cooperates, I should remain unharmed.”

“All you have is his word.”

Roman made an offended noise, but Logan beat him to speaking. “You had less when we ran up here to rescue Patton. Patton had even less when he was taken. Besides, I don’t just have his word, there are a few tricks up my metaphorical sleeves.”

Virgil couldn’t think of a comeback.

Logan pulled a notebook and a pen from his bag handing them to Virgil. “I’ll tell you my findings, you write them down. Patton, could you keep a light pointed in his mouth?”

Patton nodded dutifully as Logan approached the large naga.

Roman glanced down at Logan, rubbing the back of his neck. “Er, uh, you sure you want to look at my mouth? I don’t want you to cut yourself.”

Logan nodded firmly. “Your mouth is not the first I’ve examined, simply the largest. I know what I’m doing.”

Roman nodded uncertainly, but as Logan approached, he pushed himself up off the ground a little, propping himself up on his elbows and opening his mouth wide. Logan felt a twinge of primal fear at the sight of the gigantic gaping maw, but easily suppressed it in the name of science.

“Patton, come closer with the light,” he instructed, stepping right up next to Roman’s crossed arms to look into his mouth. “Virgil, it seems that without unhinging his jaw, the subject can comfortably open his mouth roughly a foot. I wish I had a measuring tape so I could be more accurate.”

After a few seconds of pen scratching on paper, Virgil made a noise of acknowledgment.

Logan began by examining the teeth, calling out size and his count of teeth. “Two incisors. Two sets of canines, that’s interesting. The second set is a little larger than the first. At least on the top; on the bottom, it's… Hang on.” Logan took a closer look. “Okay, he has two incisors on top, and four on bottom. The lower ones are narrow, while the upper are wide and flat, like a human's front two upper incisors. He does have two sets of canines, as I mentioned. On top, the second set is larger than the first, while the lower canines are all about the same size. Looks like… two premolars on each side, top and bottom, and one set of molars. The positions of the teeth are similar to that of those in a human’s mouth.” Logan hummed. “Interesting. This tooth makeup implies that a fair portion of their food is chewed, rather than all being swallowed whole.” He leaned over Roman’s front teeth, twisting to look up at the roof of his mouth. “I don’t see any snake-like fangs,” he noted. “Thus, I would assume that the subject is non-venomous. This correlates with the suggestion that they hunt by constriction, as we observed earlier.”“Nearly observed digestion firsthand too,” Virgil muttered to himself as he wrote it all down.“Ooh,” Logan said with interest, leaning even further into Roman’s open mouth. “Virgil, he has more teeth behind the ones I already mentioned! On the roof of his mouth, closer to the center. Two rows of… eight teeth each, running from the front of his mouth toward the back. They’re smaller than the other teeth, and are shaped more like snake teeth: all pointed. They’re angled toward his throat. I assume to prevent prey from escaping.” Logan finally pulled his head back, and he glanced up at Roman. “I assume you can unhinge your jaw to allow large prey easier access to the throat.”

Roman pulled back slightly from the scientist standing in front of his face and worked his jaw for a few moments before answering. “Yeah. If we didn’t, we’d have to tear up all our prey. Well, except when Remus would trap rats. But everything that’s big enough to be worth it.”

Logan paused. “Your brother eats rats?”

“Rats, mice, squirrels, whatever he can get his hands on.” He shrugged. “He’ll eat them by the handful. Loves them as snacks. Too much effort for me for the tiny things.”

“Virgil—”

“Don’t worry, I got it.” He shuddered as he wrote it down.

Logan shuffled his feet before looking up at Roman again. “Would you care to demonstrate for me?”

Roman nodded softly, and then, with a soft click, opened his mouth extremely wide. It was easy to see now how he could swallow whole something human-sized, or even bigger. They could have easily crawled down his throat. The three humans stared, varying displays of fear across their faces.

Logan recovered first. “Can you comfortably hold that position?”

Roman half shrugged, but didn’t move otherwise. Logan pulled Patton close, shining the flashlight over the entirety of the mouth. “I would estimate that the opening has roughly tripled in size,” Logan said, fascinated. “There’s about three feet between his upper and lower jaw. Possibly four.” He pulled back again, looking at the underside of Roman’s jaw. “And yes, his throat has slackened as well to accommodate the swallowing of larger prey. I would be curious to examine the structure of his larynx, but of course it would be rather difficult to do so properly and non-invasively on a live subject.”

Virgil refused to look up as he quickly took notes.

“Have I mentioned the tongue yet, Virgil?”

“Nnno.” He glanced over the page. “What’s it like?”

“Forked,” Logan reported, “and proportionally rather slimmer than a human’s, though not so slim as a snake’s. Presumably, that is so that it can perform both functions — guiding chewed food to the throat, and scenting the air. As well as speech.” Logan leaned over Roman’s jaw again, looking curiously at his tongue. “And just as with snakes and smaller nagas, it appears to not be rooted to the back of the lower jaw, instead coming out of a sheath at about the same position. I would assume it can retract fully, to assist in carrying scents inside.”

Roman flicked his tongue into his mouth, demonstrating that exact thing.

“Yes, it retracts. Excellent, thank you, Roman,” Logan said, pulling back out of Roman’s mouth. “Would you mind extending your tongue to its full length?”

Roman stuck his tongue out, and Logan stepped to the side to get out of the way.

“Much longer than a human tongue,” Logan confirmed, pulling his phone from his back pocket to take a few hurried pictures. “I’d say… approximately five or six feet long from the tip to where it enters the sheath. I wish I had a higher quality camera.”

Virgil glanced up and shuddered softly. Logan placed his phone back in his pocket as Roman retracted his tongue again.

“Hold on, Roman,” Patton warned before sticking his hand inside Roman’s mouth. “There’s something stuck in your teeth.”

Roman didn’t move as Patton leaned in closer and snagged a slimy red feather out from between his teeth.

“Guess you don’t mind eating birds.” Patton tossed the feather away.

Roman rehinged his jaw with a slightly louder click than when he’d unhinged it. “Well… they’re hard to catch, but it’s fun to toy with them.”

Logan hummed thoughtfully, retrieving his notebook from Virgil. “That’s all I wish to examine at the moment. Thank you for your cooperation, Roman.”

Logan got to making more notes in the notebook, trying to draw everything he’d seen.

“Is he always like this?” Roman asked.

Virgil chuckled, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Yeah, pretty much. I’m impressed by how patient you were. The last time Logan stuck his fingers in my mouth to look at my teeth, I bit him.”

“Hey, guys?” Patton called. “My phone battery’s starting to get kinda low, and it’s getting chilly. Can we make a campfire?”

“I’d imagine that’s up to Roman, since this is his home,” Logan said without looking up from his notebook. Patton turned his pleading gaze to the large naga.

“You… want to light a fire?” Roman repeated.

“Just a little one,” Patton said. “For warmth, and light. Don’t worry. We’ve done it before, we can make sure it doesn’t spread.”

Roman nodded slightly. “If you can get one going.” He nudged a bundle of wood over. Something he and his brother collected from prey. “Remus and I never had much luck with such things.”

“I have matches,” Virgil volunteered.

Roman tilted his head to the side, but he watched with rapt attention as Virgil got the wood into the right position and lit it.

“There we go, Patt.” Virgil wiped his hands. “Done.”

“Thank you, Virgil.” Patton smiled as he sat by it. Logan came closer, turned off his flashlight, and continued to draw, angling the book a little to get the best light. Virgil lay down, trying to get as comfortable as he could on the stone floor. Roman settled down again as well, keeping a wary eye on the leaping flames.

It was a while before they heard from Remus. “I’m back and I brought food!” He announced as he entered the cave, holding three dead deer in his arms.

Roman looked up from where he lay sprawled across the entire floor. “Took you long enough.”

“Rude,” Remus said, throwing a deer at him. It hit Roman square in the face, exactly where Remus had been aiming. “It’s a lot harder to hunt alone, you know, and I was hunting for both of us. Plus I got an extra one for the humans to eat.”

“Oh,” Patton said. All three humans looked at the carcass with wide eyes as Remus set it by them. “Do you have a knife?” Patton whispered to Virgil.

Virgil nodded, pulling a long knife from his boot sheath. He started to hand it over, handle first, but paused. “Do you know how to cut this up?”

“Do you?”

Virgil nodded again. “My family used to keep goats for meat,” he said. “Deer shouldn’t be too different.”

“How are we going to cook it?” Logan asked.

“I have a campfire grill in my bag, which we can use for smallish steaks,” Virgil said, starting to examine the deer. “And we can sharpen a big stick to make a spit.”

“You are way overpacked for a day trip.”

Virgil shrugged. “Better overprepared than underprepared,” he returned. “And in this case, it came in very handy.”

“Fair.”

“Patton, would you look for a long, straight stick?” Virgil asked. Patton nodded, starting to look through the wood pile. “A big one, it needs to be able to support a heavy piece of meat. Some forked sticks would be useful too.”

Virgil set up his phone to shine directly on the deer, while being high enough off the ground that any messiness from the butchering process wouldn’t get on it. “Be more convenient if we could hang this,” he murmured to himself, forgetting for the moment that they were sharing the cave with a pair of nagas, both of whom could easily lift the deer with one hand. He took his knife, slicing through the deer’s skin. Moving with practiced skill, he began to skin the deer, exposing the flesh.

A loud crunch had Logan glance up at the nagas. Remus had bitten a leg off his deer and swallowed it whole.

Part of him was terrified, really, to be in such close proximity to creatures big enough to easily swallow him whole. Another part of him, a louder part, was fascinated.

Logan started to sketch Roman with the deer in his hands, but his eyes strayed as Roman swallowed the thing whole. The soft pop of the jaw unlocking got his attention, but Logan dropped his pencil when he saw Roman just shove it all the way in.

He didn’t even struggle to swallow. Just a few soft bites was all it took for Roman to swallow an entire deer.

Logan watched in awe and in fear as the deer vanished down into Roman’s chest after briefly bulging out his neck. Unlike Logan expected from his observations of smaller nagas, the bulge slid past his human-like torso into the stomach located in his tail without pausing. Roman sighed happily, patting the bulge deep in his body. Remus bit another leg off his deer. Surely he could also swallow it whole just as easily, Logan thought to himself, writing in his notebook. Perhaps Remus simply preferred to draw his meal out as long as possible. Unless he had some reason not to unhinge his jaw? Perhaps an injury?

“Is this a good skewer stick?” Patton asked, wandering back over to Virgil. Virgil looked over. The stick in Patton’s hands would easily reach across the fire, and looked thick enough to support the weight of a fair sized bit of meat.

“Yeah. Good job, Patt. Find anything to prop it up on yet?”

“No, not yet. Maybe we can use some rocks? Hey, Roman?”

The giant red naga looked over. “Yeah, Patton?”

“Can you find us some big rocks to prop this on over the fire?” Patton asked, lifting the stick.

“What for?”

“We need to cook our meat before we eat it,” Patton explained. “We’re gonna skewer it on this so we can hold it over the fire and cook it.”

Roman nodded, looking around the cave. It was harder to see into the darker corners than usual, since his eyes had adjusted to the light of the fire, but after a few moments he slithered into the shadows, returning with a boulder in each hand. “Will these work?”

“Yeah!” Patton said cheerfully, directing him to place one on either side of the fire. He tested to make sure that they would hold the stick in the right place, then grinned up at Roman. “Thanks!”

“You’re welcome,” Roman said, smiling. He settled down on the floor to watch the humans work.

“Patton,” Virgil said.

“Hm?”

“Sharpen the stick, please, and debark it.”

“Okay,” Patton said. He took his pocket knife out and opened it to do just that.

Virgil paused in his butchering process. “Patt. Is that the biggest knife you have?”

Patton looked down at the inch-and-a-half long blade, then back at Virgil. “Yes?”

Virgil sighed. “You’ll never manage to debark that whole thing with that, let alone sharpen it. You can borrow mine.” He moved one hand toward his hip, then paused again. “My hands are gross. Come grab my knife from my pocket.”

Patton put his own small knife away, then awkwardly reached into Virgil’s pocket. It felt really weird to put his hand in someone else’s pocket, but he soon found the pocket knife and pulled it out.

“Be careful, it’s sharp,” Virgil cautioned. “And spring-loaded, so keep your fingers clear when you open it.”

Wide-eyed, Patton opened the knife. It snapped open, gleaming in the firelight.

“Just make sure you keep your fingers clear so you don’t cut your thumb off or anything,” Virgil cautioned as Patton picked up the end of the stick again. Patton nodded. Carefully, with respect for the sharpness of the blade, Patton began to carve. After it was clear he had a handle on what he was doing, Virgil returned his attention to the deer.

Virgil’s knife was really sharp. It cut smoothly through the bark, and Patton had soon stripped the stick. Then he started sharpening one end, carving off long strips of wood and gradually shaving the stick into a point like an oversized pencil.

There was another crunch from Remus, and Roman looked over at his brother. Remus had bitten off and swallowed all of his deer’s appendages and was now gnawing on the main body. Roman gave him a disgusted look, gesturing vaguely to the humans. Remus rolled his eyes and unhinged his jaw to swallow the remains with a huge gulp.

Logan made a note in his book while Remus started to clean himself, licking his fingers.

“Do I need to do both ends?” Patton asked as he finished up, smoothing down the pointy stick.

“No, one’s fine,” Virgil said. He got up and came over, looking at Patton’s handiwork. “Looks good. Let’s get the meat on it. I cut it up into a couple large sections, plus some smaller steaks we can cook on my camp grill, which won’t take as long.”

With Virgil directing and doing the parts involving touching the raw meat directly, they soon had a fair portion of the deer suspended above the flames. Then Patton got the campfire grill from Virgil’s bag, unfolding it. It was a simple grid of thick wires, with squared off pipes for legs. He settled it over a section of fire that was mostly coals, and Virgil laid three medium-small steaks on it. “Those probably won’t take more than twenty minutes to cook,” Virgil said, covering the remaining raw meat with the deer hide.

The twin nagas were watching with rapt attention, eyes a little wide. They were finally staying still enough that Logan was actually able to properly document the way the deer they’d eaten was causing their tails to bulge out slightly.

Virgil looked down at his hands. “Now I gotta get cleaned up,” he said.

Remus, who’d just finished licking his own hands clean, glanced over at Virgil. “I can help with that.” He slowly licked his lips.

Virgil blinked, and then quickly pulled away. “Like hell you are. You are not getting a taste of this.”

Patton giggled while he tended to the meat. Remus continued to make a few teasing comments about Virgil while he cleaned his hands and his knife with a pack of baby wipes from his bag.

“Sure you don’t want me to have just a nibble? I won’t bite, not hard.”

“Positive.” Virgil tossed the wipes into a trash bag before turning to the meat. He used a smaller stick to turn the steaks over, noting that they were cooking nicely.

A few minutes later, Virgil announced, “Food’s ready. Logan?”

“Coming,” Logan said, setting his notebook aside for the moment. Virgil grabbed a baby wipe to scrub his hands again, passing the packet to the others.

“Wash up.”

As they did so, Virgil opened his bag again, pulling out three shallow lightweight bowls.

“Is there anything you didn’t bring?” Patton teased.

“Silverware,” Virgil admitted. “We’ll have to share my knife.”

“That’s fine,” Logan assured him.

Virgil wiped off the pocket knife one more time just to be sure. (He wasn’t going to use his boot knife for this, not until he’d gotten a chance to wash it more thoroughly, with soap and hot water. He’d figured it was clean enough to back in its sheath, though. Wasn’t like he couldn’t wash that too when they got home.) Then he took the meat from the grill, grabbing each piece to quickly transfer it to a bowl. He handed a bowl to each of the others.

Using Virgil’s pocket knife to cut their steaks into more manageable pieces, the three of them ate.

The two nagas watched curiously. “Why did you put it over the fire?” Remus asked.

“To cook it,” Logan explained. “We can’t eat raw meat like you can.”

Remus sniffed the air. “It smells different,” he commented.

“Tastes different too!” Patton said. “Wanna try a bite?”

The nagas perked up. “Yeah!” Roman said.

Patton got up. Using Virgil’s pocket knife, he carved off two large sections of cooking meat from over the fire, handing them up to the nagas. “Eat them slowly,” he said. “And be careful, they’re hot.”

Remus popped his piece into his mouth immediately, while Roman looked at his for a few moments first. Both nagas’ eyes widened at the flavor. “I like it!” Remus said around his piece of meat. Roman nodded agreement. “Roman, we gotta have ‘cook’ meat more often!”

“Did you see how much effort it took them to make it?” Roman scoffed. “Do you want to build a fire and take your prey to bits and carve a pointy stick every time you eat?” Remus pouted a little, and Roman chuckled. “Maybe we can try it sometimes. It is pretty tasty.”

The three humans each finished off their steaks, as well as getting seconds from the deer roasting over the fire, but even between the three of them, they couldn’t finish off the entire animal. Roman suggested they save it for the morning.

With full bellies and the late hour, the humans were starting to get quite tired. Logan had finally stowed his journal back in his bag, eyes too tired to stay open.

Virgil made sure the fire was out completely before looking around for a soft rock. None of them had brought a sleeping bag, since they’d originally planned to be home well before night fell.

Without asking, Roman picked Patton up again, bringing him over to the brothers’ nest.

“Hey,” Patton sleepily protested, wiggling. “Leggo.”

Roman curled up snugly in the indent, and Remus dragged himself in as well. As before, the twins coiled around each other. Roman settled Patton among their coils, but neither twin grabbed at him, so he didn’t mind.

“What about Logan? And Virgil.” He yawned. “They don’t have nowhere to sleep.”

Roman picked Logan up by the scruff and settled him against Patton. Remus managed to drag Virgil over and put him in the pile as well.

“Are you sure this is safe?” Logan asked, though he was tired enough that he didn’t try to move.

“Yeah, we won’t crush you, don’t worry,” Roman said with a yawn.

Remus didn’t do much more than grunt before he snuggled against one of the humans, loving that body heat.

Logan sighed slightly. “Virgil, do you still have Patton’s glasses case?”

“Yeah.” Virgil wriggled for a moment, pulling it from his pocket. Both bespectacled humans put their glasses inside, and he tucked it away again.

~~~~~

Chapter 3: The Part With the Vore (vore timeline)

Chapter 3: The Part With No Vore (non-vore timeline)

#mine #nommy thoughts #that prey lounge #collab #danger noodles #writing #my writing #tangentially nommy related #I maybe should have been posting this on my other blog but whatever #too late now #sanders sides

151 notes · View notes

saudadeonly · 3 years

Text

burn my heart out: once you’d gone (Chapter 2)

Read on ao3. Part 8, consisting of 3 or 4 chapters.

Death Eater!Sirius Black AU

Lord Voldemort wages war on Hogwarts but he is unaware of the years-worth of battle fought against him.

(or, several instalments following the Battle of Hogwarts with Sirius Black standing on the wrong side)

The Horcrux isn't the only thing Regulus has to face.

Word count: 4530

___

The top of the staircase on the third floor of Hogwarts comes too soon; Regulus and Sirius stop and look at each other. This is where they have to go their separate ways – Regulus up to the seventh floor and Sirius through the passage on this one.

Regulus checks his watch, the one given to him by his parents for his seventeenth birthday. They only have a couple of hours left. Their goodbyes and last-minute preparations before they left the Tonks family behind – despite the vehement protests of entire said family – and all subsequent tasks here at Hogwarts took up a lot of their time.

Sirius’s mind seems to have come to the same conclusion. “Be as quick as you can,” he says, holding out the silver dagger to Regulus. His hand is as steady as his voice. “And take down Nagini.”

Regulus takes the dagger, mindful of the venom absorbed in it, and as soon as he safely stores it away, Sirius uses his free hand to pull on Regulus’s and catch him in a rough hug, his other hand cupping the back of Regulus’s neck. He’s still taller and by now Regulus has given up any hope he might outgrow his brother, this way or another, but his body lacks the strength Regulus once believed him to have. His invincible big brother, fiercer than fire, stronger than death, now as desperately lost as Regulus once was. Human, as he has always been.

“Do your worst,” Regulus murmurs into his shoulder as he fists his hands in the back of his robes, knowing that this might be the last time they see each other standing.

Sirius pulls back and curves his mouth into an almost-smile. “You too,” he says. Before Regulus can turn to go, Sirius catches his forearm, his grip firm. His eyes root Regulus to the spot, maybe because they are softer than his voice, a sliver of that kind, tired man beneath. “Whatever happens, Reggie, this ends today.”

Regulus swallows and nods. However it may end, Sirius will not be the one to fall to his knees first, not if Regulus has anything to say about it.

Sirius steps back and nods, his face smoothed over now, the careful set of his mouth reminding Regulus strangely of Orion. Sirius turns and goes but the image of his face, splashed through a kaleidoscope over their father’s, stays. It is redundant to say that their relationship ended on a bad note because that’s the foundation it was built on from the very beginning but Sirius did not forgive Orion’s misgivings, not even on his deathbed, and he carried that resentment forward – after Regulus’s death, Sirius condemned Walburga. The weight of their demands had bruised his heart so much it could not heal around the mercy asked of him, especially not in the name of their family.

The thing about their family, the great House of Black – they name their children after stars, after these unimaginable, steel-soft pieces forged into fire, and try to bind them, keep them contained to the reaches of their eyes and don’t consider the possibility of going blind with it until their eye-sockets are filled with nothing but stardust, burning, burning. Sirius, they named their heir, the brightest star in the sky, scorching, glowing, and never expected that he would burn bright enough to fill their lungs with smoke, to leave marks shaped like his pain over their skin. Andromeda, named after a constellation, the breaker of chains, a goddamn galaxy because they were more likely to reach its ends before they ever told their children, I love you, I’m proud of you; and they had the gall to fault her when she left them strangling in her discarded chains.

Despite it or maybe because of all of it, Sirius and Andromeda have always been the best of them in all the ways that matter. However much they try to fight against it, the two of them have always been Blacks in more than blood; Sirius and Andromeda with their impeccable postures and vicious hearts, savoir-faire, Lucretia used to say, unmatched, always one step ahead, are Blacks in everything they try to deny, in everything they wish to soften about themselves, down to their teeth, dripping with venom.

Regulus will do whatever it takes to ensure that they get to live up to all that potential, that they get to lace the very foundations of their society with their venom.

With a shake of his head, he pulls himself out of his thoughts and continues up the stairs, casting a notice-me-not charm over himself. It was easy to get lost in his musings with the entirety of his glorious, painful youth surrounding him but he knows better than to let it sweep him away.

By the time he makes it up to the seventh floor, having succeeded in doing so only due to muscle-memory of skipping the tricky steps, the castle is in motion. Students are shuffling down the corridors of all floors, their voices a mix of soft, worried inquiries and confused protests. Regulus doesn’t envy their near future but he knows McGonagall will do everything to keep it intact. He slips past them, as unnoticed as the ghosts drifting beside them; it is, he thinks distantly, a very fitting sort of image.

The wall across from the Troll Tapestry is as unassuming as Andromeda begrudgingly told them it would be. It is hard to imagine the old, mysterious castle conceals one of Voldemort’s greatest secrets so well. Regulus’s heart hammers up to his throat when he walks past the wall, then turns on his heel and repeats it two more times.

I need the place where everything is hidden, he thinks, eyes pressed shut. I need the place where everything is hidden. I need the place where it is hidden.

When he opens his eyes, the wall is built around a door. If he hadn’t been expecting it, he might have thought he's lost it. A moment of hesitation and then Regulus steps forward, pressing his hand over the doorknob, and pushes the door open.

The vast room he steps into has a high ceiling and distant walls but the piles formed around the room, the narrow passages in between make Regulus’s chest constrict uncomfortably despite it. He has not, in over three years, got used to being in tight, enclosed spaces again.

Ignoring the feeling building up, Regulus holds out his wand. “Accio, Ravenclaw Diadem!”

The room remains still. He wasn’t expecting it to work really but it would have been nice to catch a break for once. He stows away his wand and hurries down the first one of the passages. Andromeda wasn’t able to tell him the Diadem’s exact location but she did say she remembered an ugly bust somewhere around it. With a sigh, Regulus sets out to find it.

He doesn’t know how much time passes before he finally catches sight of a chipped bust, resting atop a rickety-looking rack. And directly across from it, a tiara, skewed atop a column of old books. It’s old and unassuming, covered in a layer of dust so thick Regulus wouldn’t have spared a glance otherwise. When he reaches out and wipes the dust away with the tip of his sleeve the words become visible again. Wit beyond measure is man’s greatest treasure.

Out of all of Voldemort’s Horcruxes, this one has to be the cruellest; the cleverness, the knowledge he robbed out of generations of wizards and witches. He reaches for the dagger and braces it above the Diadem. He murmurs a swift apology to Rowena Ravenclaw, followed by one to the Grey Lady, the sweet, distant ghost who sometimes kept him company in the dead hours of the night when he didn’t want to go back to his common room; he had always felt accepted by her, a sort of kinship that came with not belonging anywhere, drifting from one place to the next.

“Expelliarmus!”

The dagger flies out of his hand and lands on the floor several feet away, skittering over the stone. Regulus grabs his wand, halfway turned already, and fires off the first spell that comes to mind. “Stupefy!”

Bartemius Crouch Junior, his fair hair and pale face a stark contrast to his robes, deflects the spell easily and it hits a pile of books to the side, sending up a flurry of singed pages. Regulus cringes at the years of work and knowledge that has just been lost.

“Barty,” he breathes, the air stolen from his lungs, the tightness in his chest coming for an entirely different, still painfully familiar reason now.

Barty has always been more skin and bone than anything else but he is viciously thin now, enough so Regulus thinks he might be able to make him crumple with the ghost of a breath. “I should have known,” he says, his face drawn, his voice a low gravely tone; distantly, Regulus wonders if he’s taken up smoking. “Black never did act accordingly.”

A laugh builds up in Regulus’s throat, an odd, too-sharp sort of sound, but he pushes it down. If Sirius’s reaction to Regulus’s death was all Barty found suspicious about his behaviour over the years, that’s the least of their problems. It’s over now, anyway. “Sirius had no idea,” he says, just in case this goes terribly, terribly wrong and Barty gets to Sirius first. It’s hight time he protected Sirius, for once.

“I don’t believe that.”

Regulus shrugs. “You know we never did like each other a whole lot,” he says, which is true; he doesn't really like Sirius, not most of the time anyway, but he loves him with a ferocity that gods could not oppose. He keeps his wand steady on Barty but he knows he won’t be the first one to fire. He owes Barty that much, at least, that small courtesy of letting him decide what he wants to do. “What are you doing here, Barty?” he asks, his voice soft around the name he hasn’t been able to forget, though not for lack of trying - on the worst nights, he used to tell himself that neither Evan nor Barty would have come with him even if he had asked. But it’s even harder to forget now, when there are no strategies to be relayed, when the embodiment of Regulus’s guilt points his wand at him, that Evan fought. There is no saying that Barty wouldn’t have either, provided he was offered, given that little push of encouragement he always needed to come along.

“The Dark Lord sent me to check on an artefact of utmost importance to him,” Barty explains, frowning. “An artefact that looks curiously like the one you’re holding right now.”

Regulus snorts. “This old thing?” he asks, waving the Diadem around, then tucking it behind his back. “It’s worthless.” He cocks his head, lowers his voice. Somewhere between the study of political language and being Sirius’s brother, he’s learned how to get under people’s skin – and Barty never has been particularly thick-skinned. “Glad to see you climbed the ranks, though.” He lets his mouth quirk up, just the little bit. “Must be nice to be valued so highly by Voldemort.”

Barty flinches and a twinge passes through Regulus; it took him years to be able to say the name himself, to fit his voice around the vowels and not have fear surround them. Regulus uses the blink of a distraction to take the fraction of a step towards the dagger.

“Don’t say his name,” Barty snaps, anger finally rising to his hollow cheeks, painting him fiercer a man than he was. “You taint him, you traitor, how dare you –”

“You sound like Bellatrix.”

Barty’s face drains of colour, as quickly as it rose up. His knuckles, hand gripped around the handle of his wand, have gone white too. “Don’t talk about her,” he says, voice hoarse. His freckles stand out, peppered across his nose and cheeks.

“How is dear Bella? Still so devoted to bloodlust she doesn’t spare you a glance?” It isn’t fair, he knows. Barty has been fascinated by Bella for years and she took him under and used it to the advantage of anything she remotely cared about; if there is one person more at fault for whatever Barty has become than Voldemort and Regulus, it’s Bellatrix. But Regulus knows there is no point in trying to convince Barty to do anything and he has one objective, the only one he has had for years: destroy the Horcruxes. He’s so close now and he won’t slip, won’t let his conscience get in the way.

“Shut up,” Barty growls, taking one slow step closer. “Where did you go, anyway?”

The question gives Regulus pause but he shuffles on his feet as an excuse and gets a bit closer to the dagger. “Away. I could not serve anymore so I left.”

Barty narrows his eyes. “You left,” he says, a painful sort of bemusement crossing his face, “everything. You betrayed everyone. You had no right.”

Regulus’s chest aches. When he speaks, his voice is rawer than he wants it to be; maybe the Inferi clawed it out of him. “What I discovered, Barty, what I had to do – I could not do it anymore.”

“You were the reason I joined.”

Regulus lets his eyes flit closed for a second. When he looks back at Barty, his face is too thin, too lost to ever come close to the boy he was all those years ago; and that’s on Regulus. Barty wasn’t like him or Evan. He was clever and loyal and too stupid to see but he never carried the weight of expectation like they had their whole lives – Regulus, the spare, and Evan, the sole heir. He reminded Regulus of Sirius sometimes, the Sirius of before: desperate to get out from his father’s thumb, to escape his mother’s coddling, but overbearing and messy and misguided as it was, it was still love, still a saving grace that Barty didn’t recognise as privilege. Regulus and Evan took that desperation and painted it in streaks of glory across the inside of Barty’s lids, blinding him enough to lead him astray, twisted its shape until it could almost be called a choice, a sense of belonging.

Then Regulus left and Evan died and it was Barty who stayed. Barty, whose backbone might as well have been made out of clay, free for moulding into any shape the rest wanted him to be.

“I know,” he murmurs.

“Then why did you leave me behind?” Barty shouts and it echoes and echoes so long Regulus is sure this is the only sound that will be heard at his funeral. Maybe it was.

But there it is, the name of Regulus’s nightmares, the title of his fucking biography, why you, why, why, why. Why do you get to go away? Why do you get a happy ending or a happy middle or happy anything? Why do you get to heal?

Because you are good, Valentina, tucked firmly, unapologetically against his side, would whisper into the curls behind his ear, as many times as he asked her to, because you are kind and you deserve it.

You are loved, Andromeda told him sometime before they left, catching the off expression on his face, the desire not to leave the life he had built, you are so loved and you get to have that.

Sirius, altruistic, hypocritical arsehole that he is, would probably tell him not to spout gibberish, that he couldn’t have done anything else unless he wanted to have his insides scraped off of walls afterwards and that he was right to get every little scrap of happiness that he could. Regulus never asked to know for sure.

Because I am selfish, Regulus thinks, knows in his bones to be true, but what he says is, “I’m sorry.”

Barty scoffs, unrepentant, unforgiving. Regulus feels before he sees him strike – he sucks his teeth, a tell-tale sign he’s about to cast a silent spell – but Regulus’s reflexes have dulled, out of use with the years of a quiet life, full of literature and research and Valentina’s smile over a cup of coffee, her softness dulling whatever edges Regulus had retained, and he’s knocked to the side, over a pile of cutlery and broken plates that catch on his robes. He lands on the floor, several feet down the aisle, body pulsing with pain all over. The Diadem is still clutched in his hand, its presence an added weight to his emptying chest, but his wand was thrown out of his reach.

His vision is wobbly, a blurry echo passing after everything he looks at, and he uses his free hand to grapple for purchase on the cold stone. His fingers catch on the cross-guard of the silver dagger and he moves them down to grip onto the handle, its weight a sure, familiar reminder of the only thing he still has left to do.

Barty shouts but his line of fire is obscured by the junk around them and Regulus uses the time it takes for Barty to get around it to stab the dagger directly into the Diadem.

The shriek of the Horcrux’s death is the last thing he hears before the white-hot pain blinds him. Regulus curls up on the floor and sinks into it.

In the cave in the middle of nowhere, permitted by pain and guarded by death, Regulus died slowly. The Inferi were quick to drag him into the water, quick to bleed their fingers into him but their cruelty became patient when they had him, the son of kings, a never-crowned prince, in their kingdom; they took his chin and breathed air into him when he had none left in his lungs, dragged him down slowly, a renaissance sort of image, and Regulus had the half-hysterical thought that he would have still prefered this death to the one his mother would have dealt him if she had found out he had just used the word renaissance. He wondered if he would not die at all but just become one of them, the Dark Lord’s servant even after he died to defy him, if the water would crush his lungs to dust and carry away the remnants of his humanity before their fingers tore him apart. Then it was easier to get lost in his memories than to acknowledge the imminence of his end, his slow dissolution into the embrace of cold, dead hands; so, he remembered.

He remembered Sirius’s hands pressed to his eyes, stooped over on his knees, his back a masterpiece of crisscrossing red lines. He remembered fingers wrapped around his wrist, Narcissa’s words, don’t do this out of duty, and he remembered his answer, shaking off the burn of her hand, perhaps I should do it out of love, like you. He remembered Evan and Barty’s screams of pain as they provided entertainment for the night, the new ones, the fresh blood that should be spilt before the Dark Lord’s feet before it ever blessed their enemies’ sight.

Regulus would have remembered unto death if Sirius hadn’t lit the cave in flames, hadn’t summoned the fury of gods into the tip of his wand; Sirius wouldn’t have managed to come on time at all if it hadn’t been for Kreacher’s magic and devotion –

Through the haze of pain, Regulus remembers now: Kreacher. House-elf magic; always, always cleverer than a wizard’s, only because it was never acknowledged as equally important, and Regulus's saviour since his childhood.

“Kreacher,” he says, gasping through the breath between his screams and there is a pause in the air around him, bated with his heartbeat. Then Kreacher materialises at Regulus’s head, looking down the nose all around him, and not even Barty Crouch Jr is a match for the single-minded fury that is Kreacher at his most vicious.

Barty flies back, flailing through the air, and hits the wall with a hard thud. He slumps down against it, his head lolling to the side.

“Master Regulus,” Kreacher says, his big, wobbly eyes glistening, as his skinny fingers touch Regulus’s shoulder blade. “How can Kreacher help?”

The pain has gone now but its remnants flare up as Regulus struggles to push himself up and brace his weight on his hands. He glances at Barty again, just to make sure he’s still there, then sits back, leaning against an old, crooked wardrobe. “It would appear you have already helped me immensely, old friend,” he says, giving Kreacher a small smile, which takes some effort. Kreacher deserves it, every ounce of effort Regulus has to put in. “Thank you.”

Kreacher glows. It hasn’t been often that they’ve seen each other since Regulus’s debacle at the cave – Kreacher is hardly ever allowed to leave the house – and Regulus has missed his once-closest friend. “Kreacher lives to serve Master Regulus,” he says, ducking into a bow. He procures a goblet of water and hands it to Regulus, who uses it to wash the taste of blood off his teeth.

“Kreacher, do you know of a house-elf called Linsy?”

Kreacher’s face shifts into a sneer. “Linsy didn’t take good care of Master Regulus when he was with her,” he grumbles. “The blood traitor did one thing right, giving her the shirt.”

“I rather think she took excellent care of me. I recovered, didn’t I?” Regulus intones gently. Kreacher’s opinion was formed solely on the basis of one Walburga Black’s and Regulus cannot blame him for being stuck in his ways. It took him a damn long time to fall away and now is not the time to take up a fight against his mother, of all people, too. Kreacher gives a reluctant nod. “I think she works here, at Hogwarts, now.” He hands the goblet back to Kreacher, who Vanishes it, and makes to stand up. It takes him two tries but he’s steady on his feet once he manages; the effects of the Cruciatus, which Regulus was lucky enough not to have experienced for some time now, wear off quickly. “Would you please be so kind as to give her a message for me?”

Kreacher’s face is still sour but he nods and says, “Anything, Master Regulus.”

House-elves are loyal to a fault. They will not, even after having been presented with an article of clothing, stop being devoted to the family they served. Regulus’s memories of Linsy are scarce, made in the shape of blurry, intermittent blinks from nightmares to see her by his side, but she was kind to him and it was obvious she adored the Potters as much as they adored her. Even Sirius, whose track record with house-elves was less than stellar, loved her. Regulus has no doubt she will take on Voldemort himself to get them to safety.

“Tell her the Potter family is in danger. She has to find them and get them away from Hogwarts.” He berates himself for not having considered it sooner. Sirius and Minerva have their work cut out for them as it is but he certainly could have remembered that house-elves exist, in all their manic devotion. “And tell the other house-elves that Hogwarts is being attacked. They should fight for their home or leave before it gets bad.”

Kreacher nods.

“And,” Regulus adds before Kreacher disapparates, “not a word of this to my mother.”

“Yes, Master Regulus,” Kreacher says with a deep bow and disappears.

Left alone in the room once again, Regulus looks around. He doesn’t know how much time he’s lost here and he doesn’t dare check. It doesn’t seem long but time runs differently here and doubly so in times of battle.

He walks a few steps down the row to collect his wand and then back. He stomps down on the remains of the Diadem, grimacing at the dark liquid sticking to his shoes and Vanishing it, and levitates them into the pouch of ruined Horcruxes he’s brought along. He wonders idly how he will fit Nagini’s head into it. They’re so close it makes his head spin.

He picks up the dagger, wiping it clean on an old blanket nearby, and safely tucks it away.

He makes his way around and over the piles of trinkets to get to Barty and takes a moment to just take in the familiar lines of his face. They were friends once. He and Evan might have done an injustice to Barty but it wasn’t ill-intentioned, at least not at the time. They were stupid kids and paid for it in blood.

Regulus crouches down and snatches Barty’s wand out of his limp hand, stashing it into the pocket of his robes, then rummages around Barty's pockets until he finds his mask and puts it away too. “Sorry, Barty,” he murmurs, tapping his own wand to the mop of bright hair to send him into a long, deep sleep. He conjures up thick ropes next and binds Barty’s wrists and ankles with it. Then he pulls out a couple strands of Barty’s hair, uncorks the vial of Polyjuice potion Sirius made him brew for going down to the village and pushes the hair into it. It might be his only shot at getting close to Nagini later on. “You know how it is.”

He considers, briefly, the dangers of leaving him here defenceless but this room is far removed from the main part and not everyone even knows about it. This is possibly the safest place in the entire castle right now. Provided, of course, he reminds himself, that he lives to come back and get Barty back out. Maybe he should write a note.

It takes some effort to get himself up and walk to the door; leaving Barty behind is somehow worse the second time around.

Regulus grabs onto the door handle and opens the door back into Hogwarts. He steps onto the floor of the seventh corridor in his cat form and just barely manages to dodge a large chunk of stone that ends up smashing against the wall next to the door.

A brown-haired boy, green-and-silver tie dark with blood where he has it wrapped around his forearm, sends a jet of red light towards a masked Death Eater that ducks to the side and runs to turn the corner. “Sorry, Uncle Todd!” the boy yells after him, wiping a hand down his dust-streaked face. His voice is cheerful but there is a certain scratch to it, a desperate fall to his eyes that tear Regulus’s heart apart. He knows with sudden clarity that Evan did better by the students than the two of them did by Barty. “I’ll see you for Easter hols, yeah?”

A spell shoots down the corridor and Regulus jumps out to bite at the legs of the first Death Eater that comes out of hiding. He has lost many battles in his life, forfeited them right from the start, but there is no way he will not bleed himself dry to win this one.

#harry potter #regulus black #sirius black #death eater sirius black #not really #but technically #regulus black lives #barty crouch junior #barty crouch jr #Battle of Hogwarts #Post Hogwarts #First War with Voldemort #harry potter fanfic #in a world three degrees north

7 notes · View notes

cormorantgospel · 4 years

Text

We’ll never be those kids again

Canon-divergent AU of Harry’s fifth, sixth and seventh years at Hogwarts. In fifth year, some of Harry’s self-destructive behaviour is channelled into hooking up with Malfoy, and this is enough to tip the scales and make Draco accept Dumbledore’s offer and desert the Death Eaters. Part 1, Part 2

This is how the last year of the second wizarding war passes: before the summer has ended, the Ministry falls to the Death Eaters, and in the same breath, so does Hogwarts. There are puppets put in place; the school and the government keep running under the thinnest veneer of normalcy, but it takes more effort to pretend now. Pretending is a luxury reserved for those who do not feel the looming closeness of September and mandatory Hogwarts attendance as a death sentence. Those who do not have to decide between trying to flee abroad and going underground. Those who do not have to wonder which of their friends they can still trust if they reach out.

It’s the last year of the war and Ginny is the only Weasley who returns to Hogwarts. By the time she boards the train, she has not heard from Harry, Ron or Hermione since the wedding, where they disappeared. She keeps quiet when people speculate about their disappearance. People still ask her about Harry. She was popular before, but this year her popularity is different. The younger students all know her name for some reason. She notices the way people glance her way during quiet common room conversations, when the names of the muggleborn students who haven’t returned are mentioned, when people dare to complain about Snape or the Carrows. For a while she thinks it’s because they want her to be Harry. If he had been here, they would all be looking to him, not her. It’s just that some of his infamy has rubbed off on her.

It’s Luna who tells her otherwise, in the greenhouses, during Herbology.

“You don’t look scared,” she says. “Everyone can tell.”

“That’s bullshit,” she says. “Of course I’m scared.”

Luna just hums.

“But not of the Carrows. Not of Snape.”

Ginny shrugs.

“They’re just bullies.”

“Most people are scared of bullies.”

The first part of the school year they spend their free time in the seventh-year boys’ dormitories. You never know who’s listening in the common room or the library. They’re a mixed group, some sixth-years, some seventh-years. Of course, it’s bothersome because they can’t invite their friends from other houses. Really, that’s all the conversation is at first – all of them wondering aloud if there would be a better place to hang out. It’s Dean who brings up the Room of Requirement. It’s Neville who mentions Dumbledore’s Army, who brings out the galleon as if he’s embarrassed to still have it.

“Other people might have kept theirs too,” he says with a shrug.

That’s all it is at first. A small group of Gryffindors who activate the galleons, just to see if Hermione’s protean charm still works. Who wait in silence in the Room of Requirement to see if anyone will show up. That’s all it is at first, but it quickly becomes something more.

Outside the walls of the castle, a war is raging. Inside, everything is the same. There is the sorting and house points and quidditch games. In so many ways, Voldemort is still the scared, abandoned child who found a home there, just as Harry did, and he cradles the traditions of the old school, guards them out of reverence and nostalgia, having forgotten long ago that these traditions are not the things that made Hogwarts a home.

There is a war outside the walls of the castle, and one inside it too. There may be classes and homework and feasts, but there is no safety there. It is not a home. The children learn magic, but mostly they learn to hide, to become invisible, to cast silencing charms on their beds and cry only when no one is there to see. It is, once again, a place where detentions leave scars. Where Luna squeezes Ginny’s hand under the table when Amycus Carrow’s vicious eyes fall on her and she is called to the front of the class. A girl in red and gold and a girl in silver and green face each other in front of their classmates, but only one raises her wand. She hesitates, but only for a moment. Ginny waits, and she is quiet and she is brave, and she might not be afraid of bullies, but she is afraid of the pain, because it is not the first time she has done this. They have Dark Arts once a week. The Carrows have favourite targets, and she has made sure she is one of them. She can feel her heart like a panicked bird in her chest. She wants to run. She wants to raise her wand to defend herself. She doesn’t.

There are more members of Dumbledore’s army than just Luna in this class. They all sit quietly and watch as Ginny drops to the floor. Their war is a quiet one. There is nothing stoic about the way she writhes on the floor or the way she screams. The Slytherin girl lowers her wand quick. She is praised by her teacher. Ginny slowly gets to her feet and both students take their seats. Another pair is called on.

Luna puts her arm around Ginny’s waist when they leave class. The Slytherin girl locks herself in a bathroom stall and waits for her hands to stop shaking.

There is a small group of students who meet in the Room of Requirement, and as the year goes on, it grows bigger. Luna leaves stacks of the Quibbler in there. Neville talks quietly with the younger students, though Ginny can’t imagine what he tells them. He brings murtlap essence and willow bark for the ones who get hurt. Ginny sometimes teaches hexes, or shield spells, but less and less often as the year goes on. You can’t fight Death Eaters with bat bogey hexes, or at least, you can’t when they’re running your school and your government. She doesn’t want anyone to get hurt because they tried to fight when they should have complied.

“We’re not exactly a defence club this time,” she tells Neville the first time they stay in the room overnight.

It’s late, but neither of them can sleep. Neville looks at the hammocks that appeared as soon as they needed them, for the students who can’t go back to their common rooms anymore.

“No, I guess not,” he says.

“We’re barely even a resistance movement. And we’re definitely not an army.”

“Does that bother you?”

She hesitates. She’s so tired her bones ache.

“I don’t know,” she says finally. “I just hate that we can’t do anything.”

“We are doing something.”

And they are, she supposes. Refusing to participate in the brutality of Dark Arts lessons. Smuggling as many copies of the Quibbler into the school as possible. Showing the younger students the secret passages to get around the castle unseen. They’ve made a safe place in the Room of Requirement for the ones who need to hide for a while. They disrupt the daily life at Hogwarts as much as possible, sabotaging hallways and classrooms whenever and however they can. They have managed to start fires during three “muggle studies” lessons so far. It just feels so small. She sighs. “I know,” she says. “But I want to fight. I want to… I want to fucking kill them.”

Neville nods solemnly.

“Yeah”, he says. “Me too.”

There’s always at least one of them staying in the Room of Requirement overnight. When it’s just her alone, she lies awake until the early hours, listening to the breathing and the restless sleep of their refugees and their soldiers. When Luna is there, she crawls into Ginny’s bed without asking and puts her stick-thin arms around her. She seems so fragile, with her odd, airy speech, her easy smiles and her wide eyes, but she isn’t. Ginny used to put herself between Luna and her bullies, tell them to piss off when Luna couldn’t. She has never been scared of bullies, but that doesn’t mean she isn’t scared. And she probably wouldn’t be able to explain it to anyone if they asked, but she knows that somehow, this, Luna climbing into her bed and holding her until they both fall asleep, is the same thing. A way of letting someone else borrow your strength.

It’s not like people don’t know. It’s not like they don’t see the way her and Luna touch each other’s hands and hair and shoulders. She waits for one of them to bring up Harry, all her angry arguments lined up in her throat, but no one ever does. She almost wants them to, just so she would get to make her case out loud.

She does feel bad. She misses him so much. She is so scared for him. That doesn’t mean she isn’t angry with him too. For breaking up with her. For leaving her behind. For taking Ron and Hermione with him, but not her. For the way he was watching Draco Malfoy over the summer.

This is how the last year of the wizarding war passes for the kids who have to end it: They spend the year roaming around the English countryside in an old, ratty tent, following up on vague clues, chasing gut feelings. They fight too much and bicker when they aren’t fighting, and none of it feels very heroic.

Harry lies awake too many nights, trying to sleep and giving up on sleeping, staring into the dark instead, trying to make himself believe that this is going to work. And sometimes he’ll pull out the marauder’s map and look at Ginny’s dot in the girls’ dormitory, or feel his heart beat fast and hard in his chest when she walks the hallways long after dark. Sometimes, more and more often as the weeks go on, her dot disappears, even at night. He knows that means she’s in the Room of Requirement, but it still leaves him feeling sick with nerves. And it’s so fucking unfair that Ron thinks Harry doesn’t have anyone to worry about.

Sometimes his mind slips, and he realizes he’s been watching the wrong common room, following the winding corridors of the dungeons instead of the towers, looking for a name that he knows isn’t there. Old habits die hard and all that. When he catches himself at it, he tucks the map away and feels guilty.

(The rest of this story will be uploaded to AO3, with updates every Sunday.)

#my writing #start of nothing #drarry #hp #harry potter #harry potter fanfiction #drarry fic #we'll never be those kids again #fic #my fic #fanfic

70 notes · View notes

evolutionsvoid · 4 years

Photo

When it comes to dangerous creatures and ferocious monsters, many folk think of carnivores and vicious predators. Those who feast on flesh, tearing through prey with tooth and claw. No one pays any mind to the herbivores, as they eat simple plants, how scary could that be? Well, in truth, this plant-eaters can be plenty dangerous and there are those that the carnivores dare not touch. One may argue that predators eat these herbivores, so clearly they are dominant! However, a keen eye will notice that many predators seek out the young, old and weak, those that are easy prey. For some species, a healthy adult is untouchable, only attacked in desperate times. In some cases, this is done because one wants to conserve energy, so it is best to take the easier meal. In other cases, these herbivores are dangerous foes that can strike deadly blows or wound a predator so badly that they will never be able to hunt again. One's diet does not determine one's threat level, so one should be mindful before making such assumptions. A good example of this is the Khalkotauroi, a herbivorous behemoth that walks the grasslands and savannas. Though it feeds on grass, leaves and other plant matter, it is considered one of the most dangerous creatures of the continent. A hulking ungulate, the Khalkotauroi is actually related to the Catoblepas, as one can see in certain features. It possess the prehensile lower lip, the scaly armor and the long serpentine tail. The biggest noticeable difference, though, is that this beast does not drag its head on the ground. Instead it has quite the short sturdy neck, meaning it can function like any other animal on the savanna. Since it does not have to crawl with its face, this species is much more mobile. They still walk along at a leisurely pace, but if angered, they can charge with incredible speed and force. That is another thing about the Khalkotauroi, they are absolute powerhouses. Their bodies are packed with pure muscle, with backs practically bulging with all this strength. One's charge has the power to knock over a tree or barrel through a wall, which means that us much squishier things would pretty much burst on impact. A thick neck allows them to absorb a whole lot of shock from the attack, and it also gives them the ability to toss things around like toys. A pair of thorny, heavily armored horns is their main weapon, and they are things to be feared. Not only will they gore you, but you can get caught in them and thrashed about. The metallic shell on these horns is incredibly strong, able to deflect sword strikes and ignore a whole lot of punishment. This same armoring coats most of their body, which makes them even more intimidating. Thick scales give them an incredible amount of protection, making it difficult for any attacker to leave a serious wound. The bottom of their jaw and the back of their legs are the only places where one could get a hit off, but these areas are not very easy to reach when this beast is charging you. While it does not eat meat and it gains nothing from taking down another animal, Khalkotauroi often cause injury and death due to a rather short fuse. They are easily angered and they are quick to get defensive when approached by an unknown creature. Like Catoblepas, they have quite poor eye sight and thus rely on smell to truly understand their surroundings. Odors of danger or strange beings can put them on edge, and they are quick to defend themselves if something startles them in this state. Since smell is a big thing for them, a misunderstanding in a hectic situation can lead to an attack. My guides said that approaching one while drenched in a familiar odor is not a foolproof plan. If the wind changes and they catch the smell of a predator, they will get defensive. And if you happen to be in front of them in this state and make a sudden move, they will assume you are a part of the danger and charge. I certainly didn't need to be told to stay far from them, but this adds to the huge pile of reasons to keep your distance. This defensive nature and anger is also extended to their young, as they are very protective of their calves. Getting anywhere near a baby Khalkotauroi is a recipe for disaster, as their mother isn't the only one who will maul you for this sin. All Khalkotauroi keep an eye out for each other, and they will work in a group if threatened. Even their Catoblepas cousins are roped into this, though they rarely need defending. Living in a poison cloud means that a lot of enemies aren't going to visit you at home. The rage of a Khalkotauroi is a well known thing, as they are essentially living battering rams. Fences, walls and any other obstacle is easily barreled through, and the whip of an angry tail can send a man flying. Loud snorts and pawing at the ground are clear signs of anger, but the biggest signal comes from their nose and mouth. Much like their Catoblepas cousins, they possess special organs that collect certain fluids from the plants they eat. These same organs secrete their own special compound, mixing it all into a particular substance. This soup is turned into a vapor and it can be expelled from the nose or mouth. This vapor is quite flammable, igniting at the slightest spark. This spark is provided by their tusks, which contain properties that are similar to flint and steel. With quick jaw movements, they can grind these teeth together and cause sparking, which will ignite the expelled vapor. So when a Khalkotauroi is angry, it will literally have flames bursting from its jaws! Though an intimidating sight to see, the fire itself isn't all that dangerous. The vapor burns quickly and the fire doesn't create that much heat. Getting hit by a puff of this flame may singe your foliage and hair, but it won't incinerate you like dragon fire. They don't really use the flames as projectile, rather the heat stays all around the head. That means if you are stuck on its horns, than maybe you are going to start cooking up. In reality, these bursts of fire are more for intimidation and distraction, scaring away attackers or disorienting them long enough to get gored. I see this application quite often in conversation about this species. When I bring up the Khalkotauroi, many are quick to mention the fire and say how scary it is. I often shoot back that the charging horned beast is the thing that I find quite scarier. Singed leaves are unpleasant, but having my body turned to mulch is a bit worse! The fire they produce may also be used to burn off the irritating hairs and nasty thorns of certain plants, making them more palatable. It is a behavior that is quite similar to the Crystal Horn, though they rely more on focused light rather than belched flame.

With their immense strength, impenetrable armor and nasty temper, many people tend to see nothing else in these beasts. However, one may be surprised to learn that the Khalkotauroi are rather intelligent. They seem to be quite observant and a bit curious, both of which they use to learn and adapt. When some new object shows up in their territory, they are always quick to check it out and prod it with their lower lip. Land owners who put up fences or new structures can be sure that the local Khalkotauroi will be inspecting these recent additions. While some may chalk it up to normal curiosity and common threat assessment, locals have found these creatures actually learning the purpose and functions of these things. Though big and bulky, their prehensile lower lip can actually allow them to perform these functions after careful observations! Quite a few farmers I met regaled me of their first time they saw a Khalkotauroi unlatch their gate and stroll right onto their property. Though I think such a thing would be incredible to watch, the storytellers were not so thrilled about suddenly having these massive creatures near their crops and homes! It sounds like that most Khalkotauroi have mastered simple doors and gates, which means folk need to add extra layers and complexities to their barriers to prevent these beasts from easily flinging them open. I have also been told that Khalkotauroi have come up with interesting behaviors when it comes to the dry season. Though their eye sight isn't all that great, they can still pick out silhouettes, and a shape they are quite familiar with is that of a human carrying a pot or urn on their head. When water is scarce, the Khalkotauroi will follow these folk as they know that they are headed towards water. Of course not every person has to draw water from a watering hole, as many towns and villages have wells and other ways to gather this precious liquid. Well, the Khalkotauroi have learned that too. There have been stories of these creatures trying to get into a village's stored water, and one instance where a Khalkotauroi actually figured out how to pull the rope that brings forth a bucket of well water! The other thing that shows the intelligence of the Khalkotauroi is their memory. They appear to remember every place they have visited, even when they were calves. Water holes or feeding grounds they haven't seen in decades can still be easily found, and they are sure to bring their young along so that they can learn too. They also are able to remember certain individuals, which they often identify through smell. This brings up a rather fascinating thing about Khalkotauroi and one of the big reasons they are infamous to locals and hunters. Not only do they remember specific people or creatures, they associate these beings with certain things. There is a tale of a farmhand who was responsible for dumping any food waste or rotten produce from their farm, which they often pitched in the same spot every day. Eventually the Khalkotauroi came to recognize this location as a reliable source of food. From that point on, the farmhand would find these beasts waiting patiently for the regular delivery at the same time every day. Though terrified at first, the fellow found that they were quite friendly and peaceful towards him. The farmhand found these interactions pleasant, but never thought too much about them. He brought food and that was all they really cared about. Months down the road, though, and he found himself in peril. While out on the road to visit family, he was ambushed by bandits and captured. His attempts to defend himself angered the thieves and they gave him quite the thrashing. As they beat him, there was a deafening bellow and something massive came charging out of the grass. An enraged Khalkotauroi plowed through the bandits, sending everyone running. Each thief was chased down and ground to paste, but the angry beast brought no harm to the farmhand. It was later found that this Khalkotauroi was one that visited the dumping ground daily, and it recognized the man who brought the food. Hearing his friend in pain and peril, it came rushing to the rescue! It is quite a wonderful tale, and it goes to show how smart these beasts can be. However, a memory that can help remember a friend can also remember a foe. It turns out that Khalkotauroi can hold grudges. The most well known tale of this behavior is the story of Gnarl Horn, a rather famous Khalkotauroi that prowled near the town of Ndiounda. Gnarl Horn was a full grown bull that was identified by a twisted overgrown horn, which was probably due to an injury that occurred in his youth. Larger than all others of his kind, he was said to be the undisputed king of the territory, and that no predator dared show their face when he was around. All the townsfolk treated Gnarl Horn with respect and they dared not cross him even when he wandered into town. He was a notable specimen of his kind with an unique appearance, which obviously meant that some rich elite jerkbag would want to kill it and turn him into a trophy. Some far-off wealthy lord known as Hagen prided himself on being a big game hunter and saw Gnarl Horn as a must-have for his trophy room. So he sailed off and went to Ndiounda in hopes of bagging this behemoth, which the locals did not appreciate. They forbid anyone to hunt Gnarl Horn and refused to help the man. So instead of taking the hint, he decided to hire some shady folk to serve as guides so that he could claim his prize. They tracked down the beast and found him grazing in a herd of fellow herbivores. Knowing simple weapons were ineffective against the armored hide, Hagen decided to construct pitfalls and leg traps that would topple Gnarl Horn and leave him vulnerable. The group then had the genius idea of setting off explosive seed pods to whip the herd into a panic. The cacophony they made sent every creature into a frenzy, resulting in a stampede. Everyone had to duck and cover as the chaos ensued, only emerging when the craze had passed. The aftermath showed several ungulates that had fallen into the traps and crippled themselves, as well as a bunch that had been tripped by placed foot holds and were trampled to death in the panic. All in all, it was a horrible scene of misery and terrible waste of life. And of course, Gnarl Horn was nowhere to be found. Somehow having no remorse for his stupid actions, Hagen retired to the camp to plot out another way to take down the beast. As they prepared for dinner, though, their quarry made a violent appearance. Gnarl Horn came charging into camp, tearing through the tents and goring one of the guides. They all fled the scene in a panic, retreating to a place where the enraged creature couldn't reach them. After Gnarl Horn gave up and left, they went back to their shredded camp and gathered what remained. They set up their station elsewhere, and Hagen was determined more than ever to beat these behemoth. When he went out to hunt the next morning, Gnarl Horn appeared once again and attacked. Few more guides and helpers were killed in the assault, but even when Hagen escaped, the terror was not over. For the next two days, Gnarl Horn continued to ambush and attack the group at every turn. Finally his guides abandoned him and fled, leaving Hagen to fend for himself. With all his equipment and preparations shattered by this furious creature, he had no choice but to flee. He abandoned his quest and sailed home, vowing to return and kill the behemoth. While the locals were happy to see the rich fool get driven off, they wondered what had infuriated Gnarl Horn to this degree. Eventually the guides were tracked down and questioned, and it was revealed that a few of them returned to the scene of the failed hunt to collect what they could from the collateral casualties. They didn't want the meat and resources to go to waste, as Hagen left the mangled bodies where they lie due to their poor condition. When inspecting the scene, they found the crushed body of a Khalkotauroi calf, who had been trampled amidst the chaos. No one can really confirm if this calf was Gnarl Horn's offspring or not, but such a loss regardless would be enough to drive the beast mad. Years after the incident, Hagen returned to Ndiounda to try and take down Gnarl Horn again. This trip lasted only two days, as the beast attacked hours after Hagen had set foot in the wilderness. After the first assault, no one dared help him or offer him sanctuary. The townsfolk wouldn't even let him into the town, as Gnarl Horn pursued Hagen even into populated areas and didn't care what got smashed during his rage. With no place hide, he was forced to quit once again. A few years after that, he came back for a different hunting expedition in another part of the territory, eyeing a tamer prize. Four days into his expedition, Gnarl Horn exploded onto the scene and tore through the party, leading to another retreat. From then on, Hagen refused to return to that land as long as Gnarl Horn lived. Eventually, the beast's reign came to an end. Old and weary, Gnarl Horn was found one day lying underneath a mango tree in a local farm. Lazily eating the fallen fruit, he simply sat there for three days, never moving from the spot. On the fourth day, the villagers had found that he had passed in the night. The whole town held a ceremony for the great giant, and news of the funeral reached Hagen's ears. Gleeful that the terrible creature had finally died, he set up another hunting expedition in the territory to celebrate. Longing to bag some game from this savanna, he trekked out into the wilderness and was promptly attacked by a young bull Khalkotauroi. Hagen was run through by its horns and crushed against a mango tree. After Hagen was dead, the bull simply turned around and left, ignoring the horrified guides. It seems that the Khalkotauroi can pass down a lot of things to their young. In the regions they call home, the thoughts on the Khalkotauroi is a bit of a mixed bag. Many are proud of such a powerful and adaptive beast, as it serves as a perfect symbol for strength. Their impenetrable scales serve as great materials for armor and equipment, and those that can summon it through Thericorium will have a great coat of armor to wear into battle. The issue with all this, though, is actually killing one of these beasts to obtain it. Due to their anger and armor, they are not easy beasts to slay, which is extra problematic when they become a nuisance. Eating crops and wandering into towns is a bit of an issue, but trying to drive it away can cause untold destruction. Thus locals have to continually adapt to these learning creatures, finding new ways to keep them out and away from their property. Some have considered domesticating the Khalkotauroi, as they would be great beasts of burden and they are capable of learning. This does sound good on paper, as you could train them with gifts of food, but there is a catch. While they can associate certain folk with good things like treats and kindness, this will not apply to everyone they meet. So you may be able to dance all around your trained pal without any issue, but the second a stranger is added into the mix, then it may lead to disaster. Also they could get protective over you like they do their young, and try to charge to the rescue if you sound like you are in danger. It may sound cool, but it really isn't when you argue with your spouse over who is doing the dishes and then your guardian bursts through the wall and your partner. Chlora Myron Dryad Natural Historian --------------------------------------------- So it turns out Khalkotauroi are not just "bronze bulls" like I thought, but turns out their real descriptions say they are just bulls with bronze mouths and hooves. which are literally the only two parts of this beast I didn't make armored. Great job, idiot. Also the story of Gnarl Horn was supposed to be a throwaway line that would speak of their ability to hold grudges, but I got bored at work one day and started thinking too much about it. So in the end, one sentence wound up being three paragraphs (which could have been longer if I wanted to add the details about his funeral, burial, supposed haunting and the mango tree, but those details probably aren't necessary). Oops!

#khalkotauroi #mythical creatures #mythical beasts #bull #mammal #monster #creature #art #drawing

51 notes · View notes

faquarlofmycenae · 4 years

Text

Lo and behold, another original from the house of FOM! I haven’t even settled for a title, even though the work title initially was Death, three millenia in the making, but in hindsight it simply doesn’t fit and ideas shifted, etc etc etc, so here we are.

Either way, have this excerpt of the AU that’s floating around in my head like a Windows XP screensaver. There’s an old face, a new one and one already featured elsewhere but after a bit of a transformation... one might even call it an upgrade, depending on what you think of it.

It’s a lot that I wrote down in one day, and now that I got it out of my system I can move onto the next fic which I already plotted out a bit :^)

At last but not least, a big shout out to both Nunki @sine-luce-angor-minus for inspiring me with his phenomenal art and Posi @shadowy-dumbo-octopus for both brainstorming with me and sharing her great ideas!

Enjoy!

The impenetrable darkness had been there for so long that to call it an eternity was a vast understatement. It was a part of him by now and it replaced everything that had been there before. Be it the things that were very much his own; his voice, his substance, his feelings, his senses, even his personality and maybe as well as his most treasured memories, all of that was overshadowed by the void that ate at him ever since he was in here. He could scarcely remember how he got there, he knew someone had to do with it and if he ever managed to get a hold of that someone, provided he hadn’t been killed, his future would find its end right there and then.

And then — it was no more. The thick oppressive cocoon had surrounded him like dark honey and it took him a moment to realize it was all gone and the light blinded him. He cloaked himself in shadows and darkness as if he were a fetus that didn’t want to leave the comfort of the womb until he realized that his martyrdom on this wicked and cursed Earth was so close to being over. The light burned what remained of his essence to its core as if it were purest silver and he silently pleaded for the bonds that still tied him to this mortal realm to finally set him free.

The Other Place… it was still his home, where he belonged. Earth might have once felt like home to him but the connection that once firmly tied him here, a chain that was sweeter than a lover’s caress had been violently torn into pieces. The memory of it was foggy but it was there.

Through the darkness, something pushed through. That surprised him. The intruder didn’t cut or slash their way through the shadows shielding him, but calmly shoved them aside with gentle hands. It wore the face of a human and there was nothing but humanity in its face but still… something underneath the mask was familiar to him.

What have they done to you?

The voice was quiet, in a language he understood despite not remembering which one, and he hated it for being so soothing; he was no squabbling human child, he was a marid of immeasurable power, he could tear this peon apart like it was less than nothing.

But was it worth it? He was so exhausted and the accursed bonds wouldn’t break.

Soft fingers ran along his form in the dark, he didn’t have time to recoil from the touch but underneath them he felt the unmistakable energy of the Other Place.

O great spirit, in whose name shall your revenge be?

Ammet gazed into the eyes, into the fire within them, green and bright and otherworldly. One of the names he spoke was one that hasn't been heard in many years, forgotten to the world, and he had been the only being privy to know it besides its owner, an immense privilege.

Senusret, and Ammet.

It didn't matter to say it out loud, the human face with the energy of his home was not real, something like this couldn't exist and this was the end. He was going home

It had been seconds but it felt like so much more than that when the invisible chains broke. He didn’t let out a cry of joy, he never did, but it didn’t mean he wasn’t glad to leave this spinning ball of mud — may it burn down and all of humanity as well as the spirits remaining there with it.

…

The very second he was back, he began to regain his strength and with strength came clarity of mind. The darkness had transformed his consciousness into something twisted, strange and revolting but the energies of the Other Place were softly pushing away the fog had clouded everything the longer he stayed here. Time ran differently here than it did on Earth but something that had roughly been five terrestrial years, maybe even more, passed by and with each moment he grew stronger and stronger, but some of the wounds left behind on his essence but especially on his pride simply wouldn't close but instead festered and the pain they caused could only be lessened by retribution.

Oh, he wouldn't simply kill the djinni. He'd draw out his suffering to something no spirit or human had ever experienced — he'd make Bartimaeus of Uruk wish that he had simply been plunged into the Dismal Flame instead of what was waiting for him now. But… How much time has passed exactly while in the amphora? He still didn't know.

…

He felt a scratch on his essence — no, a gentle pull. The same way he'd seen these pathetic human children pull on their equally pathetic progenitors. If he had a form, he would've kicked at the sensation, or even better, sent a lightning bolt at the offender.

Another pull, this time much more insistent. Leave me be, vile wretch, unless you want a marid's wrath upon you, he wanted to scream but the next pull was so much more violent than the previous one that it knocked the metaphorical breath out of him.

Then he was pulled through the elemental walls, as if someone was pulling him through a narrow pipe and —

He was surrounded by light once again. Ammet hissed and brought down the room temperature in an instant. Ice crystals materialized within seconds but the light didn't subside. Someone let out a curse, a particularly vicious one — in a language that vaguely sounded like Greek, perhaps even a Barbarian language.

The form he had picked was a combination of two of his favourite guises — a creature made out of the human skeletons dyed in red, each corpse with its own autonomy (and in some cases rotting flesh hanging from their bones) and a head shaped like the skull of a crocodile, with more teeth than one could count and huge skeletal wings; it had been quite the hit in Ombos when Set had been around. The other was one he used to slip into without thinking about it; a shadow, a perfect replica made of darkness belonging to someone he had once loved.

The black beast, the heart-eater, was cloaked in absolute blackness with shadows hanging from it and while the eye sockets were empty, he could perfectly see his surroundings. First of all, the pentacle in which he stood was of an infuriating perfection that he wanted nothing more than to smash himself against its wards in the futile effort to destroy it. Secondly, the room… had a strange aura. It was a room, alright, these had existed ever since the fleshlings had learned how to construct buildings (not that they did the building, of course), but something in here or maybe it was the way Earth worked now that was so radically different from him as a spirit that he recoiled.

The walls were made of stark grey stone, on the ceiling a long vertical imp-light flickered in pale yellow and besides pots of incense and herbs, there were no actual objects in the room nor windows. They most likely were underground.

Oh, and there was the magician standing in a pentacle opposite of him.

It was a slender woman, not very tall of height but not exactly short either. Dark curls fell upon her shoulders and framed a round face that by human standards was most likely considered very beautiful, shallow and vapid as they were. The lips were full and gave the impression that she was perpetually pouting, her skin light brown with a glow that indicated she was out in the sun quite often. There was youth in her face, but the faint wrinkles on her forehead told a different story. One of her eyes was of a cold dark brown, the other not organic at all; an orb made of shining gold with painted iris and pupils for the sake of realism. The pupil was a deep black, the iris a vibrant blue similar to lapis lazuli but even brighter. The eye pulsated with magic on the higher planes as the piercing gaze burned through his form and he knew, for a fact, that this feeble creature, so insignificant compared to him, could see his true form — for what he really was.

„Ammet; Bezalel; Rahab.“ She spoke Greek, alright, even if it was a curious dialect. He still understood her every word; a side effect of the summons, as it was most useful for the slave to understand the master‘s commands. It sounded different than the Greek he had been used to previously but still not far enough to have evolved over so many years. Years in which his name had been unearthed.

Apophis curse this world; the face had not been a product of his imagination or confused state. Him saying names had been real —

He let out a furious roar, one that made the implight tremble, the room shake by a margin — but not the magician, oh no. She didn't even twitch but merely sneered in anger at the obvious disrespect, raised a hand, opened her mouth to speak a punishment — and caught herself. She took a deep breath, halted her respiration for one, two, three seconds and then exhaled once again.

„A powerful demon you might be but now you are my slave. Bow your head and do my bidding as I command, elsewhile I will rattle your essence with a pestilence that even you will carry the pain for the remainder of your days here and in the Nowhere.”

Ammet gritted his teeth but nevertheless bowed his head. He was regaining his composure once again but the fire of fury raged within him. But there was a time and place for this… not now. Not while in the damned pentacle.

“Your word is my command, mistress.”

He spoke, soft and gentle. That coupled with a gentle and discreet guise would occasionally — and if the magician was an amateur and/or took a greater bite than they could chew — do the trick and lure the human into a false sense of security. But Ammet was in the mood for anything but a gentle guise and this individual’s strength, as feeble as she might seem, judging by her aura hadn't faded in the least so as far as magicians went, she probably packed quite the punch. In addition to that, she had summoned him all on her own, which already was a tremendous task for the likes of her kind, so he probably was not going to be lucky with her. That strength, unapparent to the untrained eye but blatant to anyone who knew of real power, reminded him of someone he had once loved.

The magician jutted her chin upwards, a smug expression on her face.

“You are a smart slave then, smarter than many who have been in my service. Hear me out: needless to say as I included it in your bindings, you are prohibited from harming not only me but all those you interact with, be it by magical or physical attack. You shall answer every question that is asked of you, without hesitation and in earnest — as alien as honesty is to the likes of vile demons like yourself.” She wrinkled her nose before she spoke next. “Afterwards, you shall be dismissed; that is, if you decide to cooperate. Refuse to, and your fate shall be worse than what you went through in that jar of wine.”

The golden eye glinted and with a sharp snap of her fingers, something materialized in the air in front of the magician. She got a hold of it and held it out to him. It was a small box of black wood, polished to a gleam. A small net of silvery veins ran over it and a similar magical energy resided within it as the golden eye.

“The people who made this call it Pandora's Box. It doesn't come close to the real deal, obviously, but it has its surprises.” The magician smiled. “You will get cozy with them, should you choose to act unwisely.”

Ammet considered the box. It didn't seem like a lot but the thought of being imprisoned once again gave him the most unpleasant of sensations.

He fluttered his wings and continued his swaying, but didn't respond.

The magician nodded. “Now that we have that out of our way: fulfill your charge.” She clapped her hands and Ammet dissolved into shards of shadows and bone. A sensation pulled him elsewhere; one moment he was in the strange vault many meters beneath the ground — and the other he was gone.

The light that burned Ammet now — a bothersome habit, as he had apparently developed a sensibility for light during his captivity — came of no cold implight but was rather the light of the setting sun. It shone through a tall window, warming him even through the glass.

The revolting aura from the vault remained but wasn’t as amplified which meant that the effect was relatively widespread.

He didn't stand in a pentacle but on white tiles, making his dark form appear even blacker as he remained there. The walls were tiled wood, rich mahogany, and in the center of the room stood a long dinner table with a total of fourteen chairs around it. It had a costly air about it, and confirmed to Ammet that even though time might pass, humans were still exactly the same; utterly obsessed with material goods and hedonistic to the maximum.

He scoffed.

“Enjoying the view?”

It wasn't the fact that someone had entered the room behind him that made him spin around at neckbreak speed; it was because whoever had spoken was the owner to the voice belonging to the face.

The language itself was nothing close to any language Ammet consciously understood, its sounds being mumbled and so ugly compared to the refined beauty of Egyptian or even the cruder Arabic, and yet he knew exactly what she said. It also meant that he was either far from home or actually a lot of time had passed for language to evolve into… whatever this could be considered, regardless of the magician’s Greek.

Just like the golden-eyed magician, this one was also a woman — although judging by the stench of incense clinging on her skin if not directly her bizarre clothes (form-fitting lower garments that covered her ankles and a way too short tunic on her upper body) she most likely was either one as well or at least associated with them frequently — but quite different from her too which, well, was better than them looking alike, a nasty tendency humans had.

Taller and pale of skin, she had auburn hair mixed in with grey that was tied together with a few loose strands. Her face was angular, her nose straight and pointy which made her look like a songbird. Freckles grew on her face like pimples on a youth’s visage, crow’s feet and lines under her eyes indicated at least forty years of age. The fire of the Other Place wasn’t to be found in the eyes, instead they were of a dull light brown with green specks — green specks that did not have anything within them that reminded him of home. Her aura did burn a little brighter than that of your ordinary human though, but ultimately that didn’t need to mean anything.

“What you see out there,” she said and pointed outside of the window, “is a country named Spain; its most Southern part to be precise, we call it Andalusia.”

Ammet didn't respond nor did he look outside. Neither of those names meant anything to him.

“I hope it's a more pleasant view than the cellar in which you were summoned. I hate to say it under the circumstances which, let's face it, are always unpleasant but: welcome back to Earth, Lord Ammet.”

Soft food steps walked away and for a moment, Ammet considered sending a black bolt of lightning her way and into her back as she had it turned on him. Then he remembered the box.

“I apologize for any harshness my colleague showed you; she is still of the old school and old habits die hard.” She sighed. “Maybe even never. But we don’t want to get off on the wrong foot, do we?” Her voice was clear and strong and if it wasn’t just a product of his imagination, Ammet could swear that there was a current within her tone that wasn’t human at all.

She turned around to face Ammet and to the marid‘s surprise, the expression on her face was a welcoming smile. He immediately distrusted her.

“Please, sit down. I know it doesn't lessen the pain of being bound but for the sake of courtesy, I rarely like to have my guests standing around.”

Ammet didn't move, he merely looked at her.

“I was told to answer questions.”

The woman didn't look up as she poured herself a glass of white wine (the smell of the alcohol was sweet and pungent, so unlike red wine) and moved to sit at the head of the table.

“And that you will, and as soon as that is done, you are free to return to the Other Place.” She looked at him over the rim of her glass and took a sip. “To be a good host and as a show of good faith towards you, Lord Ammet, I will tell you something of this world, as well as about my own person.” She smiled as if she remembered something. “Well, not everything, obviously, but everything I deem deserving for you to. But first of all, let me apologize for the predicament I put you under — prying your name from you while you were in a confused state is a great betrayal to do upon a spirit, yet while I regret it, there was no other way around it.”

Ammet tilted his head slightly at those words. Well, here was someone who knew her way with words.

“So it was you who freed me. For many years I thought you weren't real.”

She smiled.

“Yes, but like I said… It is a rather double-edged sword. You had been imprisoned in a wine amphora for, ah, quite some time. Five years ago an archeological expedition looking to loot long-sunken treasures in the hopes of discovering powerful magical artifacts brought many things, among them the vessel that contained you, to the surface. I happened to be around and,”, her lips curved into a smile, “felt your aura, faint as it was, even from afar. Freeing you was the right thing to do, obviously, but I wanted to know the identity of the one I had saved - cue me asking. A bit melodramatic, yes, but it did the trick, did it not?”

She put down her glass and observed him.

“The search for you wasn't as easy as I thought it would be, even though I had your name. According to Herodotus, the last sighting of you was in Ombos 1000 BCE, give or take.”

“BCE?”

“... Ah. Yes.”

The number the woman said then would have knocked any and all breath out of Ammet's lungs if he had them. No, no no, it cannot be!

“I know, even for a spirit this is a lot to take him.”

The tone being calming did nothing for him. Ammet felt the edges of his form tremble and with a horrid piercing cry he released a great force of energy and made the planes shudder. Oh, how he wished to exact his wrath upon — well, everything under this accursed sun. The golden-eyed magician was lucky to have made the binding clause so tight, otherwise Ammet would have found or simply disregarded the finer lines and wreaked untold havok on whatever and whoever were to cross his path — man, spirit, it didn't matter to him. He was of such power that they could impossibly stand in his way.

When he calmed down, silence beat down upon them. The woman looked a bit disheveled but had mostly maintained her composure, as if she had assumed something like this to happen. She coughed and finished the remains in her glass in one go, then steeped her fingers.

“Time is nothing to the likes of us—”

“Us?” Ammet's voice was a roar and he moved at lightning speed to stand over the woman. His eyes were raging fires now, spewing contempt and hatred with such fury and even like this, it was nothing compared to the anger burning within him.

“What sort of wicked and foolish creature are you? How dare you compare yourself to an entity like me?”

If she was unnerved, she didn't bother with showing it.

“My name is Nimuë, and there are no creatures like me.”

Ammet hissed like an aggressive cobra and shook his head. His claws dug deep into the table, something not missed by Nimuë who raised an eyebrow.

“Don't make me laugh. You are human, but so unlike all of them.” Even as he said it, he knew at least the first part to be a lie.

She straightened her shoulders and stood from the chair with a fluid motion.

“Human a part of me is, yes, and unlike all of them I am too — including Senusret.”

Ammet was quicker than thought; he reached out to rip her in two, binding clauses be damned, but somehow she was even quicker. There was a crash and the marid spun around to the window where a human-shaped hole had appeared when it hadn't been there before and a flash of auburn winked in the waning sunlight. Ammet opened shadowy wings and followed her, making sure to break through the window with enough gusto.

The stench of incense and her alien aura led him down the hill on which the large house was seated upon. Among olive trees and scrubs he looked for her, but no more flashes of auburn or even a single sound.

“I'll tear your human flesh from your bones and throw what remains of you into the sea, as even the sacred beasts would heave at your vile nature.” He screamed and listened in closely to the ensuing silence. But then! A cracking, maybe of branches underneath a foot, he whirled around, ready to strike and tear her apart into her atoms! — and was struck square in the chest with not just one but two surprisingly potent purple lightning bolts.

His detonation missed its target by several meters as his aim was thrown off and he was flung backwards and into an olive tree which broke and splintered under his weight.

As he laid on his back like a scarab turned upside down, the woman named Nimuë came into his view. She was floating downwards to the ground, auburn but greying hair not bound anymore and flowing freely, but Ammet didn't care about the fact that she could fly — it was the eyes, which positively radiated energy from the Other Place. Green fires burned brightly and cast her human features into something incomprehensible and otherworldly.

“I don't think so.” Her feet touched the ground and she crossed her arms. The green fires died down to a glow and now he saw that her expression was less one of anger but rather extreme crossness, like an usually benevolent priestess whose acolytes had vexed her one time too many.

“So, tell me: could he do that? I know the answer, and now let me continue. Be lucky you haven't harmed me, or you'd be back in Circe's gentle care — you will find that she has no love whatsoever for spirits.”

The voice remained the same but if there had just been a gentle hint of the Other Place in it before, now it was the defining trait of it.

Ammet got back on his feet and as he did so shifted back into the shadowy silhouette.

Instantly, Nimuë's demeanor changed. Her eyes widened and her hands twitched and as if she wanted to reach out.

“That form.” She whispered.

“Only the clause is preventing me from causing you such pain that your screams would be heard on even the most desolate corners of this spinning ball of mud.” Ammet spat. The lightning had caused him hurt momentarily but nothing he couldn't shrug off after mere seconds. It had been of the force of something an afrit could've hurled at him, but on no plane, not the first seven nor anything above was Nimuë anything but human.

“Good.” She stated coldly and leaned against an olive tree. “Can we continue? I'd prefer it down here, in case you decide to lose your marbles again. As much as you are a guest to me I am a guest in that house.”

Ammet pressed his shadowy lips together tightly like he had seen it done before so many times but nodded. Nimuë let out a breath and ran a hand through her hair, tying it up once again.

“Either way, Ombos… Set's city back then. But it wasn't the name” She made a meaningful gesture with her hand. “You told me. Those who held it were prominent rulers of Egypt, alright, but not a single magician. So, evidently, it had to be someone either off the records or they were on the records but not as that. To this day, I don't know who it is but considering your reaction… well, you catch my drift.”

She grinned. Ammet's guise had no facial expressions but he most certainly wouldn't have smiled.

“You were considered dead for the last three millenia, so imagine my surprise when that is anything but the case. For a spirit to show up alive after the only reports I found of him were in some old tomes that haven't been touched in two centuries, that was quite something. And of course, no one just happens to stumble into an amphora, especially when that one is at the bottom of the ocean. So someone must've not just done you dirty but done so while fully intending to make it as horrible as possible. I figured you would both need rest as well as desire for retribution — but the former was more important than the latter.” She sneered. “You should be glad you couldn't see the sorry state of your essence when I destroyed the jar. And the way the world has changed in the last millennium and a half… well, if my essence crawls at the thought of it, and I have witnessed all of its development, then I don't want to know how it must've been for you.”

Ammet stared at her.

“To answer your question concerning me, I trust you as a spirit to keep this a secret, especially because I might be the greatest ally whose paths you crossed on Earth. But yes, I am of the Other Place, despite what appearances might say otherwise.”

The maid's essence shivered in disgust as he considered what she said. “But you are not visible as a spirit.”

Nimuë smiled, and even though she couldn't change her form it had a sharpness to it only spirits could manage.

“Yes, and as revolting it might be to you, I have my fair share of advantages in turn.”

“Such as?”

Nimuë curled her upper lip in a self-sufficient smile. She was too human to be a spirit, there was no doubt about it.

“No pain whatsoever, Lord Ammet.”

No pain? But…

“What about the human?”

Nimuë grinned. “Oh, she's here — but at the moment I hold the reins. It felt appropriate to speak from spirit to spirit so she took a backseat.”

The marid regarded the creature. Oh, there was not a doubt that she had lost her mind. Whoever willingly shared a body with a human… what a perverse thought. And yet, unbidden memories came to him, of a time when he had wished he could just do that… when he had done it, only momentarily though and it was never enough...

“You disgust me.”

The spirit in a human's body scoffed. “What a way to show gratitude. I won't let you be locked up by Circe, as she no doubt showed you her wicked little prison, but I'm nevertheless disappointed. And here I thought that a spirit who held such a curious and invaluable possession in obvious affection could see the future just as I do!” She sniffed. “Yes, I do share a body with a human being. It is a quite benevolent and mutually agreeable partnership and I am not bound by cruel words, bonds and contracts.”

Ammet wanted to respond to that but found out he couldn't. Nimuë seemed to notice too and took that unashamedly as a victory.

“Do you wish to know anything else about me? Or is enough of my oh so disgusting nature revealed to you?”

The marid gave her a sharp look but still was silent.

“Alright. Because I have a proposition for you. A cooperation, the summons are a necessary part of it at first, sadly, but we'll find a way around that.”

Ammet let out a dry laugh. “I'd like to see you try merging me with a human. I would rather eat myself.”

Nimuë cackled, it was an unpleasant sound coming from a spirit who thought themself more human than anything else. “Oh, I doubt you'd commit to that part. I consider myself as something of a visionary, thanks to having made use of some groundbreaking discoveries that were right in front of humanity's nose but as always, they either don't have the ability to see it or are too wrapped up in their hedonism and selfishness to think further than themselves.” The green fires lit up for a brief moment, mischief sparking within them. “Let me tell you a bit about that and then onto my questions — or rather, my question. Then regardless of your answer you are free to return to Circe's gentle hands for her to dismiss you for you to return home. She won't like it but she will have to live with it. She is the sort of magician who hates all spirits after having been wronged by a single one of them despite being tied to his charge.”

Nimuë shook her head.

“What about the box? Was that just an empty threat?”

Instead of an answer, Nimuë simply smiled. Then she pushed herself off the tree and approached Ammet. In front of him, she stretched out her hand for him to shake.

“A good magician never reveals his tricks. So, what do you say? Is there an angle for a deal here?”

#fomwrites #bartimaeus #bartimaeus sequence

6 notes · View notes

kamifukukazuko · 4 years

Text

Harry’s Boggart ~ The Master of Death

by Quine on Ao3

Pairing: Death/Harry Potter

Harry wiped the grin of his face when he entered the room. Mrs. Weasley was sitting on the floor, weeping and weakly swishing her wand. "Ri-Riddi-," she started hiccupping. On the ground in front of her was the corpse of Ron until it changed into Percy’s a second later. Or at least the thing, pretending to be him. It radiated darkness. Suddenly it changed into Mr. Weasley. His glasses were slipping from his face and a trickle of blood ran out of his nose. Molly sobbed loudly. "Ri- Riddikulus," Mrs. Weasley stuttered. A dead Harry was laying in front of her. "Riddikulus.“ The twins sprawled out next to each other. "Riddikulus-“ It changed into Bill, eyes wide open, his arms spread, like he was trying to fly.

"Come on Mrs. Weasley," Harry said and took her at the elbow,"Get out of here.“

Harry pushed her into the direction of the door where Remus was just entering, followed by Sirius and Moody. The werewolf couldn’t even react, when Mrs. Weasley stumbled towards him.

“It’s only a boggart Molly," he said, the arms full of a crying Mrs. Weasley. Harry turned around when Moody stared over his shoulder. The boggart had turned its attention towards the closest person available, and in this case, it was Harry.

Harry stared into the warping mass, that turned into the first shapes of a Dementor, but it changed not even fully formed. Red eyes on a face without a nose replaced the black hood hiding the slimy face of the Dementor and vanished back into the masses, until it turned once again. It didn’t know what to do. Harry tilted his head, curious of what the creature would become. Honestly, he had no idea. The thought of a Dementor didn’t scare him and he had lost all fear of Voldemort a long time ago.

Except for the short moment of panic, when a knife had almost pierced Death as a snake, Harry hadn’t been afraid. Not truly. And Death couldn’t be harmed. Harry was sure of that, now that he had seen his true form.

Meanwhile the boggart seemed more desperate with every change. They happened quicker and quicker.

It turned into one of the Inferi Harry had seen in the cave with Voldemort’s horcux. Its guts were falling out of a bloodless wound in its stomach. Harry heard a shocked gasp behind him, but a moment later the boggart was was falling and changing. The organs retreated back into the body, which was now clothed, but three more gashes formed, and blood was streaming out of them.

Draco Malfoy, gasping and choking - bleeding to death on the ground, just like he had, when Harry hit him with the Sectum Sempra in his sixth year. Bricks of old stone grew out of the body until it had vanished completely and, a veil hiding an archway and whispering voices, had replaced it.

Harry was under the impression, that the boggart was trying to turn into everything, Harry had ever feared in his life.

The archway started to move and expanded until it was a giant Basilisk, with bleeding holes where the eyes should be. Already shrinking, it grew fur and turned into Fluffy, who promptly lost two of his heads and changed into a vicious version of aunt Magda’s dog Ripper. A shouting uncle Vernon approached Harry shortly after, "I’m going to teach you a lesson, boy!" and changed into aunt Petunia trying to hit him with a frying pan. Harry showed no reaction, besides watching it with a curious look on his face. Just before she could land a hit, Boggart-Petunia lost all her features and turned into a blurry, gender-less figure. Seemingly out of nowhere, a panicking man started to shout.

"Lily, take Harry and go! It’s him! Go! Run! I’ll hold him off-“ High pitched laughter echoed from the walls. Then, for a moment they couldn’t hear a thing, until a scream cut through the silence followed by the voice of Lily Potter.

"...not Harry, not Harry - Please, I’ll do anything-“ The blurry shape flickered and the voice grew weaker. It sounded like it came from a great distance.

"-stand aside - stand aside, girl-“ Then, there was silence. The boggart had vanished from existence.

Harry hummed thoughtfully. So he didn’t have a boggart anymore. He didn’t know if he should be pleased or if this should worry him. Harry turned around. Moody stared at him, with an unreadable expression, both eyes piercing him. Harry decided, that he would need to keep an eye on the Auror. Sirius was gripping the doorway. His knuckles were white from the blood-loss, just like his face. He was shaking. Remus didn’t look much better. Mrs. Weasley was still leaning against Lupin and hid her face on his shoulder.

"I guess it’s gone now," Harry said to breach the silence. Mrs. Weasley turned around and pulled him into a bone-crushing hug.

While Harry tried to regain his ability to breathe, Remus managed to find his voice. "Harry, I- I never-“

"This were James and Lily, who we heard... Right before they died," Sirius uttered.

"Yeah," Harry said, his arms uncomfortably pressed against his sides.

"-oh Harry, I am so sorry...," Mrs. Weasley said with a teary voice.

"Mm hm," Harry replied, finally slipping out of her grasp. He glared at Death, when the echo of amusement pulsed through the bond. Moody’s eyes darted from Death to Harry. Of course the Auror couldn’t see Death, but his perceptiveness was still impressive. Harry bit back a grin, when Mad-Eye fixated him with a suspicious look.

Harry had the impression, that he was affected the least by this encounter, apart from Moody maybe. Luckily nobody seemed to have noticed, that Malfoy's mirror image had been older than he actually was. Or that Harry feared for Malfoy's life at all. An inferius he could explain, by having it seen in a textbook before, but the veil was a whole other thing. Mrs. Weasley was sniffing again. "I can’t imagine what you are thinking of me now," she said shaken, "...can’t even deal with a stupid boggart....“

Lupin offered her a handkerchief, still staring at the place, where the boggart had been. Mrs. Weasley blew her nose. "It’s just- I worry so much. It would be a miracle, if we all walk out of this unharmed... A- and P-p-percy isn’t talking to us-“ She wiped away some tears. "What if something h-h-horrible happens and we never got to reconcile? ...and what happens, if Arthur and I die, who i-i-is going to care for Ron and Ginny?“

"Molly, now it’s enough," Sirius said sharply. He seemed like Molly’s worrying was the least of his problems right now.

"It’s not like last time. The Order is prepared, we have the advantage, we know what Voldemort is planning-," Remus said, but he was interrupted by Mrs. Weasley, who shrieked at the name.

"Oh Molly, come on, it’s time to get used to hearing that name - look, I can’t promise, that nothing is going to happen, nobody can, but this time we are better off than last time. You weren’t in the Order back then. Last time, twenty Death eaters stood against one of us and they snatched one after the other...“

"Don’t worry about Percy," Sirius interfered, "He is going to come back to us. It’s only a matter of time, when Voldemort is going to show himself. As soon, as he is doing that, the whole ministry is going to fall on its knees and ask for forgiveness. And I don’t know if I accept their apology yet," he added bitterly.

"And about Ron and Ginny... Do you really think we would let them starve if something happened to you or Arthur?" Lupin said.

Mrs. Weasley smiled weakly. "How silly of me," she said and wiped her eyes.

Harry just wanted to go to leave. He tried to sneak past the group to his bedroom, as long as everyone was still standing around Mrs. Weasley. "Harry.“ Sirius had called out his name. Harry supressed a sigh and turned around, only to see his gofather approaching him. "Could I talk to you for a moment?“

"Um, sure," Harry replied. Sirius shot a look over his shoulder and when no one was really watching them - Harry knew that Moody’s eye was still fixated on him, despite the Auror standing with the back to them - Sirius pulled Harry into the next room. It happened to be an old bedroom. Probably the one Ginny and Hermione used. "So what did you wanna talk about?" Harry asked, "Is it because you told Remus about all this?“

"I haven’t told him much by now, only that you found the Hallows. I can’t really tell him, that your snake is the Grim Reaper without him questioning my sanity, but that’s not it,“ Sirius hesitated. "I wanted to ask you if the things that we saw, the boggart, if they really happened.“

"Essentially yes," Harry said.

5 notes · View notes

youcancallmecirce · 4 years

Text

Imaari’s Tale: Part Three

Crossposted to Ao3. CW for apparent character death.

Nothing was alright.

Imaari sat in her solitary cell, staring at the worn stone wall in front of her, and tried again to figure out where things had gone so terribly wrong.

That second morning with Hardwin had started out well enough, but they’d passed a troupe of Sister Lakes Rangers only an hour after rejoining the main road into Shinwaud. Hardwin had gone stony the moment he saw them, and Imaari’s stomach had sunk to her toes, they initially passed by with only hard searching stares.

“Let’s go,” Hardwin had murmured when they were out of sight. “I have a bad feeling.”

Sure enough, the Rangers doubled back almost immediately and taken both Hardwin and Imaari into custody. She’d tried to resist, but only briefly.

“Don’t fight it,” Hardwin had said. “It’ll be alright.”

But it wasn’t. The Rangers had been unnecessarily rough in spite of Imaari’s and Hardwin’s cooperation, and few people they’d encountered since had treated them any better.

The young man appointed as their defense in Sister Lakes was one of those few. “Unfortunately for you,” he’d told them, “one of the Rangers who brought you in lost his entire family in an Elven raid during the war. He was only too glad to make sure that his brother would be adjudicating your case. It...doesn’t look good for you.”

“Imaari was not involved in the killing,” Hardwin said, frowning.

“She’s an Elf,” their Defender had said sadly. “The judge will find you guilty on that basis alone.” Imaari’s heart had sunk, and it must have shown on her face. “I know,” he’d said consolingly. “But I’d rather paint an accurately bleak picture than give you false hope.”

As it turned out, though, he’d actually underestimated just how badly it would go. Not only was the judge predisposed to hate them, not only had the Ranger been there to testify to her initial resistance, but they’d actually brought Lothien in to testify against them. Imaari had felt a brief, misguided flare of hope when she’d seen him, but it had died a quick death.

“They were vicious,” Lothien had said, staring at her in open abhorrence. “Taunting the poor man to draw him out away from the other townsfolk, then beating him brutally in front of everyone.”

And as if that testimony hadn’t been damning enough, the prosecutor then went on to paint a lurid portrait of Elven insurgency and terrorism. Hardwin, the poor old man, had been duped by the half-Elf whore into joining her terrible cause. Truly, there was no other option but to send them both to their deaths--or at least, to life in the main prison complex in Arch.

The judge, predictably, ate it up. He actually smiled as he gave the guilty verdict, then offered the ‘merciful’ sentence of life in the Arch prison.

That was the last time Imaari had seen Hardwin. They’d been removed from the courtroom through different doors immediately after sentencing. Imaari had been sent on to Arch that very afternoon; if they’d done the same for Hardwin, she hadn’t seen him at any point on their journey.

Imaari had been utterly alone then, and she’d been utterly alone since being thrust into this cell days ago. Or had it been weeks? Imaari hadn’t bothered to count. She was struggling not to give in to despair.

Her life now consisted of these four walls, a bare cot, and a scanty meal delivered at dusk each day. No contact with other people, no opportunity to feel the sun on her face or the wind on her skin or the pulsing life of the earth beneath her feet. She couldn’t even think about living the rest of her life in this fashion. If she did, the walls pressed in on her even more tightly and black spots crowded her vision.

If only she had listened to Andeana! She might have chafed at the realities of her life back in Tessington, but at least she’d had a life to live. Andeana had tried to warn her that things could be worse, but she’d been so sure of herself. So certain that she was moving on to better things. Well, “better things” had lasted only a matter of days before it had all gone awry.

Days of freedom, for a lifetime of incarceration. Yes, her life had gotten so much better.

The clanking sound of a key turning in the outer lock was followed by the thud of footsteps down the corridor. Imaari moved to the door curiously, and heard other prisoners in neighboring cells doing the same. It was still morning, so far as she could tell; no one ever came down this corridor except in the evenings, when their daily meals were delivered and chamber pots were emptied. This was the first time that there had been any deviation since the day she’d arrived. Did that mean they were bringing in another prisoner?

To her surprise, the footsteps halted right outside her own door. What--?

“Against the wall, stone eater!”

Imaari complied, eyes wide, as a key grated in the lock and the heavy cell door swung in on creaking hinges. Hope and fear warred in her chest, leaving her weak kneed. What was happening?

Heavy footfalls crossed the small cell, and then a large hand shoved her roughly into the stone. “Against the wall, I said!”

Imaari swallowed her whimper, but could not stop the tears that sprang to her eyes. Why had she even bothered with the hope? Whatever was happening, it was unlikely to be anything good.

As if to confirm her thoughts, the guard at her back grabbed each of her wrists in turn and bound them behind her, uncaring that he’d wrenched her shoulders painfully in the process. Then he jerked her back, away from the wall, turned her to face the still-open door, and shoved her forward.

“Prisoner 849?” asked another guard, his tone bored and his attention on the scroll in his hands.

“This is her,” replied the one at her back.

“Proceed,” said the Scroll Guard, nodding. “Then come back up for the next one.”

Rough Hands grabbed her arm in a bruising grip and led her down the corridor, through the outer door, and through a warren of dark hallways that all looked the same to her unfamiliar eyes. He jerked her to a stop outside a large holding cell, one unlike anything else they’d passed. It was huge, with three walls made of the same stone as her own cell and the fourth made entirely of heavy iron bars. Several people milled around on the other side of that wall, each looking as confused as she felt.

Another Scroll Guard stood near the bars, next to what she suddenly recognized as the door. “Prisoner ID?” he asked in the same uninterested tone the last one had used.

“Number 849,” Rough Hands said..

The second Scroll Guard scanned his page, then nodded. “Very well. Put her in.”

Rough Hands jerked the ropes from her already abraded wrists as yet another guard unlocked the door. No sooner had one of them shoved her through that door, than the door was slamming shut behind her.

Imaari took in her new surroundings in a daze. Fear had her almost lightheaded, but she knew that she needed to at least try to keep her wits about her. This new cell was dim and stale, as her old one had been, rather than dark and dank as she’d always imagined dungeons to be. A slight air current raised the fine hair on her arms; she rubbed at them, and looked around to see that others had felt the breeze as well. Some rubbed at their arms, like she did, while others held their hands out experimentally to search for its source.

“Prisoner ID?” the Scroll Guard said again, and Imaari turned back to see that another prisoner was being checked against the list, then shoved into the communal cell.

“How dare you?” demanded the new addition, rubbing his wrists delicately. “When my guild hears of this, you will all be seeking new positions!”

Imaari’s brows rose. This man, whoever he was, still wore his own well-tailored clothing. How had someone like him ended up in this cell?

“Imaari?”

“Hardwin!” Imaari spun towards his familiar voice with a cry, and wrapped him in a hug that he clearly hadn’t expected, and just as clearly didn’t appreciate. She released him quickly and stepped back, too happy to see him to feel properly embarrassed. “You’re here!”

“Hm.” Then he frowned at her scraped cheek. “You good?”

Imaari touched the spot and grimaced. “Good enough.” He grunted, and she shrugged. “Any idea what’s happening?”

“No,” he said. “I’ve never heard of anything like this, but they had some reason to put all these people in here together. Whatever it is, it’ll be soon.” He glanced down at her, then went on in an attempt to reassure her. “I’m sure It’s going to be okay.”

Given that things hadn’t exactly worked out the last time he’d said that, it wasn’t as comforting as he’d likely intended it to be. Imaari was kind of glad for it, though. Hope kept trying to claw its way to the surface; she’d needed the reminder that hope was a dangerous thing.

More people had been thrust into the cell, all of them looking about in confusion or murmuring quietly with another person, and it was beginning to seem crowded. The well-dressed man was still shouting, alternating between demands for someone’s supervisor and dire warnings about the consequences of treating him so poorly. Another man stood off by himself, leaning against the bars at the front of the cell and glaring with particular malice at the Scroll Guard.

“What’re ya in for?” someone asked, his voice overloud, and a momentary hush fell across the cell.

“I wonder if they’re finally gonna get me for fucking the magistrate’s wife,” answered another voice at the back of the room. A low ripple of laughter met his flip response, but Hardwin frowned.

“Shut up!” yelled the Scroll Guard, not even looking up from his scroll.

“No fucking way,” Hardwin murmured, and she turned to follow his gaze. It was locked on a man near the back wall. He glanced down at Imaari, making sure she had seen, then began to slip through the crowd towards the other man.

“Hey, don’t I know you from somewhere?” Hardwin asked when they were close enough.

The man turned, blank-faced, and she was shocked to see the pointed ears of an Elf on a man obviously built like a Human. She felt her mouth fall open; she knew that there were others like her, other half-Elves, but she’d never met one and had never expected to.

“Oh yeah,” the man said, nodding in recognition. “Yeah, ah, Hardwin, right?”

“Yeah. You’re, uh...” Hardwin trailed off, frowning. “Um.”

“Daetrik.”

“Daetrik,” Hardwin repeated, nodding as if the name had been on the tip of his tongue when clearly it had not.

“Hey man.” Daetrik rocked back on his heels. “It’s uh, it’s been a long time. What, uh--”

“Oh, fuck, fifteen--” Hardwin broke off awkwardly, looking as if he regretted the impulse that had led him over here. Imaari had to stifle an almost hysterical giggle. “Was it the Low River Valley? Around there somewhere?”

“Yeah, something like that.” Unlike Hardwin, Daetrik seemed to be amused by the awkward exchange. “Somewhere around Shinfael Gift, wasn’t it?”

“Shut the fuck up, people!” Scroll Guard shouted again, and the low hum of conversation became apparent only in its absence.

“Hey Ansel,” someone said into the quiet, his voice nasal and strangely accented. Imaari recognized him as the one she’d noted by the bars earlier, glaring at the guards. “I don’t suppose you can spare one of those toothpicks you're always carrying around, eh?”

“Shut up, Skeet,” answered another of the guards, scowling.

“What, not even a cigarette for an old friend?” Skeet said, sounding ironic.

“I said, shut up, Skeet!” The guard, presumably Ansel, reached through the bars to grab the man’s shirt and yank him forward, slamming his head into the bars as he repeated himself.

Skeet shook his head dazedly, grinning in spite of the blood trickling from his split lip.

“I demand to be released at once!” Ansel glared at the well dressed man, a threat clear in his expression, and the man took a cautious step back from the bars. “This is not how it is done,” the man muttered.

A few of the other people agreed, but the atmosphere had turned oppressive. There were so many people crowded into the cell now that it seemed to have shrunk and Imaari could no longer feel the breeze she’d felt earlier. The approaching sound of heavy footsteps became audible; All at once, she was terrified once again.

“Someone’s coming,” Skeet said, waggling his brows.

Daetrik snorted.

“Shut the fuck up, Skeet!” Ansel shouted just as the newcomer entered the room, carrying a torch.

The man, who was obviously superior to the other guards, raised a brow at the suddenly red-faced Ansel.

Skeet snickered, drawing the Superior’s attention, and made a rude gesture.

The Superior ignored him, and passed the torch off to another guard. When it was set in its sconce, he nodded to himself in satisfaction. “All prisoners, against the wall!” he said loudly, in a tone that demanded obedience.

There were too many people for all of them to find a place against the wall, but they all tried to. Imaari found herself pressed against it with Daetrik and Hardwin to either side of her, and the well-dressed man standing shoulder to shoulder with Skeet in front of her. It wasn’t exactly comfortable, but she was glad to be screened from view.

She could pretend, at least for a moment, that she might get lost in the crowd and just...disappear.

Too soon after that--Imaari assumed it was when everyone had moved back far enough to satisfy him, but couldn’t see anything past the men in front of her--she heard the grating of the key in the lock and the sound of many booted feet on stone. “You,” the man began. “You, you, you,” he continued, and the woman beside Skeet stepped away from the group. With her gone, Imaari could see that the man was pointing, choosing people to break off into another, smaller group. Each of these people had their arms pulled behind them, their hands shackled with something that looked like metallic rope.

“Son of a bitch,” muttered the well-dressed man, his dismay clear. “Those are mine!”

What? That made no sense. Imaari glanced up at Hardwin, but he looked confused as well. She went back to watching the selected prisoners. When there were ten of them, each one shackled and accompanied by his or her own guard, the Superior nodded. “Go.”

“Go where?” asked Well Dressed, ignoring the people who filed out of the cell and focusing on the man in charge. “Where are they going?”

The Superior ignored him, and began selecting more people to come forward. As with the last group, all of them were cuffed, and when there were ten, led from the room in a single file line.

Then, they were among the last ten people in the room and Imaari knew what to expect.

“It doesn’t look like they’re going to kill us,” Daetrik murmured sotto voce. “We might as well go along with it.”

Imaari did see that any of them had any choice in the matter, but Hardwin nodded his agreement. “It doesn’t look like a firing squad. I’m good with that.”

“Shut up, stone eater! Get over here, you’re next.”

Daetrik’s jaw tightened at the slur, but he complied easily enough.

They took Well Dressed next. She thought she saw him palm something that glinted like metal, just as the guard secured his cuffs. Perhaps it had just been the glint of torchlight on the metal of the cuffs, but she didn’t think so. He looked too satisfied with himself.

Then it was her turn. This guard, though far more gentle than the last one had been, made sure to tighten the cuffs enough that even she couldn’t slip her slim hands free. Her heart sank.

“You sure I can’t have one of those toothpicks?” Skeet asked behind her, his accent making all of the words seem drawn out. He was the last one to be cuffed; had they been avoiding him?

“Get him out of here,” the Superior said with a grimace of distaste, in an apparent confirmation of her assumption..

Imaari wondered why as the guards led them through another series of dark corridors, because it was better than contemplating her current situation. It was the sun that brought her back to herself. The blindingly bright sunlight stung her eyes after the dark of the building, but she welcomed it, taking in the endless blue of the sky over a large field of terraced green.

Outside. She was finally outside.

Imaari drew in a deep breath, savoring the feel of fresh air in her lungs. It brought goosebumps to her skin, cool and crisp and refreshing after the close stench of the cell. She could smell the grass, hear the cries of sea birds in the air, and almost taste the salt of the sea. She felt invigorated.

Her euphoria lasted only for as long as it took her to notice the row of newly-built gallows ranged across the opposite side of the park. She counted ten of them, and knew it was no mistake that the prisoners had been brought out in groups of ten. At least I will die in the sun, she thought.

Her group was herded to stand in a tight knot behind the first two with all of the various guards ranged around them. The gallows, their bright wood a stark contrast to their somber purpose, loomed tall, casting a pall over everyone.

“Hey,” Hardwin said, making her jump. “They wouldn’t have bothered with the good cuffs if they were going to just kill us.”

Daetrik scoffed. “They can take ‘the good cuffs’ off of us pretty easily when we’re dead.”

“Shut up,” yelled one of the guards.

Imaari swallowed thickly, her eyes darting around in a panicked search for some avenue of escape, and saw Well Dressed sidle forward. The movement arrested her gaze. He moved again, obviously trying to be discreet but just as obviously working at the mechanism of his cuffs with a narrow shim. Imaari glanced back at the guards. If she had noticed him, it was only a matter of time before one of them did.

To her surprise and relief, they all seemed so confident in their numbers that none of them were paying much attention to the people they’d been set to guard. Still, she didn’t want him to be caught and shifted to help obscure their view of him.

Two more men strode out onto the field, drawing her attention away from Well Dressed. They wore uniforms, but were markedly different from the ones worn by the guardsmen.

“You recognize either of them?” Daetrik whispered.

Hardwin grunted a negative. “You?”

“No. I don’t even recognize the insignias.”

“Hm.”

The two men spoke briefly with the Superior, who nodded. Then one of them stepped forward, unrolling an official-looking scroll, but was interrupted before he could do more than open his mouth.

“Hold!” called an officious looking old man, striding hurriedly onto the field. “Hold a moment! You cannot conduct official business without the oversight of a Royal Magister. It is a good thing that I am here, else you could not have proceeded. Here, give me the Royal Writ.” The two men in the odd uniforms shared an irritated look, but neither argued when the Magistrate took the scroll. He began to read, paling as he scanned the lines, and Imaari’s stomach dropped yet again. “This--this is unconscionable!” he stammered, appalled. “There’s no way this has gone through the proper channels, no way it was approved.” He looked up, scowling, and rerolled the parchment. “You will not proceed until I return,” he said with every expectation of being obeyed, then turned and went back the way he came.

The officials shared another look, then sent two of the guards after the Magister.

“Fuck,” Skeet said. “That’s not good.”

Well Dressed stopped in his fiddling to gape at the guards, who’d begun hauling the first group of prisoners up onto the platform. Wails split the clean morning air as the condemned people realized the certainty of their fates and sobbed out their pleas for mercy.

“Please, no!” shrieked a woman right in front of where Imaari stood. Tears streaked her dirty face, and her complexion had gone ashen. “I’ve not even had a trial! Please, you can’t do this--” The guard trying to drop the noose over her head cuffed her, and the desperate flow of words cut off. After that she just stood there, quietly weeping. Similar scenes played out all along the platform and the horror of it all tore at Imaari’s mind, eclipsing her own terror.

This was wrong. Imaari knew, somehow, that few of these people were actually guilty of any crimes. None of them deserved this. Why was it happening? Who was responsible? And how under Rillifane’s blue sky had she wound up in the middle of it?

Imaari closed her eyes, willing herself to forget what she’d seen in those faces just before the dark hoods had been dropped over their head. She couldn’t forget, though, and couldn’t shut out the sounds. The squealing hinges, creaking ropes, and cracking of bone hammered her mind. Imaari felt each death, could almost see as each life was snuffed out before its time. For a long, frozen moment, Imaari was held immobile.

“This is unspeakable,” shouted the man beside her as he began to work more frantically at his cuffs. Well Dressed, Imaari thought, remembering. The spell holding her broke, and she turned her back to his. She’d seen what he was doing, and realized that he already had one side of the cuff almost loose enough to pull his hand through. With a bit of help, he would be free.

“I am a valued member of the Artisans’ Guild in Arch City!” the man went on, keeping everyone’s attention on his face. “You have no idea the kind of trouble you will pull down on your heads if this situation is not rectified immediately! My Guildmaster will have your hides if not your heads!”

Skeet resumed his heckling then, distracting the guards further. Imaari wasn’t sure if he did it to help or just because he enjoyed jeering at the guards, but she was grateful for it. The loosened side of the cuff slipped again, and Well Dressed wrenched his hand free.

“Hurry,” Hardwin said, straining at his own bonds. “They’ve almost finished clearing the bodies.”

Well Dressed didn’t stop his litany, but continued to rail at the guards as he worked at Imaari’s cuffs. It went much faster, with his hands unencumbered and hers so much smaller, but neither dared bring their hands to the front and risk being caught.

“Hey, smaht guy,” Skeet said, nudging Imaari aside as the next group of prisoners was led up to the gallows. “Back to back.”

Unfortunately, what little luck they’d had ran out. It seemed only moments later when the guards came back for them, the gallows already clear and waiting for its next set of victims. Skeet was still securely bound, and they were too exposed.

“You! Get back!” yelled a guard, pointing at Imaari, then Skeet. “You, get over there!”

Well Dressed panicked, and turned to work at Skeet’s shackle facing forward, so that he could see what he was doing..

Someone yelled, “He’s loose!” and the guards surged forward as a single unit, arms outstretched. Time seemed to slow again, as it had when the first of the prisoners were hung.

Imaari could see that Daetrik was trying to cast a spell of some sort, but for one reason or another, conjured nothing. Hardwin strained at the iron ropes again, groaning with exertion, but was forced to relent with a gasp of pain. Three guards had successfully subdued Well Dressed. Skeet spat in the face of another, while a fifth reached out to take her own arm.

No, Imaaari thought, her entire being rebelling. “No!” she screamed, darting away from the man just as his fingers grazed her skin.

“Aw, shit,” he said. “She’s loose too!”

She could hear the thudding of his footsteps behind her, could hear it when more joined the chase. She had no idea where she was going, no idea how to get out of this walled yard, but she ran on knowing that to stop was to die.

It wasn’t enough. The man at her back leapt, grasping at her, and managed to overbalance her. She went down hard, panting. “No,” she gasped out as several hands grabbed her roughly, hauling her to her feet.

“No,” she moaned as they set the noose around her neck.

“No, no, no,” she thought as the hood came down over her head, its strange, cold touch making her shiver.

Nonononono!

Imaari felt a sharp, indescribable pain, and then--nothing.

#D&D #dungeons and dragons #campaign write up #original characters #blame my DM for this #we tried

2 notes · View notes

drjackandmissjo · 4 years

Text

firewhisky on ice, sunset and vine

you’ve ruined my life by not being mine

chapter 1 --- next chapter

Harry Potter fic masterlist

Set in the course of his Sixth Year, this story follows Slytherin's finest, Blaise Zabini, as he navigates classes and friendships and Death Eaters and a certain idiot plant-head Gryffindor.

Sixth year had started nicely: Blaise had been asked to join the Slug Club, and his mother had yet to find a new disposable rich husband and was leaving him the space to do whatever he wanted. Despite Draco's father being thrown in Azkaban and the sudden sulkiness of the blonde boy, the atmosphere wasn't much tenser than usual.

Sure, Draco probably was going to kill someone by the glares he gave and might have punched Saint Potter on the train, completely justifiable, and The Dark Lord had officially risen, sending everyone in a constant state of panic; but things were not that erratic, especially for a Slytherin Pureblood like him. The world was his oyster.

Which was why he was about to kick Pansy Parkinson off the Astronomy Tower.

They had agreed upon a seating chart that allowed all of them to maximize their brain capacities in order to gain as many House Points as possible. Since Draco was the Slytherin on top of every class, damned little miss perfect Granger and her habit of beating his friend up on the podium, the settlements revolved around the blonde and each individual strength. Pansy got Charms, her silver tongue finally useful on an academic level and not only on dark corners with older students; Theodore had Potions, his natural talent ready to expose himself in front of Slughorn, who had decided to keep him out of the little impromptu meeting on the train and to whom Theo had sworn vengeance; he would get Transfiguration, being the most skilled at changing various things in different states almost flawlessly and also due to the fact that he was the best behaved Slytherin. Amongst the members of Draco's Inner Circle anyway: Crabble and Goyle were bullies and lost causes, Millicent was as dull as a wall, Theo was too impulse, Draco was, well, Draco and Pansy was, for lack of a better word, a bucchinara. Only Blaise was polite and respectful and tried to keep his personal vendettas hidden and managed to deal with them without a fuzz, and that, plus his innate aptitude for Transfiguration, meant he went along with Professor McGonagall pretty smoothly.

Which meant that Transfiguration was his.

The other classes were not as important and therefore their seatings could be random, but for those they came prepared. Slytherin was going to win the House Cup that year, unless Draco revealed that he was already a marked Death Eater, which would've made them lose a shitton of points but nothing more. After all, no one had ever been expelled from Hogwarts during Dumbledore's Reign and Blaise was positive it would never happen.

But he was about to get his first detention of the year, possibly, if that bitch didn't move. That would have not been a great way to start, but deep down he was sure it would've been worth it. "Pansy, move your white ass off that chair at this instant" he said through gritted teeth, barely moving his lips and avoiding creasing his flawless smile. 'Rule number one' his mother had taught him, 'always appear kind and gentle and then stab them in the back and get them coins.'

"Why would I do that, Zabini? I'm comfortable here" claimed the annoying girl that was very close to getting hexed, leaning back with a lazy smile on her face.

Blaise had many great qualities, but he also had no room in his body for bullshit. 'Rule number two: never hit first but obliterate them after they start. And don't forget, never ruin a manicure.' He mentally counted to ten, trying to calm himself before he did something he might've regretted, "We agreed yesterday on this" he said, slowly losing his patience. He had very little disregard for those who didn't appreciate his careful planning.

Pansy gave him a poisonous smile, her bold red lips giving her extra points in the vicious department. "Change of plans, pretty boy" she said, voice saccharine and melodious that managed to hide perfectly her true nature.

'Rule number three' his mind recalled 'do not have witnesses nor explicit motif in case you do remove someone from this Earth'. That threw a wrench in his immediate future.

Breathing deeply inwards and closing his eyes, he imagined the petite girl being slowly entrapped in a Devil's Snare and painfully dying. It made him feel instantaneously better. When he opened his eyes again, unfortunately, one of his main causes of stress was still there, now joined by Draco, who took the golden medal in the 'giving Blaise headaches' category. His roommate was puzzled by the sight but decided not to complain and chose to poke holes into Saint Potter's head with his consistent stare.

Blaise wondered, not for the first time, what would've happened first, a make-out session in a broom closet between the Saviour of the Wizarding World and his friend, or a murder. Things would be less boring around Hogwarts if either event happened, even if the school was not boring to begin with.

One of the many topics he didn't agree on with Draco, especially this year, revolved around the blonde's complete annoyance to school life, despite maintaining stellar markings. Hogwarts was full of life and joy and unexpectedness.

Which was why Blaise didn't exactly want to start the year with a detention. "Very well" he said eventually, scanning the room for a proper desk to sit at. He would've avoided Gryffindors as if they carried the Plague, of course, but it seemed that the only empty chair was alongside one of them.

"Holy burning hell" he thought to himself, scolding his face into a bored and superior expression as he carefully watched Neville Fucking Longbottom casually reading his textbook with a Muggle pencil behind his ear. Blaise hadn't had all the time in the world back at the Hogwarts Express to see anyone other than his close friends, too much preoccupied to make a good first impression with Professor Slughorn to care about his fellow classmates, let alone someone as insignificant as 'Schlongbottom', as the other Slytherins called him.

"Boy oh boy, have I made a mistake!" his mind screamed.

He used to be lanky and chubby, but he must have definitely worked out during the summer, for he didn't look that way anymore. Under the shirt and vest, it was possible to see the beginning of some seriously well-kept muscles and, despite his slouched position, he an aura of confidence that he was missing the previous year. "Fighting Death Eaters in the Ministry surely left its mark, uh?" he wondered as he watched the Gryffindor move his head to talk to Weasley. There were so many of them that Blaise couldn't be bothered to keep notice of them all, but he recognized the one into his year as a general individual, blending the remaining white boys into a general identity.

He was almost immediately broken from his mind and brought to reality: "I wouldn't wanna be in your shoes" Draco snickered as he also noticed the only empty spot in the classroom, drawing also Pansy's attention to his misery. The witch gave him another vicious smile, before slowly and purposefully turning into her seat as Professor McGonagall entered the classroom. She had won that round, but Blaise was positive the unexpected outcome would see him victorious as well. 'Rule number fifteen, ogling a hot person is a great past time.'

Unbothered on the outside, he moved lazily towards the Gryffindor, noticing the surprise on the boy's face as he moved the chair next to him and took his place silently. Immediately he tensed, waiting for Blaise to attack him as his roommates had done many times, and it almost pained him to see all the confidence disappear under a cautious mask. But he had to give it to him, Longbottom didn't even flinch as he unceremoniously dumped his textbook and notebook on his side of the desk. He would've gotten a lot of dirty looks from his friends if he was somebody else carrying a Muggle object, but since he was Blaise Zabini no one said anything. After all, countless meters of parchment were as impractical as eating soup with a fork.

He also didn't miss the slightest nod of approval to ever been given him, directly from Professor McGonagall herself, before she began her first lecture of the sixth year.

And with that, they started.

***

Two hours later and with six pages of notes and the tiniest smidge of ink from a Muggle pen on his hands, 'I'll be damned if I have to write every day with a messy quill", the lecture was over. Professor McGonagall had done a brilliant job as usual, with her being the most competent, if not the only, teacher in the school, but one thing was absolutely clear as day to Blaise: the recently very attractive Gryffindor boy seated next to him was absolutely useless at Transfiguration. His grandfather would've used the word chiavica with a disapproving look at his way and forced him to sit and eat twelve different dishes, as if that would've made him improve.

The problem wasn't that he lacked the proper concentration and magical talent, but rather that he wasn't as passionate about the subject as Blaise was. The boy had also taken countless notes, writing them at the corners of his book in a minute calligraphy with his Muggle graphite, and he seemed to grasp the general concept, yet failed almost comically at properly producing the magic.

Needless to say, the Slytherin dreaded the day his favourite teacher would give them a project to be done in pairs.

Not a single word had been uttered between the two boys, as it should have been. They had no communal interests nor any shared group of acquaintances, even if they were both Purebloods. Their Houses were rivals, their roommates were arch-nemesis, and yet here they both were, seated in silence next to each other.

But there had been guarded glances from both sides, of that he was sure. He looked at the Gryffindor with fretted disinterest, desperately trying not to get caught staring at the hot guy next to him like a creep, while Longbottom looked occasionally back with something akin of fear and disdain. He wasn't really surprised by the reaction and couldn't really blame him. Blaise wasn't sure if his family had remained neutral or had been hurt at the hands of Death Eaters before Saint Potter saved everyone, but nevertheless, the Slytherin house suffered an image decline due to their notorious works. The House reputation was turbid and getting dirtier by the hour, with all the alumni tarnishing the good name of their former house with their debauchery. Of course, not all Slytherins were evil, but it was the fucking coincidence of the majority of those evildoers being Slytherins that gave way to all the hate.

"You're just giving into the stereotype" he had ranted at Draco on the train, after the blonde told him the news, "and yours is such a bloody shitton of bullshit l cannot tolerate anymore!"

And just like that, the class was over and students packed their bags to migrate into their next lecture. He had now a free period, as the majority of his friends took Divination for reasons unknown to him, and decided to make it count as much as possible by staying in the library before going to 6th year History of Magic.

After signalling a little goodbye to his housemates, he turned around to the pretty useless boy next to him to begrudgingly salute him as well and perhaps ask him to trade place with someone less inept at the subject, only to find said incredibly tall and gorgeous beefcake standing in all his height with a bag draped over his shoulder. Despite the sudden tough exterior, he had a kind and polite smile and a softness in his voice that Blaise would've never guessed. "Apparently we have to seat next to each other now" he said with a shy tone, and then immediately went to nervously bite his lips. Blaise was dumbfounded, unable to form words at the sight hovering over him. He definitely wasn't the lanky boy he remembered.

Unsettled by his lack of response and probably taking his silence as a sign of disgust, Longbottom let out a shaky laugh, trying to ease the tension. Bringing a hand up to scratch his neck. "Look, I get it if you want to switch" he began, looking down at his shoes, "but I don't think Professor McGonagall would let us."

That brought him back on Earth. He had not mistaken the look of approval the Professor had given him and he'd be damned if he ever let down the best teacher Hogwarts had ever seen over something so futile as a seating partner.

Also it didn't hurt that his deskmate was a bloody vision, incompetent maybe, but most definitely his type. And now more than ever he needed to know for which team this asshole beat for.

"Yeah, no. I know, it's fine or whatever" he stuttered nonchalantly, knowing that he sounded dismissal while on the inside he was a bubbling mess. Trying to regain his composure and to remember his reputation, he spat out with as little venom as possible, "I guess there could be worse of you lot to sit next to."

"Wrong. Fucking. Thing. To. Say. Genius" his mind yelled as he internally cringed at his choice of words while maintaining a disinterested exterior. He saw the exact moment Longbottom's face went from kind and polite to pissed off. In all the years they had spent at school together they had never really talked or acknowledged each other's existence, not as much as he had with members of the other two Houses, yet Longbottom would've never stroke him as the type of person that could get angry.

"That's cause you never spoke to him until now. Stop thinking with your dick" his brain fired as he rose from his seat and stood a few centimetres short of the Gryffindor. He had to admit that it was incredibly hard to stop thinking with his dick at the moment, but managed to maintain a neutral expression.

"Yeah, well. I guess so too" replied rather childishly the other boy, folding his arms over his chest and giving him what must've been his best glare. "I was trying to be polite, but I guess there is no way for a civilized conversation or partnership with you lot" he retorted, raising an eyebrow.

Now it was Blaise's turn to appear pissed and he mustered his worst killing glare, created by years of training, "Do not generalize me and I won't generalize you."

Longbottom was looking down at him, almost as if he was a puzzle that was not behaving. He supposed that from his perspective it was like that, since generally speaking they were supposed to hate each other's guts and here they were, one clearly trying not to lust for the other and the other apparently disapproving of the one's entire existence.

He eventually conceded, "Very well. See you around, Zabini." And with that Longbottom left, joining Thomas and that Fire Kid from his House.

Blaise was left alone, baffled and shocked, before he shook violently his head and left also the classroom and began walking in solitude towards the library.

This had the potential to become a great or a terrible year, and he supposed that the majority of the chances rested on the unexpected outcome of the Transfiguration class.

GLOSSARY:

'bucchinara' is a southern Italian word that means 'someone who gives blowjobs'

'chiavica' is a southern Italian word that means 'someone that really really sucks at something'

7 notes · View notes

tyrantisterror · 6 years

Text

Anecdotes from Neosaur Park: Regina’s Family

Another one of these? Another one of these. I guess it’s now a thing since I named it. It’s significantly longer than the last one, so I’m putting a cut here to save people’s dashboards.

I said Tyrannosaurus wasn’t the most dangerous animal in the park. That doesn’t mean she never caused trouble.

Back when this whole thing started out - when it was just an experiment, before we made it a zoo - we bent over backwards trying to account for every possible problem we might face. And yes, it was because of that damn movie. So many people thought this was doomed to fail from the outset, all because some hundred year old piece of media made such a large and lasting impression on the populace.

The One Specimen rule was particularly well enforced. Despite all the strides paleontology has made, we still can’t learn most of a creature’s behaviors and biological needs until after they’re created. To keep things from getting out of hand, we would only clone one specimen of a given species, spend at least five years to study its biology, and then and ONLY then would we think about creating more. We thought we were being smart, and in some ways we were - there were some early hiccups in the project that definitely would have been worse if we had made more clones at the time. On the other hand, there were some problems we faced later that could have been avoided if we had thought of these animals as social creatures from the outset.

Of course, we couldn’t have known this at the time. We were working with what science could tell us. The average dinosaur’s brain is more like a crocodile’s than a bird’s. Therefore it was a safe assumption that most dinosaurs would be fine as solitary animals - that whatever social instincts they had would be rudimentary, and that they could easily adjust to life without company. This felt like a particularly safe assumption in the case of the Tyrannosaurus.

I mean, what’s the pop culture image of the creature tell you? The Tyrant Lizard King. King. Tyrant. A king is the sole ruler of a land, A tyrant even moreso. We have always considered Tyrannosaurus to be a loner, a solitary hunter. I mean, the creature was so goddamned huge - it would take miles upon miles of territory to sustain a beast that size! Sure, there were herds of similarly sized Triceratopses - herds that numbered in the thousands, mind you - and hadrosaurs and other prey animals, but still, this is a seven ton carnivore we’re talking about!

Now, you have to understand that none of our creatures are 100% authentic. Dinosaurs lived in a vastly different environment than our current world, even in the wake of the 21st century’s climate change disaster. It was a lot hotter, and there was a lot more oxygen. Disease back then and disease today had millions of years worth of evolutionary differences. The technology that allowed us to recreate these animals is the same technology that allowed us to restore biodiversity during the climate change disaster - to properly bring these creatures back, we had to alter them in a few key ways so they could adapt to this climate. It’s why we call it Neosaur Park, rather than Dinosaur Park. They’re not quite the beasts their ancestors were.

But, as far as I’ve been told - I’m not a genetic engineer, mind you - we did not intentionally set out to modify their behaviors, and especially not their intelligence. All we changed was some of their biochemistry, adapting them to a cooler, less oxygen-rich earth. Maybe that had a ripple effect we haven’t realized yet - maybe their hormones are off, who knows. This is still a developing science - we’ve only been at it a few decades, there’s a lot of new ground still to break.

We didn’t choose Tyrannosaurus as our first specimen out of popularity, as some have claimed. We chose it because the DNA samples were plentiful. Tyrannosaurus has a remarkable presence in the fossil record, and as a result we have a wide variety of T.rex genes to choose from. Since our Neosaur would be genetically altered, we had to give it a new scientific name: Tyrannosaurus regina. And, being sentimental, that’s what we named the first successful hatchling: Regina.

Everyone was as nervous as they were excited when she was born. This was one of the most terrifying predators ever to walk the earth, a creature with enough bite force to rend steel, the end product of an evolutionary arms race that produced some of the most heavily armored herbivores of all time just to counter it. It was the villain of hundreds of stories, the ultimate predator.

And she was as timid as a creature could get.

Regina was a fretful baby. The smallest things could spook her - she once jumped a full foot into the air at the sound of a snapping twig. More than anything, though, she was afraid of being alone. While she had one preferred handler - the one whose face she saw first after hatching - she was fine so long as at least one of us was within sight at all times. If she lost sight of us, though, she’d begin calling out with this strange, gurgling, peeping sound. You couldn’t leave her for even a few seconds without her panicking, and for the first few years we literally had her under a twenty four hour watch.

Eventually she grew out of that, exploring her paddock as a gangly adolescent. But she didn’t become as independent as we expected. Again, we were thinking this would be like a crocodile - that once she started out on her own, she’d lose the bond she had with her “parents” and begin treating us more coldly, if not outright viewing us as prey. Instead, she would routinely interact with us - greeting us with a hissing bellow, following us around for a bit, even leading keepers to her food trough and, upon seeing us stand there looking at it, taking a few slow, deliberate bites as if to show us that the meat was edible. It had us all puzzled - this wasn’t the Tyrant Lizard we were expecting.

It was when she hit her late teens that the puzzle became a problem. Tyrannosaurs take roughly twenty years to reach their full size, but like a lot of birds and reptiles, they’re sexually mature a bit earlier than that. At sixteen, Regina began to do something new. She’d walk around the edges of her paddock, sniff the air, look around, and then release this horrible bellow - some deep, booming hiss from the bottom of her gut. It was so loud and such a low pitch that it actually made the leaves of the trees shake. And she would do it for hours, traveling round and round the perimeter of her paddock while making this bone rattling noise. We had been open to the public for about four years at this point, and Regina was already a bit of a celebrity - everyone wanted to see the Tyrannosaurus, even if she was far from the hyper-vicious predator they expected.

This behavior went on for three months, and then she went back to normal. Till the next year, when she came back with a vengeance. The searching was more frantic. Regina was too big to run at this point - when she was younger and smaller, her legs were proportionally longer, and she could get one hell of a sprint. At seventeen she was far bulkier, and the best she could do was a sort of power walk. If that gives you a sort of comic mental image, well, you’re about on the mark - a frantic Tyrannosaurus power-walking as fast as she can does look pretty silly, at least until she heads for the paddock gate.

We weren’t dumb. Every inch of her paddock’s perimeter was surrounded by insurmountable natural barriers - steep pits filled with sharp rocks that stretched down eighty feet deep and were sixty feet wide. Most of the entrances to the paddock that crossed these pits were human sized. There was only one gate she could fit through, and that was only by necessity - there had been occasions where we needed to transport her to a sterile environment for medical assistance. This gate was thick, heavy steel, and a guard was always posted to it. By this point, we had doubted we needed one there - in seventeen years, Regina had never once tried to escape. As far as we could tell, she liked it here.

This would be the exception. Now a five ton carnivore, Regina trotted up the gate and released that bone-chilling howl. Her mammoth head peer over the walls. Her nostrils flared as she smelled the air. She released the bellow again, then watched. The gate guard was spooked, but this had happened the year before, too. Eventually Regina would move on to another part of the fence.

But she didn’t. She looked at the gate, snorted, stepped back, and rammed it with her head. The big carnivore reeled back, howled for a bit in pain, and then looked at her handiwork. The thick, heavy steel had dented. She snorted and rammed it again. The guard started radioing for help, but he was too late. With a third strike the gate gave way, and Regina was loose in the park.

The crowd panicked as they saw her stalking freely among them. Many thought that the inevitable had come to pass - that our experiment had finally gotten out of hand, and our man-made monsters were finally biting the hand that resurrected them. Most news outlets certainly painted this as such, and the bad publicity alone almost shut us down.

But, as I told you, Regina wasn’t a man-eater. She really wasn’t much of a predator at all. Whatever chase instinct she might have had was thoroughly smothered by her pampered upbringing. Regina ignored the patrons running from her, ignored the paddocks containing other prehistoric fauna - many of whom were her ancestor’s natural prey items, I might add - and instead kept issuing that deep, unsettling bellow while slowly wandering the park grounds.

Though the death toll was nonexistent and the property damage minimal, we still had a hell of a time figuring out how to get her back. A couple of solutions were offered - she was still traumatized from her brush with the struthiomimids a couple years back, so we could always try to scare her off by playing a recording of their shrieks. That seemed unnecessarily cruel, though. Tranquilizing her was on the table, but at her current size that could take a long while, especially given how thick her skin was getting.

One person saved the day: Regina’s preferred handler. Even after all these years, there was still a bond between those two. In a ballsy move, she called out to the tyrannosaur and slowly led her back to the paddock. All in all, it was the best possible end we could hope for, given this was one of our nightmare scenarios.

We eventually realized that Regina’s bellow was a mating call, and that her panic had stemmed from the fact that there were no other Tyrannosaurs in the area, and hadn’t been since, well, since long before she was born. We assumed she would be fine with that, but apparently not.

Luckily, we had long since prepared genomes for the next few Tyrannosaurs - again, we had an abundant supply to choose from, and the, well, let’s say “quirky” nature of Regina made our genetic engineers decide the try different profiles. We still thought she might be “off” - an anomaly, far too friendly to be the real thing, perhaps even a little “slow.” At the time we also thought that twenty years was the maximum Tyrannosaurus lifespan, so it was likely we would have to replace her soon anyway. Two different gene profiles were selected, and the next generation was born a bit earlier than planned.

We waited a few weeks before introducing the babies to Regina. Again, we didn’t know much about how Tyrannosaurs interact with their young. It was assumed that, like their close relatives, they would take care of their offspring, but these young Tyrannosaurs weren’t ACTUALLY hers. For all we knew, she might try to eat them. To be safe, we took them in a jeep, along with a good handful of keepers armed with tranq rifles.

Regina came to us within seconds. I think she could smell them before she could see them, as the big gal immediately headed for the jeep. She didn’t bully her way through, though, stopping about a yard off to give a loud bellow. When we felt confident the Tyrannosaur wasn’t going to get uncharacteristically violent, her preferred handler made the official introduction by carrying the male hatchling out of the jeep. Regina’s eyes went wide, and soon the baby made the same gurgling, peeping noise that she had made seventeen years ago.

The bond was immediate, and it was all we could have hoped for. Regina doted on the hatchlings, nuzzling them with her snout and watching over their every move. When they cried out for food, she led them to her trough. And when we tried to take them back, she followed us, soon developing the desperate panic we had seen before. We ended up leaving the hatchlings with her, and they’ve been with her since.

By my count, the young ones should be about thirteen now. Regina’s ten years older than we thought she’d live, and doesn’t show signs of slowing down - every year she puts on a few more pounds and grows another inch or so in length and height, and we’re beginning to think that Tyrannosaur lifespans may be akin to their crocodillian relatives. As for whether her behavior is natural or a result of her strange upbringing, well, we can’t quite say. The young tyrannosaurs both have their own personalities in contrast with their adoptive mother. The male, who we ended up calling Machiavelli, is a bit of a shit starter, to be truthful. He likes to start fights with his sister, though they’ve never gotten very serious - play fighting, as far as we can tell. He also chases the zookeepers from time to time, though he’s never actually tried to catch one of us, and Regina generally gives him a gruff talking to for it. The female is a bit colder - she doesn’t antagonize, but she can get oddly territorial, and is prone to sullen moods where she strikes off on her own, only to rejoin the other two a few hours later.

Both of the young ones seem a great deal bolder than their mother - perhaps because they grew up knowing the giants they would one day be, rather than thinking that a bunch of hairless apes were their parents. They’re still pretty easy to manage, but who knows. Maybe a few generations down the line we’ll actually get that Tyrant Lizard we’re all expecting. For now, though, we’re content with Regina and her kids.

#Anecdotes from Neosaur Park

86 notes · View notes

cinderellaahhh · 3 years

Text

FIND TEAM NAMES

🏐🏐🏐🏐Funny Volleyball Team Names

1. Hit For Brains – Definitely not the smartest team out there.

2. Size Matters – Only if you’re short... or small, even.

3. Beavis and Bumphead – After Beavis and Butthead.

4. Ball Busters – The ball won’t be the same shape after playing this team.

5. Phantom Balls – Now you see them, now you don’t.

6. Setsaholics Anonymous – They’re going to sets you up.

7. Block Magic – After the South Park episode Cock Magic.

8. ACME Roofing – There won’t be a roof for long when you play this team.

9. Balls In Your Face – That’s got to be painful.

10. Safe Sets – How sets should be.

11. Practice Safe Sets – Practice every

day.

12. Where’s My Beaches At? – At the

beach?

13. How I Set Your Mother – Do tell.

14. The Dirty Half Dozen – Nice and filthy.

15. Hit Head – Why score points when you

can reduce your rivals’ brain cells?

16. Sand Eaters – They have a habit of

falling over.

17. Donald Bump – Bumping away

ignorantly of the rest of the world.

18. Nine Inch Males – So small?

19. Heads In The Sand – Stay away from

danger!

20. Good Volley Ms. Molly – Why thank

you!

21. Clever Beaches – Get ready to be

outsmarted.

22. Sand In The Vaseline – I’m sure

they’re having a great time at the

beach.

23. The Fighting Amish – Playing the old-

fashioned way.

24. Ball Bangers – Hitting balls a little too

hard.

25. Bros And Hoes – For a mixed team.

26. Public Sets Offenders – They’re not

allowed near certain places.

27. The Blair Hits Project – Getting

beaten by them is like a horror movie.

28. Ball Whisperers – They’ll get that ball

to go anywhere they want.

29. Setsy Time – After Borat’s

catchphrase.

30. Natural Disasters – It’s totally normal

for this team to lose.

31. Kinky Sets – The best kind of sets.

32. Men In Speedos – They make

everyone at the beach feel awkward.

33. Net Servers – For a techie crowd.

34. Touch And Go – Win some, lose some.

35. Caution! Low Roof! – About to leap

into space!

36. Wild Sets – These guys are passionate

about sets.

37. This Won’t Take Long – Beating their

rivals in seconds... or are they the ones

who get beaten?

38. The Joy Of Sets – Gotta love good

sets.

39. Set ‘Em Hussein – After Saddam

Hussein.

40. Spike Me Hard, Baby – It’s the only

way it should be done.

41. Setting Ducks – They have no idea

what they’re doing here.

42. Will Work For Sets – Nothing wrong

with that.

43. We Need Sets – We all do!

44. Hits Don’t Lie – After My Hips Don’t

Lie by Shakira.

45. Kiss My Ace – With pleasure.

46. Thongs And Dongs – Another perfect

name for a mixed team.

47. All Net – A team with no chance of

scoring.

48. The Blazing Sunburns – You’ll spot

this team a mile away.

49. Team Ibuprofen – They may be a little

sickly.

50. A Case Of The Hits – The only illness

that’s guaranteed to help you win.

51. Chicks With Digs – Why can’t chicks

have digs?

52. Trump’s Wall – Non–existent then?

53. Sonova Beach – Say it fast...

54. Sets With A Stranger – Players, 100%.

55. I’ve Seen Better Digging In A

Graveyard – Ouch!

56. Sand Castles – They might get a little

distracted.

57. We Showed Up – To what? To lose?

58. Chewblocka – After Chewbacca from

Star Wars.

59. Itsy Bitsy Spikers – Too cute to be

taken seriously.

60. Drunk, Stupid and Clumsy – And

honest.

61. Spiky Nips – For a girls’ team that’s got

that perfect spike.

62. Full Of Hits – They talk a lot of crap.

63. The Powerpuff Girls – Great for a girl

team made of three.

64. Setsy And We Know It – And so does

everyone else.

65. Unprotected Sets – Not advisable.

66. Big Swinging Ds And Ts – Another

name for a mixed team.

67. Go Sets Yourself – Just not on the

beach.

68. Johan Sebastian Block – Composing

a win!

69. Scared Hitless – Is what the other

team will be!

70. Death Volley – Wordplay on Death

Valley.

71. Hit And Miss – Haven’t quite got the

hang of this game yet have you guys?

72. 2 Legit 2 Hit – Well at least you have a

reason...

73. One Hit Wonders – Will score and it

will be amazing, but only once.

74. We Like Big Balls – Big balls are more

fun.

75. You’ve Been Served – Will be in court

right after this game.

76. We Dig 4-Play – Looking for another

team that also enjoys a bit of 4-play.

77. Vertically Challenged – For a team of

shorties.

78. Salad Tossers – Good at throwing

things around.

79. Sand Slingers – Why play fairly and

lose when you could play dirty and win?

80. Not In The Face! – These team will

definitely get hit hard in the face.

81. Setsy Ladies – All the guys on the

beach are looking at them.

82. Bumping Uglies – Not the most

handsome team in the world.

83. Interracial Sets – For a team made up

of people of different racial

backgrounds.

84. Here For The Exercise – Not the most

athletic team.

85. That’s What She Sets – Wordplay on

the phrase ‘that’s what she said’.

86. Smack Your Balls – Painful.

87. Butt Sets – Kinky.

88. If Pigs Could Fly – A team of fat guys

who can jump amazingly high for their

size.

89. Wild Wings – Wordplay on the song

Wild Thing by The Troggs.

90. Sets On The Beach – A dream come

true.

91. Sloppy Sets – They need a bit of

practice.

92. Just The Tip – They’re gentle.

93. Ain’t That A Beach – It certainly is.

94. Six Packs – Great stomachs or a pack

of six beers?

95. Court Jesters – More interested in

making the audience laugh than

winning.

96. Couch Potatoes – They really get this

much exercise.

97. Sets Pistols – After the band The Sex

Pistols.

98. We’re All HIV Positive – And proud.

99. Blue Balls – You guys all need to get to

a doctor immediately.

100. Red Hot Silly Peppers – Another

bunch of comedians.

Cool Volleyball Team Names

A cool team deserves a cool name, the following are cool volleyball team names you can call your team.

101. The Tidal Waves – Invading the entire beach.

102. SWAT Team – Swatting that ball out of the way.

103. Score More – Than the other team.

104. Mission Unblockable – No ball gets

past them.

105. Cobra Kai – After the martial arts team

in The Karate Kid.

106. Atomic Block – Blasting that ball away!

107. Shaken, Not Stirred – Just like 007.

108. We Always Get Up – When this team

gets knocked down, they’re quick to get

back on their feet.

109. Big Digs And Hot Passes – You know

what to expect.

110. Arm And Hammer – For a tough team.

111. In Your Face – Winning and damn proud.

112. Bump It Up – That ball will never touch the ground.

113. Net Domination – The other team will never even get it past the net.

114. Soaring At The Net – Where they play best.

115. Air Force One – After the US presidents private jet.

116. In Motion – They can’t stop moving.

117. On Your Knees – The other team will

be...

118. That Hurt? – It probably did if it came

from this team.

119. Spin Doctors – They always think

they’re winning, even when they’re not.

120. On Fire – Just unstoppable.

121. Spider Chicks – They can reach

anything.

122. Net Results – Scoring at the net.

123. Killer Serves – The other team will be

flabbergasted.

124. Sabretooth Spikers – Aggressive

spikes, to say the least.

125. Pure Energy – The other team won’t

know where you get it from.

126. Attack Pack – They play like animals.

127. Hanging Loose – The most relaxed

volleyball team you’ll ever meet.

128. Prime Time Players – A team that’s

playing in its prime.

129. Gung-Ho – Ready for just about

anything.

130. Block Or Bleed – The other team will

be too afraid to do anything.

131. Bump, Set, Dismember – After they

beat you, they’ll cut you up.

132. Hit Me – If you dare.

133. Lightning Strike – When they hit that

ball they light up the sky.

134. Planet Volleywood – So good they

should be famous.

135. It’s Gotta Be Da Shoes – Nope, they

just play amazingly.

136. Now Serving – So get ready to lose.

137. Bumping Maniacs – Addicted to

bumping.

138. Elite Volleyball – The absolute best.

139. Set To Kill – The other team.

140. Sonic Boom – You can hear them

hitting that ball from space.

141. I’d Hit That – You really should.

142. Death At The Net – There isn’t a worse

way to die.

143. The Wall – No balls get past them.

144. Volley Girls – Girls who own this game.

145. The Lost Boys – Unruly savages.

146. Extreme Volleyball – Volleyball isn’t

supposed to be a leisurely sport, it

should be hardcore.

147. EZ Pass – Making the other team look

like amateurs.

148. That’s Some Serve – You bet it is!

149. Sand People – After the fictional

characters in Star Wars.

150. Hit-men – Hired to assassinate the

other team.

151. See Ya – Wouldn’t wanna be ya!

152. Block You Like A Hurricane – After

the song “Rock You like a Hurricane” by

The Scorpions.

153. Game On – Yeah, winning is great, but

these guys just love playing.

154. Court Hogs – Loving the game so

much, they won’t let anyone else on the

court.

155. Volley Vipers – They’ve got a bite

that’ll kill.

156. High–Performance Volleyball – Don’t

even think about playing this team

unless you’re in the same league.

157. Air Traffic Control – Spectators can be

forgiven for thinking that ball was a

plane.

158. Speedy Spikers – Fast and very spiky.

159. Flight Fight – Known to hit balls in mid-

air.

160. Team World Class – Should really be

playing in the Olympics.

161. Net Ninjas – Assassinating that ball

whenever it gets to the net.

162. Net Assets – They’re owning the

game.

163. White Lightning – Striking out the

other team.

164. The Challengers – They make the

other team want to play better.

165. Volleyball Above All – It is a way of

life.

166. All Set At The Net – Can’t pass this

defense.

167. It’s A Hard Bump Life – It is.

168. The WildCats – The most vicious team

you’ll play against.

169. Vision Quest – Playing to reach a

higher power.

170. Monster Spikes – Those are some mean spikes

#volleyball

0 notes

creepypasta-fandom-is-trash · 6 years

Note

Can I request a short fic where Jane keeps bullying and bullying E.J about his animal characteristics, about his tail/ears, that he needs a shock collar and a muzzle to keep him in line until he finally breaks? With Toby finding him in the locked basement with a gag in his mouth and tears down his face as he tries to cut off his tail. Extra points if he manages to cut through halfway. Thank you!

This is not a short fic.

"And here we see the wild mongrel," A slightly raspy feminine voice whispers, causing the ghost of a sigh to escape from Eyeless Jack's mouth "As you can tell, he's tame for now. But behind that facade is a vicious killing machine." Jane's tone mimics that of a wilderness documentary filmmaker, her voice low as she hovers by Jack. Reaching up, Jane flicks Jack's ear, causing the demon to recoil and hide the elf-like ear behind a lock of curly hair.

"If I'm careful, he won't attack," Jane chuckles "But he might attack anyway. Chernobog is known for being unnaturally aggressive." Eyeless sighs, turning a page in his book and trailing his gaze along the words, attempting to be absorbed by the text. Grimly, EJ notes that Jane's presence is spawned entirely by Jeff and Toby's absence. Jack's brow furrows under his mask, his eyelids fluttering softly to hold back the endless black ooze in his eye sockets.

"of all the days," Jack grumbles under his breath "of all the days to send those four to the Underrealm..." Jane giggles, sitting on the table next to Jack's book.

"What? did Toby forget to put your muzzle on before he left?" the female killer coos, sitting back "If you want, I'm sure I can find your leash somewhere, mutt." Eyeless sighs softly, shifting to face slightly away from Jane's masked gaze. Crossing his legs, Eyeless remains calm, his breaths coming slow and soft. Gently, Eyeless comes to the realization that he hasn't drunk anything today, a dry sensation resting uncomfortably on his tongue. Vaguely, EJ looks up at his refrigerator, wondering how fast he can get up to get a beer. "Hello?" the voice coos again "are you listening?"

"no." Jack answers unconsciously, shifting and looking back down at his book.

"Oh," Jane grins, gently patting Jack's shoulder "You're hungry. Dogs tend to stare at their food bowl too when they're hungry." Eyeless lets a long, deep sigh and turns the page, admiring the feeling of yellowed paper slipping along the pad of his finger. The feeling of rough, almost scale-like skin slips along Jack's stomach as his tail flicks against his will. Jane catches the movement, grinning as the tip of the long, black appendage pokes out from under Eyeless' jacket.

"What's this?" Jane notes, reaching down and grabbing onto the demon's tail "a tail? Eyeless darling, you can't go around calling yourself a human when you've got this rat tail." Fixing his gaze firmly onto the page, Jack furrows his brow and tries swallowing what little spit is in his mouth. Jane, sensing the perfect moment to pick on the older male, leans down to whisper.

"you should cut it off, maybe then people will like you."

CRACK

In a split-second, Eyeless slams the book down onto the table. Wood cracking and splintering under the thick spine of the book. The table itself bows inward, creaking softly. Jack stands, tucking the book under his arm as he turns to leave the room, white-hot rage flushing over his hidden features. Jane snickers softly, smirking under her own mask.

"Even rats will fight when cornered..."

Jack sighs, his fists unclenching at his sides as he slips off toward the basement.

Silence hangs heavy over the house, a silence that would typically be rather comforting to Slender as he opens the door. Quiet typically means that the monsters have abandoned the manor and have decided to terrorize another place for the time being. And the stillness can be taken advantage of. However, as Slender enters his house, the sight of a broken table in the adjacent room catches his gaze. One long, jagged crack in the wood indicating one thing.

Jack.

Walking down the hallway, Slender notes the presence of Jane, who has probably retired to her room. Which, in this case, is a fantastic thing. Slender strides calmly toward the basement, hoping to any god willing to listen that Chernobog hasn't decided to rear his ugly head. The damage caused by a demon such as him could warrant killing Jack, which given the fondness Slender has for him is not a good idea. It is likely that the table could have been broken by Seed Eater or Smiles, and the thought soothes Slender's mind. A calm feeling seeps through Slender's body as he manages to subdue his fears.

As he slips his hand around the basement door, though, Slender becomes frustrated to find that the door has been bolted shut. Another typical sign of Chernobog. And while the door is no problem for a beast like Slender, the stirring anxiety in his chest at the implied purpose of the door is almost too much to handle.

Forcing the door open, Slender rapidly descends into the dark abyss of the basement. The lights, being dim as they are, reveal the lab door to be hastily pushed shut, one slim sliver of light peeking out from the steel frame. Soft, almost nonexistent sniffling comes from within the lab, groans and pained grunts littering the periodic whimpers. Slender rushes toward the door, panic flooding his head as he opens the door to find..

Black blood coats the floor in small puddles, the gooey texture running down along the cracks and crevices in the tile. Tracing his gaze along the floor, Slender feels something drop in his chest.

"Jack?" Slender whispers, staring at the bloody form of the man he grew to call his son. A bloody gag in his mouth to hold back the crying, black oozy tears racing down his face endlessly. His jacket, for once, is off and discarded across the room, leaving his cut and bruised arms exposed to the dim white lighting of the room. Fresh bruises litter the poor demon's shoulders, having probably tried to bash his limbs in with doors and drawers. One hand is wrapped around his tail, gripping on tightly while the other presses a knife into the thick skin of his tail. Blood already pouring out of a deep cut in the appendage.

"Eyeless?" Slender states, dumbfounded as he walks closer to the curled up demon. Jack whimpers, shying away from Slender and instinctively spitting out the gag, shouting in fear.

"It's not what it looks like!" Jack yelps, dropping the knife and shuffling away toward the wall. If he had eyebrows, Slender would have furrowed them, scowling down at his friend in worry and fear.

"It looks like you're hurting yourself," Slender hums, picking up the knife and putting it out of Jack's reach "Why?..." Jack sniffles, looking away from Slender and whispering.

"Jane...."

Slender remains silent, scooping up the smaller man into his arms and cringing at the amount of blood soaking his clothes. Jack softly squirms in the larger monster's grip before tiredly settling into his arms. One blood-soaked gray hand clutches onto Slender's jacket as the demon stares blankly into space. For a moment, Slender wonders if Eyeless has passed out, but periodic sniffling reassures him that the younger male is still very much conscious. Gently, as to not disturb the young man, Slender gathers together the first aid kit and carries Jack out of the room.

Jack doesn't protest when Slender places him down on his bedroom floor. Not a word is said as Slender wipes away the black blood coating the demon’s features.

There are several cuts along Eyeless' tail, showing that the young man was attempting to saw it off in sections. Some cuts are deeper than others, and Slender holds back the urge to hiss and cringe at the sight of bone in one particular cut. Needles are threaded and Jack sits calmly as Slender sews up the deeper wounds. Silence hangs thick in the air like fog over morning hills. As he wraps Jack's various limbs Slender finds that there's something missing about the room, something that should be said.

But Slender was never that fantastic with emotion.

"Jack?" Slender hums, finishing with the bandages and packing up the kit. Eyeless hums, his eye sockets dripping steadily with 'tears'.

"Please...." Searching for words, Slender finds himself more confused than sure "Please don't do this again..." Jack sighs, bringing his knees up to his chest.

"Why? I'm just an animal..." Jack whispers "You know it too. That's why you keep me here, right? Because of of....him?" Slender stands silently for a brief moment. Gently sitting down on the floor with Eyeless.

"That was the original intent, yes," Slender begins, watching Eyeless' tail flick feebly "But over time it came to my attention...that...some particular monsters have... developed a form of affection for you...." Eyeless sighs deeply, staring at the floor.

"Like who?" Jack murmurs, wrapping his maimed tail around his body.

"Well," Slender hesitates, awkwardly clearing his throat "There's Toby.... Jeff rather enjoys having you around....me? I... see you as a family member. A...son of sorts?" Internally slapping himself, the tall faceless man observes as Jack lets the faintest of smiles cross his features before yawning. Slender, hasty to hide the "son" comment, is quick to speak.

"Sleep in my bed," He states "It's right there and frankly it's far away from sharp objects." Slender's worries clear up ever so slightly as Eyeless nods in agreement, standing feebly and walking over to the large bed. A strange warmth flows through Slender's ribs as he watches the comparatively tiny demon shuffle into the bed. Jack curls up beneath the covers, looking more like a lost cat than a bloodthirsty demon-man. Slender turns, preparing to put away the med kit when he hears Jack speak.

"Goodnight Dad."

Looking over at the now sleeping bundle of curly hair and darkness Slender feels a certain resolve stirring. An understanding of the warmth he feels.

Hate. Bitter, vile hate.

Hatred for those who have harmed what little he considers his. The same hate that spawned when he was left alone by his siblings, the hate that brought Tim and Brian into the picture. Slender understands the hate, letting it consume him as he turns.

Static fills the air, lights flickering and windows rattling as a deep, growling voice hisses out.

"Jane"

49 notes · View notes

shazyloren · 6 years

Text

The Room: Chapter 17 - Accusing the Cult

Link: http://archiveofourown.org/works/12710496/chapters/29896455

------

Daenerys felt sick as she plonked herself on a seat in the headmasters office. How they just got away from whatever it was that happened, she did not know but she was thankful that Jon had kept his wits about him. She on the other hand, pretty much crumbled and without him she probably would've been stunned into an oblivion.

There was this swirling feeling inside her stomach which kept causing a retching reaction as her lungs burned and her chest ached from the running to get to the Headmasters office. There was no one in the corridors, they'd kept running in case the attacker had managed to get into the passage or had heard their conversation about where they were going. But once they reached the gargoyle and Daenerys shouted 'Cherry soda' at it, they'd tried to catch their breath on the steps.

The Headmaster had been meeting with two ministry officials when Daenerys had kicked the door down and almost collapsed on his rug by the fire. The portraits ragged onto them about manners and interrupting when they shouldn't be.

They'd explained in panicked breaths that they'd been attacked on the way back from their prefect meeting by someone very powerful and had escaped via Shanks portrait on the Seventh floor before coming here. The two ministry officials who looked shocked by this point, accompanied Headmaster Lannister as they left the room immediately to go and check the scene out for themselves. This left Jon and Daenerys by themselves in the office with just the portraits still muttering about lack of respect.

"What the hell just happened?" Jon raggedly breathed as he laid on the floor spread out as an eagle. Daenerys felt the adrenaline still kicking in her lungs. She shrugged and rubbed her face with her hands. What had happened? She thought to herself. She did not know was the answer she told herself. "So much for Fish and Chips night"

"I'm sure you can scrounge something up by the elves in the Kitchen" Daenerys rolled her eyes so hard at his comment she gave herself a headache. This was not a time for jokes however. "That guy was going to kill us, Jon. What have we ever done to this person?"

As she spoke she found herself drifting off of the end of the sentence... She considered it to be Viserys for a small nano-second. It was not his laugh, she knew his cruel laughter all too well, but could he have hired someone to finish his sister off and so he has the whole family name and money and estate? She wouldn't put it past him. He was vile and harsh but he never struck Daenerys as someone very calculating. He was always one to think with emotion and not with his mind.

There was no one else Daenerys thought of that could be mad at her enough to want to kill her. It could be a random attack, but it did not feel like it. And when she voiced this to Jon he agreed. "They knew we'd be walking that route to the Great Hall, it was either a teacher who knew where we would be or a prefect who waited for us after the meeting was done"

"Are you sure?" Daenerys felt the anger inside her then when he nodded. How dare someone try and kill them at school of all place, security was going to be twice as tight now and life at Hogwarts was about to get a whole lot more constricted. "This person would have killed us had it not been for your quick thinking, Jon. I swear when we find out who did this I'm going to-"

"Do what? We can't do anything about when we die Daenerys, it could have been tonight. We all will at some point. I'm just more concerned with the traitor we quite clearly have in the school. We just have to let the ministry deal with this" Jon said with a shrug of the shoulders. "God I'm hungry"

"Well you certainly have made a mess of the Seventh floor corridor" Professor Lannister entered with the two ministry officials behind him. He was holding a wand that wasn't his own and that was in three broken pieces while they were dragging a man in by his hair and he screamed and grunted. Daenerys leapt up onto her feet as she saw the attacker being dragged into the room. He'd not managed to get away, and his thigh was still bleeding. "What spell was that?"

"Merlin's beard" Jon gasped as the man spat at them both while he was dragged across the floor. Professor Dumbledore's portrait looked shocked as the man's leg smeared blood on the rug in front of his old desk. He muttered something about it being a '400 year old' rug in his portrait. Professor Snape's portrait looked on at the man with disgust too, in fact, when Daenerys looked around they were all tutting.

"Jon, answer Professor Lannister's question" Daenerys nudged him.

"Sorry Professor" Jon blinked as he stopped staring at the man. "A spell I invented, I call it the ice bomb, Professor"

"And you used this spell you created on this unknown assailant" Professor Lannister asked with a raised eyebrow. Daenerys saw the look of horror in Jon's eye as if he was about to be told off for the level of destruction he'd caused.

"Professor I'm sorry for using a spell that I had technically only tested out once on an unknown assailant but given that he was trying to murder us I don't think it was a huge over reaction to use this spell" Jon defended himself. Daenerys had to agree with him, he said it was mad. He'd said it might have a hell of a kick back, btu there was no way they were getting out of that situation without it. Short of using fiendfyre that was. And so she told him so.

"Do you at least have the incantation to reverse it?" Professor Lannister asked. Jon flushed red. Daenery face palmed.

"Jon, do you mean to say you just used a spell you invented on a whim this summer in the seventh floor corridor without any way to reverse the effects of it" Daenerys asked incredulously. He just blushed a deep red. Daenerys felt her face become expressionless. Why was she not surprised? "This was the kind of wayward behaviour I usually expected from you, nice to know you don't really change Jon. Couldn't you have just done something normal like the shield again? Did you have to do something cool to show off?"

"I swear, Dany if you just gave that whole spiel so you could make the cool joke about my ice-bomb, then you are officially the biggest nerd in this world" Jon giggled as Daenerys frowned. "Sorry, we were being serious. Yes, I don't have the counter curse to my ice-bomb"

"And you call me a nerd, 'ice-bomb' for goodness sakes" She hadn't realised at this point that she'd spent six hours straight now with Jon, a new record for them both, it must be. And she was only just now getting around to wanting him to be anywhere else. It was a step in the right direction for them both. But as the two ministry officials tied the man to a chair, so secure he could not escape, she couldn't help but be brought back to reality again.

Who would do such a thing?

Professor Lannister pulled up a chair next to him and hopped up onto it to meet the man's eye level. Daenerys saw the man had strange raised markings on the back of his neck. As if he was in some sort of cult. His head was shaved but covered in tattooes, some on his ears too. The man wasn't anyone Daenerys recognised, but that didn't mean someone wasn't pulling his strings.

"Hello my friend" He said quietly. The man just grumbled something in a foreign language. Daenerys had chills all down her body, she knew instantly where he was from. But she couldn't understand why. It was then she nudged Jon and pointed to the small tattoo that moved on the back of his head behind his ear. Jon froze. It meant something to both of them. It was a symbol she'd seen on walls in bulgaria. A group of people very similar to death eaters used this mark. She did not know the name of the group.

Daenerys noticed one of the ministry officials disappeared in the fireplace, perhaps to inform the Minister of what has happened tonight. Daenerys wouldn't be surprised if the Minister of Magic flooed into the room within minutes. She turned her head from there back to Professor Lannister, where an intense eye contact battle was going on. "Now then, you attacked two of my students. My best students... my head boy and girl-"

"-Fuck your students-" The mans thick accent purrs.

"-And that makes me very unhappy, angry even. You don't want that, know one does. I love my students, I care for them as they are my own children, and you have come into this school and attempted to kill two of them. Of course, someone let you into this school, tell me who" Daenerys had never seen Professor Lannister act this way before. He was angry, it almost came across as vicious to an untrained eye, but after years of knowing what viciousness looked like, she could see the difference. This was wild protectiveness. "You will tell me"

"T' only t'ing I will be telling you, bastard is the colour of your eyes as I drain the life from them" He grumbled menacingly as he tried to shuffle on the chair.

Daenerys was stood at the back of the room now, Jon by her side, the both of them scared out of their wits. Unconsciously, she reached her hand out to Jon, an electrical zap between them that was present in this room. She felt his fingers respond and intertwine with her own. While the alarms were going off in her head, she couldn't help but grab onto his hand tightly.

Professor Lannister chuckled. "You will tell me, willingly or not"

Just at this, the fireplace crackled again and the ministry official who Daenerys recognised as Horace from her abuse case, returned with the Minister of Magic Tywin Lannister. He was a stoic looking man, old looking in his appearance but he carried a certain weight with him. He looked menacing and almost demanded respect by walking in. He stood taller than everyone in the room and didn't say a word as he strolled up to the man in the chair.

"You've been busy" He said to the man's whose leg was bleeding so badly it was a steady trickle on the floor.

"Minister" Professor Lannister spoke, being professional and not calling him father. They shared a steely gaze, revealing so much history that Daenerys couldn't even begin to break it down. It was well documented that these two heavyweights of Lannister House had been in a public scrap for years. Many had suggested that Professor Lannister would be a better fit for Minister of Magic than his father but he'd never wanted it. He enjoyed being headmaster here at Hogwarts. It still didn't stop him from speaking out against decisions his father would make in power. "Did Horace fill you in?"

"Indeed" He said not even looking at his son. "We need to get this one to a nice comfy cell in Azkaban I think"

"Thank you, Minister" Professor Lannister nodded as the two ministry officials left with the prisoner still tied to the chair via the stairs. "You know what this means, don't you?" The Minister Of Magic nodded. "We need to find the mole in this school soon, or other people might get hurt"

"But more importantly, why did this man attack two of your students? Your head boy and girl" Jon and Daenerys coughed to remind them both they were still in the room. As they did, they realised their hands were still connected and they abruptly parted hands. "The Head girl I've heard so much about, Daenerys correct?" She nodded as she looked down at the floor. "And the Stark boy?"

"Snow, sir. Stark is my father's name" Jon said with a slight grin on his face. The minister did not look impressed.

"Yes well, charming. Tyrion I'm afraid I must get back, we will deal with this, thanks for moving quickly over such a matter" His gaze pierced into eyes of all three of them. "And thank you both, your bravery shall be rewarded. You should both enter the tournament, with school like that"

"We have" Jon said straight away without thinking. He started laughing. "Maybe that's why the man tried to kill us, betting on another horse"

There was a small chuckle from the minister until his face fell. Jon had a point... Daenerys then spoke up. "It's those people in Bulgaria isn't it? They're going to try and come over here? Why? What's their purpose?"

"Good question, for another time" Tyrion answered. He turned to his father, a glint of anger still in his eyes. Daenerys knew it was time for her and Jon to leave. Well, she thought so. "Speaking of another time, have you been getting my messages about Miss. Targaryen, Minister?"

Daenerys froze. She did not want this conversation to happen in front of Jon, she did not want him to know. It wasn't his place to know and she wasn't comfortable with him doing so. How can she put that all on him, how can she drop the bomb on him that her brother has been sexually assaulting her for years. She can barely acknowledge it herself. Never mind tell someone else about it. And Professor Lannister was different, he sensed the pain, he sensed the tongue-tying curse.

All of this ran through her head in about the space of five seconds, she felt her chest constrict and her breathing become raspy. She dare not look at Jon, her eyes just became steely as they stared down Professor Lannister for even mentioning it in front of him. Before she could control her mouth, she spoke abruptly. "I think Jon should leave, this is a personal matter"

"Of course" Tyrion nodded.

"Are you alright?" Jon asked, putting a hand on Dany's shoulder. She shrugged it off and walked away from him. She sat in a chair by the Headmaster's desk and waited until she could hear Jon had left. It was a few minutes of him saying 'I'm the head boy, I should know if my head girl is upset' before he left with thank yous for his actions that night. She felt horrible to have him kicked out in such a way, but it was needed. She didn't need the school knowing she was fucked up in the way she was, or in the way she thought she was at least.

"What do you need?" The minister spoke as the door closed.

"Memory extraction and it's authenticity checked" Dany replied. "I'll take Veritaserum too"

"There will be no need for you to take Veritaserum, but your brother will when we arrest him. However, I need good grounds to do so. So I will granted memory extraction, how many?" The Minister nodded.

"I remember all of them, all Two hundred and twenty seven" Daenerys challenged, she did not think he would grant a memory extraction for that many. Professor Lannister was pacing slowly, as his father mulled over their case. "I lost my father over the summer, one brother is estranged, and my mother just killed herself. I'm not lying, I have enough rubbish to deal with instead of a trial. But it needs doing, I need to be free of him"

"Memory extraction, granted" He nodded.

Daenerys breathed a sigh of relief.

#jon snow #daenerys targaryen #jon x daenerys #jon x dany #jon x dany fanfic #jonerys #jonerys fanfic #au #Hogwarts AU #got #game of thrones

7 notes · View notes

slushblock · 7 years

Text

Fell - Chapter 8 - Awakening

Thank you all who are still here for sticking with me through this self-indulgent, overly dramatic backstory. :>

Little is more jarring than expecting to be transported somewhere, only to not be.

In the case of Axl and Aura, they had become accustomed to returning to their respective, homey rooms when using their mirrors. They were so panicked that they didn’t realize the mirrors were reflecting something else; the area where they’d first appeared in the world.

Only it was drenched in blood.

“O-oh my g- what… what?!” Axl was the first to voice his shock at this turn, taking a few steps in place in a vain attempt to shake off the squelchy, sticky red grass.

Aura looked around, trying to figure out what went wrong. She didn’t like the way the sky had darkened; it felt similar to the atmosphere of the corruption. She turned around, “Why wouldn’t we- oh… oh no,” she held up a hand, pointing in the direction of their house, “L-look!”

Thankfully, Axl had the foresight to build their manor not very far from their starting location. That convenience had saved Aura’s life when she first appeared. Not obscured by rain as it was back then, it was clearly visible between the rapidly wilting trees.

The vicious gash that was torn through the front of it was also visible, ripping the workroom in half and leaving gaping holes in both their bedrooms, as well as the storage room and stairwell.

“What the Hell did that?!” Axl choked, nearly dropping his mirror as he ran off towards his destroyed handiwork. As the two got closer, it became more and more obvious from the directionality of the malformed landscape that whatever had bloodied the ground and dying trees was responsible for the structural damage to the building. To accent the damage, there was a strange liquid strewn about, with the consistency of blood and the appearance of glowing, molten gold.

“Okay… so… this… th-this must be the spirit that the dryad mentioned when she said… blood,” Aura gulped, looking at the damage and, more intently, at the bizarre ichor. As tempting as it was, she refused to touch it. Much to her surprise, even Axl put his impulsiveness aside to avoid it; something about it just felt wrong, even without making physical contact.

Axl cursed under his breath, flipping the mask of his helmet up to get a better look, face etched with worry, “I… I hope there’s… I hope nobody-”

“Where the Hell were you guys?!”

The voice came from upstairs and both Aura and Axl’s attention snapped upward to see a fellow descending the dilapidated stairs. With dark skin, gray hair, and a long coat over a glittering bandolier, they recognized him as the arms dealer who had taken up residence shortly after Aura moved in. Neither had done much business with him, but Ren certainly had.

“What happened!?” Despite his obvious panic, Axl seemed somewhat relieved that there were survivors who seemed unharmed.

“Beats me! We were minding our own business when suddenly some bright red light appeared outside!” The arms dealer shouted down, as a few other tenants appeared from their rooms behind him, clearly shaken, “Whatever made it was far away, but then tore right through the place. Some huge monster we’ve never seen before! Just… this weird hulk of mismatched bodyparts!” He reached down and picked up the gun at his feet; the same shark-based model that Ren used against the giant, cursed skeleton at the dungeon, “We managed to fight it off, and it went off that way,” he pointed northwest, with a slightly cocky smirk, “I guess no amount of teeth can handle these guns-”

“Don’t take so much credit… I don’t think it wanted to fight. It looked scared even as it did,” murmured a red-clad man as he stowed a strange looking book in his coat. The adventurers almost didn’t recognize him as the old man from the dungeon. After moving in, he’d done quite the job of getting cleaned up, his matted beard and hair trimmed to compliment his dapper clothes. Despite that, he was still as grave and serious as ever, “And perhaps rightfully so… The land twisted when those lights emerged from underground, and it must be something truly terrible to frighten a beast that grisly… We’d probably best be getting to safety, ourselves.”

Axl shook his head, biting his lip. The idea that things were even more twisted than before didn’t sit well with him, and though the bloodied ground was already proof enough, he refused to believe it, “No… this wasn’t supposed to… I didn’t…” He took a deep breath and held it, closing his eyes tightly for a moment and really hoping he’d wake up from whatever was happening. When that failed, he let the air out sharply, “I’m heading upstairs. I need to see this for myself.”

Axl left them behind to run for the watchtower he’d installed, as fast as his heavy armor would allow him. Aura, much more lightly clad, kept pace with far less effort. The whole structure creaked ominously, a decent chunk taken out of its side, but still structurally sound enough to not collapse beneath them as they observed the damage to the landscape.

Much to their dismay, the corruption to the east had vastly increased in size, even past the boundaries they had created when they went through with the dryad’s magic powder to push it back.

That wasn’t all, however. To the northwest, the threatened green of the forest faded into light blue fields and pale trees with leaves of many colors. Glowing crystals peeked up through the ground, especially around the pearly exposed stone. Likewise to the southwest was another unknown land, full of tones of flesh and blood, resembling the withered vegetation by their house that had apparently been left by the monster the tenants described. However, it seemed to stop rather abruptly at the house, rather than continuing on in the direction the monster purportedly vanished.

“I… I don’t like this…” Aura paled, “Just one thing was bad enough…”

“Should have seen it coming…” Axl hunched over, slamming a fist into the stone railing, “Damn it! Why?”

“All right… yeah, this… this was a huge mistake,” Aura tried to cover up her shaking voice, “I think… I think we should go off that way,” she pointed towards the colorful, jewel-encrusted landscape, “That might be the home of the ‘light’ you were looking for… and the jungle is just beyond it. The dryad said we’d be safe th-”

Axl shook his head, gritting his teeth, “You go… I need to find Ren.” He pushed himself back from the railing, holding his head in one hand before looking up, “He said he wanted answers from that wall… well, now I want answers from him.”

Aura glared at him, holding up her hands, “Are you crazy?!”

“...Yes?” Came the incredulous response as Axl held his hands up almost in mirror to hers, “I… thought that was established?”

Something about that struck a faint sense of familiarity and Aura looked away, irritated, “...Shut up,” she attempted to dismiss, before glaring back at Axl, “You don’t even know where he lives!”

Axl rubbed his forehead, trying to itch his hairline as best he could with his helmet in the way, “Well, he never appeared here, and his face looked like it got screwed up by the Corruption… I think it’s safe to say that’s where he was living, if he was only getting worse...”

“You’re going back there… at a time like this,” Aura groaned loudly as she leaned back against the wall, looking up at the ceiling, “Gods, you really are the biggest moron.” After a moment, though, she looked down at Axl with a sigh, “And you know what? So am I. Because at this point? I need to know, too.”

Axl was torn between feeling grateful and phenomenally guilty, but managed to nod with a weak grin as he put his mask down,”Th-thank you.”

They descended the tower, glancing back momentarily to watch as the remaining tenants discussed their own departure, before heading off towards the darkened landscape.

Apart from having spread beyond its old boundaries, the rocks were somehow more twisted, the brambles far more menacing, and the trees looking far less like anything proper trees should look like, with black,fang-like thorns bursting from the bark in place of branches. Even the usual floating gasbags seemed a lot larger and more threatening, with more mandibles and eyes, and dripping putrid fluids.

Even the common slimes had become corrupted by the landscape, seething with violet toxins. Some even mutated wings to fly. The far-reaching grip of the shadow’s malevolence only grew, and the two adventurers could feel it as they carved their way through the new horrors and they could only feel that they would not have succeeded without one anothers’ support.

They took a moment for a breather in one of the chasms, away from the things that could assault them from above. At their feet was the body of a large worm, lined with eyes, like a more direct offspring of the largest one - which the Guide had called the Eater of Worlds - they had battled what felt like ages ago. It bled putrid slime laced with a strange, glowing green that flecked up like flames. They refused to get anywhere near it. “Where… would he have been hiding all this time…” Axl gasped for breath, the weight of fighting things with a large sword while in heavy armor so soon after the fight with the wall beginning to really wear on him. He coughed, “It can’t have been somewhere that well-hidden.. He had to be able to get in and out easily.”

Aura took a moment to consider the question before pounding a fist into an empty palm, “...Why not try his elevator?” She pointed off in the approximate direction of the tunnel they’d revealed prior, “There were hidden doors all over the place that we had no idea how to open…”

“That’s… actually a really good idea,” Axl’s eyes went wide at the realization, pretending to snap his fingers despite not being able to even without wearing metal gauntlets, “What better place to hide something… than behind something in plain sight that the people you’re hiding it from would not want to break?” He cringed slightly, “That… paints an even more specific picture of why he was so angry when that worm tore through the place and damaged it back then.”

“Yeah, yeah, nice analysis,” Aura waved, looking around for any monsters as she began to head in that direction, “I think what’s going to happen now is way more important.”

A few large slimes and another one of the dripping, oversized rotbags later, they found the exposed brick. While patched up, Ren had made no attempt to cover it more than that. They already knew where it was, and for all intents and purposes they had been allies leading up to that point.

Either that, or he wanted them to find it again.

“Here goes nothing,” Axl mumbled as he pulled out his pick, glowing with molten fire. Even rebuilt and reinforced, the bricks crumbled under the powerful tool in one effortless swing, revealing the tube down. “Now… where would he keep an entrance to his place…”

Aura pointed upward, “Why not the top?”

Axl looked up, then shrugged, “Well, no better place to start.” Grappling to the side with his own hook, he scaled his way up to the top, taking his pick in hand and striking the brick there. He had to shield himself slightly from the falling debris. Beyond it was solid, corrupt rock, to which the chain leading down was fixed. Axl frowned, taking the chain and striking the wall where he had latched on. More ebonstone. He turned at a right angle and swung again.

Jackpot.

The brick caved to reveal a similarly bricked passage, with a planked wooden floor of an unusual hue reminiscent of the trees found dotting the corrupt landscape. Axl looked down and gestured to Aura that he’d found something, before moving to step into the new hallway. Aura followed him in with her own vine-crafted hooks, looking just as curious as she was unsettled.

The hallway wasn’t terribly long, opening up into a very sparse, drab bunker of sorts. Had it not been for the stone brick, the dark wood of the floor, lack of windows, and poor lighting, it would have felt very similar to their own rooms, but stripped down to a utilitarian bareness. A bed, a dresser, a table, a chair. At the back, stairs led both up and down to two other rooms. There were no other doors, but that wasn’t surprising; the large man did have a thing for hidden passages.

“Huh..,” Axl only barely resisted the urge to say something incredibly redundant like ‘so this is where he lived,’ instead opting to flip his mask up for visibility and carefully walking toward the stairs. Up top, he could already make out the telltale sound of a crackling furnace; most likely a workroom, not unlike their own, situated above to more easily vent the smoke. He ascended just enough to get a clear look, verifying his expectations; almost everything he thought would be there, apart from a more advanced furnace from the underworld. The only difference is it was more claustrophobically clustered together on sequences of platforms and benches, with an entire wall made up of meticulously labeled storage chests.

Scowling a bit at the conditions the ex-military adventurer had subjected himself to, Axl turned to head down the stairs in the other direction. It led down to yet another hallway, this one dark and significantly longer and terminating in a single room. Aura was already there, eyes wide at what was stored there, which would have been dimly lit with only a faint purple light if not for her torch. Axl took in a sharp breath.

It looked like some kind of macabre art gallery, or perhaps museum. The wall before them was lined with shelves containing a great many artifacts of varying sorts, including one of the toothy ‘altars’ they’d found in the chasms, sitting conspicuously on bare ebonstone that had been built around.. Most prominently, though, was the wall to their left, which was made up almost entirely of a large mural that looked right out of some kind of prophecy-laden ancient tomb. Whether Ren had found it here and built his home around it, or somehow managed to transport it here from elsewhere, neither mattered as much as the fact that it existed at all.

Just being there filled the adventurers with a single, all-encompassing thought.

This is it. The beginning of the end.

After taking a moment to catch his breath, Axl squinted in the low light. He arched a brow, squinted again, then took his glasses off to wipe them, only to realize his armor didn’t really have any good cloth on it for doing so. With a groan he rolled his eyes and put his glasses back on, “Stupid outdated prescription. Can’t really see this thing clearly unless I put my face right up to it-”

He was interrupted mid-thought by a strange feeling, as if the very air of the room had trembled and thrummed. Aura felt it too and shivered, but remained fixated on the mural.

“You’re not missing much, it’s mostly faded anyway,” Aura mumbled, holding her torch towards it to light it up a little better, “There… really isn’t much to make out…” she frowned, “The writing on it looks similar to something I’ve seen on the stuff the goblins had.” She shuddered. She wasn’t particularly fond of that memory. The goblins appeared out of nowhere not long after they’d awakened the Eater of Worlds - and attacked in great numbers one day. While they’d managed to fend them off, it was a huge hassle, lead to more than a single death for both adventurers, and the brutish creatures were just as strong and resourceful as they were seemingly cruel.

Shaking the thought from her head, she continued, “Hell if I can read it, though. Aside that, I see something that looks like… something like falling stars. I can kind of see figures? I don’t know if they’re the stars themselves or something else.” The deep vibration cut her off again, and she nearly pulled herself away to look for its source, but not before recounting what little she could make out to Axl, “There was some kind of battle, obviously… I can’t tell if this is supposed to be the stars fighting each other, or joining together to fight something else… and the only other bit that I recognize is the wall of flesh in Hell. It looks like those stars were locked up inside of it?” She turned to Axl, “So… I guess we freed those stars?”

“Not any sort of stars I’ve ever read about… I don’t get it… but then again, what ever made sense here?” He half-smiled. It didn’t last, though. The room thrummed again, and Axl narrowed his eyes, turning around, “What is causing that-..?” He looked around at the other objects scattered about. There were quite a few, ranging from mundane things like books and scrolls, to much more threatening artifacts that radiated power, not unlike that from his sword. In fact, an open scroll next to the strange altar appeared to have some kind of instruction on it, and if the illustrations were any indication, explained how Ren knew to craft the dark weapon. How he read the indecipherable scrawl on it, though, was a matter of some worry.

The scroll barely received more than a glance, as attention was drawn away from it quickly by the most obvious of the objects in the room aside the mural. Floating opposite the mural’s wall was a sphere, much like one of the dark, pearl-like orbs in the chasms, only inlaid with silvery runes and ornamented with twisting gold accents. There were large cracks lacing through the shiny dark surface. Occasionally, the orb would shudder, filling the room with that bone-chilling rumble, an unnatural green light glimmering from within, flecking sickly embers as the cracks grew in size and number.

Axl could feel his insides twist. The orb emitted such a feeling of dread, such a profound sense of wrong with each pulse. He could hear his own voice mocking him in the back of his mind in a way that he couldn’t shake. It repeated the thought in his head from the moment he entered, but this time, added a much more profound accusation.

This is it. The beginning of the end. AND YOU HELPED MAKE IT POSSIBLE.

He growled at the thought. He had no idea! Yes, he was stupid to trust this man, but… he had his own reasons for going through with this! Either would have done it without the help… eventually, at least.

Strangely, Aura seemed to be having those same initial thoughts. She took a step back, holding the sides of her head as she quietly whispered to herself, “No… no… I… I never agreed to… I was just...” Even her hornets seemed worried.

Axl groaned at the continuing faint nagging of those accusatory thoughts as he looked around at the other artifacts. Next to the orb was another conspicuous item. At first it appeared to be another of those strange, spiky altars, only much narrower, more like a pedestal than a plinth. Floating between those teeth was a single eye.

Axl leaned close to get a better look, then recoiled, “O-oh…”

It was just a normal, healthy human eye, somehow still dripping with fresh blood. After all the oversized demon eyes swarming amongst the zombies at night, the colossal eyes with teeth, and even the floating, rotting gas-bag eyes they’d seen so frequently in the corruption, to see a regular eye with a clean white sclera and light brown iris was by and large the most upsetting thing they could have expected to stumble upon.

“O-oh my gods…” Aura put her hand over her mouth, “Do you think that’s-?”

“That… must be how he got the scar…” Axl looked like he was going to be sick, which was really something considering the things he’d seen and done, “But if his eye is here, then what-”

Suddenly, the eye turned sharply in place to look right at them, causing them both to jump.

Almost as if on cue, a wet, crunching sound alerted the two to an approaching figure from down the hall. The poor light only allowed them to see a vague and clearly inhuman shape, lumbering towards them with an awkward gait on four splayed, uneven legs. Its entire body twitched and jerked with each deliberate step. Axl hissed and closed his mask as both drew weapons in preparation for a fight.

The thing was horrific, a twisted bloat of rotten meat that would have been familiar had it been in the shape of floating bags of air or long, burrowing worms. Instead, it had an almost humanoid torso lined with scratching, vestigial insectoid limbs down its sides and emerging from its broad shoulders. The massive, cyclopean eye between a lopsided pair of mandibles on the end of its half-elongated, heavy neck was almost covered up by the sickeningly familiar, pointed exoskeleton that barely managed to contain the creature’s twisted body.

That exoskeleton was Ren’s armor.

“I knew you’d come,” it rasped, voice completely gone and replaced by a painfully grating hiss, “It only took you this long… all the better” it extended its neck, the sharp teeth in its mouth bared in a threatening smile, “I doubt you would have helped me if you knew about all this sooner.”

Axl was at a complete loss for words, his silence the only thing that could express what his masked face could not. Aura was much less stunned as she stepped forward, sword drawn and pointing towards the creature before them, “What the Hell is- what have you been hiding from us?!”

“Why ask, when you can behold?” The creature turned to gesture at the cracked orb. The glow within it flared up as it shook again, vibrating the very air in the room, “Behold the new gods of this world!” The monster turned its hand upward, bony claws curling up slowly before clenching into a tight fist, “Sleeping for so long, power locked away… but one managed to awaken.” It opened its hand, keeping the other conspicuously closed as it held them upward in front of it, “Managed to call out. And now, with our help,” it boomed a sick laugh as it pointed, “with your help... they all have enough power to break free!”

At that point, Axl definitely felt something wrong about the way Ren added ‘with your help.’ It was almost like his own mind had shouted the words in unison. Why would he think that? He glanced at Aura, who seemed to have the same doubts, quietly muttering “No… no…” to herself over and over.

Without warning, the orb burst, its physical shell disintegrating almost entirely in the emerging green flames, leaving behind a glowing green sphere which hovered in its place. It felt like it was staring at them. Staring into their souls.

Ren let out a bellowing laugh, opening his other hand. In the oversized, mutated palm was his icy mirror, looking so small and delicate by comparison. He cried out triumphantly, “Why cling to the mirror’s unfulfilled promise when darkness holds the single truth!” The younger adventurers could swear they heard their own voices in their heads echoing those words.

Holding the mirror above his head in both hands, Ren shattered it.

The moment it broke, shards hitting the ground like a chorus of tiny bells, the green sphere flared up, launching itself upward and into the ceiling, boring its way towards the surface. The world began to shake. First a low rumble, but quickly escalating to such a degree that everything fell from the shelves and the house itself began to crumble and tear apart at the seams. The hidden bunker split open to reveal newly-cracked chasms to the surface.

To make matters worse, massive worms could be seen pushing the ground apart, splitting it further. They were far larger than even the Eater of Worlds, perhaps even twice the girth, and lined with bony, centipede-like legs that propelled it through the corrupt stone and dirt. High above, silhouetted against the sickly sky, was the shadow of something that dwarfed any creature they’d seen.

Unfortunately, the only safe way out of the crumbling earth was up towards it. Or so they thought, minds racing in panic and not stopping to consider the irrationality of those thoughts.

Get to the surface. It’s the only way. Climb. CLIMB.

Not paying any heed to the cackling Ren, Axl and Aura didn’t even realize that they could have simply pulled out their mirrors to escape, instead opting for their grappling hooks. They ascended just in time for the floor to fall out from under them, dropping the mural and everything else but the strange, floating altar into an abyssal trench with no visible bottom. Axl looked down, flipping his visor up just long enough to make sure his impacted visibility from it wasn’t playing tricks on him. He paled, looking mortified as he quickly put the mask back down again and started climbing.

“It’s weird to see you afraid of dying for once since-” Aura didn’t think much before she said it. The threat of the moment drew it out of her without guilt as she followed closely behind, far more mobile with her multiple, longer vine hooks.

“No!” he shot back, cutting her off, his initial annoyance immediately replaced by the honest panic of the situation, “I’m not afraid of dying here… I’m afraid of being buried alive in this stuff, or falling into that pit!” As they grappled ever higher, he added, “Who knows how long we’d be stuck…” He shuddered at the thought, “I… I don’t want to end up like Ren!”

If she had any doubts of how dire things were, Aura certainly lost them with that statement. Seeing what someone with Ren’s constitution had become after so much willful exposure to the atmosphere of the twisted landscape… she didn’t want to think about being trapped in it. She didn’t want to think about being trapped at all. The mirror didn’t even come to mind. All that did was a single thought.

CLIMB.

They did so. The giant worms around them continued to swirl and burrow endlessly. The only blessing was that the endless movement was consistent, with no sudden worm heads to emerge and attack them to dislodge them from their path. It was easy enough to plan a route around them, even with the crumbling rock. Eventually, they made it to the surface.

It put them face to face with an abomination.

At the end of the seemingly infinite worm body was a vaguely humanoid shape, albeit split in half down the middle into a massive vertical jaw filled with sharp teeth. Its heavy, muscular arms ended with snapping, slavering worm mouths for hands. Giant eyes set into it shoulders, as well as one in the middle of its chest. Glowing green tendrils writhed from all of its mouths. For all the awe it inspired, they almost didn’t notice that Ren had crawled up from the pit after them, standing at the ‘foot’ of the titan. At least, not until he spoke.

“Isn’t it glorious!?” Ren gestured upward, reveling. Their thoughts echoed with their own voices as he continued to ramble, intrusive words that continued to gnaw at both their minds. As they beheld the massive, terrible beast before them, their thoughts were replaced by an all-consuming despair.

Why fight it? The darkness IS the only true path forward. It’s the only way.

Axl shook his head. There was no way he was thinking that, was he? How was that possible, if the creature that was Ren was also saying those words out loud? Was he saying those words out loud? It was becoming very difficult to tell. Axl held the sides of his head, grinding his teeth together. He glanced over at Aura, whose face was etched with the signs of an identical inner struggle. Yet the thoughts wouldn’t abate.

The darkness will devour everything, so why fight it and suffer?

WHY NOT JOIN IT AND REJOICE?

Aura suddenly screeched, her voice the most piercing Axl had ever heard, “Get out of my head! GET OUT! GET OUT!!” For the first time since he’d met her, Aura’s eyes welled with tears, if faintly, “We can’t stay… we can’t stay..!” She repeated to herself, over and over as she clutched the sides of her head, “The jungle is safe… The jungle is safe! The jungle is safe!!”

Without warning, she turned and ran, tears streaming from wide eyes. Ran, off in the direction of the jungle whose protection she was promised, past the blue fields and pink rivers of the newly blossomed hallowed ground.

“No-! Aura-!” Axl whirled, voice so panicked it began to crack, ”NO! I CAN’T DO THIS BY MYSELF-!” But it was too late. She couldn’t hear his desperation for her own, and soon Axl was left to slowly turn, to look up at the behemoth he was now facing down alone, and the bitter, choking laughter of its servant. His heart dropped into his stomach and he would have sworn he could feel it burning.

His mind screamed at the hopelessness of it all. He turned to run after her.

This is it. The pointless culmination of so much hard work.

“...No..,” he tried to fend off those intrusive thoughts. After all that work, there had to be something left. He barely got a few strides before he slowed.

DARKNESS IS ALL THAT IS LEFT. ALL THAT IS LEFT. ALL THAT IS LEFT IS TO JOIN IT.

That snapped him out of it. There was NO way he was thinking that himself! He punched himself in the side of his head hard enough to jar his vision for a moment before he looked up at the enormous abomination, and its new, equally twisted servant. It all made sense. The way those thoughts echoed in his head while Ren - or what was left of him - spoke.

That monster above them… The projection of will… That was its way of communicating! It used it to overwhelm weak and weary hearts! Was that how it got Ren in the first place? By making the lost man believe that darkness was the only course of action when all other hope was lost? Axl cringed through the mental turmoil, using all of his effort to push those thoughts from his mind, “No… not this time,” he hissed to himself, “I can’t give up… not now.”

Ren laughed, that same horrible choking noise from before, “I’ll give you this, you may be just as big a nutjob as I’ve given you credit for, but as far as nuts go you’re a tough one to crack.” He laughed again, “Still, what good do you think you can do? You already know in your heart; the strongest weapon you have was forged by this darkness,” he gestured with his arms to everything around them, “You accepted that gift so readily before…” The twisted servant narrowed its eye sinisterly, “...why not now?”

Axl looked down at the ground with a single, dedicated sigh. He reached into his bag and held up the dark sword that was gifted to him by the beast before him… and threw it aside, “I’m done fighting darkness with darkness,” he mumbled, instead brandishing the hammer he’d retrieved from the wall. Compared to the weapon he’d just discarded, it seemed almost laughably small, but its bright glow seemed all the more a beacon in the shadows for it.

The twisted creature chortled grimly, “Nice hammer,” it mocked, long neck undulating in an uncomfortable manner, “I’m sure it’ll be great for putting the final nails in the coffin you’ll so desperately desire but never get to use!”

Axl growled, “What happened to you?!” He shouted. It almost sounded like there would be tears in his eyes as well if he weren’t feeling so furious all of a sudden, “You weren’t the greatest guy, but I thought even you had a heart somewhere in there! I didn’t… didn’t think you’d stoop this low!” He didn’t expect any plea to shreds of humanity to work, but it was all he had to buy time.

The laugh he got in return was as ugly as the monster that emitted it, “Our new god saw fit to let me maintain any petty human sentiments as long as I continued to work towards our goal.” Gesturing with its arms and other, extraneous insectoid limbs at itself, it seemed to delight in the twisted new form, “Now that we’ve won, it has deemed them of no further use and removed them!”

“Well, I refuse to let that stand!” Axl tore his attention from the mutant that was Ren, turning instead towards the massive monster, ”And if that’s the source, I know my new goal… destroying it!” He pointed the hammer up at the abomination, determination shining behind his glasses, beneath the mask of his hell-forged armor, “Regardless how long it takes… Even if you’re beyond saving, I can’t let this thing claim any more souls! I can’t stand by and do nothing!”

YOU WOULDN’T BE SO STUPID.

The thought in his head was not his. Axl knew it now. It was the towering creature he stood before, brandishing his hammer with a challenging shout, “Try me!”

The massive beast let out an unholy sound that wasn’t quite a shriek and not quite a roar, and not quite truly a sound so much as an emanation felt rather than heard. Taking the challenge to heart, it lunged down with one of its large, muscular arms, the mandibles in place of its hands open to grasp the puny armored human.

Trying to think quickly, Axl pulled his grappling hook out and latched onto a mandible on the approaching hand-maw, launching himself into the air. He retracted the chain and released it, letting his momentum rocket him towards the creature’s central eye, hammer poised to strike it.

The move was a lot cooler in Axl’s head, and for a moment he was proud of the smoothness of its execution. However, as soon as he got within arms’ reach of the monster, it responded as any large monster with half a brain and working arms would; by unceremoniously plucking the tiny adventurer right out of the air with its other hand. The mandibles jolted his momentum to a dizzying halt, before the tendrils wrapped around him, pinning his arms to his sides. The ornate hammer fell to the ground far below with a useless clatter.

Held still and close as he was, Axl had time to really not appreciate how atrocious this monster was. It was only a touch less repulsive than the flesh wall in the underworld that had apparently released the power to wake it up. Its flesh up close looked like someone had taken the floating rot-bags and worms and thrown them in a blender, shaping the results into whatever this thing was that shouldn’t have been. The eyes in its shoulders reminded him very much of the very largest that had attacked on so many occasions. He half expected them to be able to open into toothy maws as well. And… were those tongues coming out of its wrists and wrapped around him? Axl didn’t want to think about it. He was just content that his hell-forged armor insulated him from having to touch them, and vaguely hoped from the faint sizzling noise that it was burning the creature to do so.

Tongues or not, the tendrils wound tighter, metal shrieking as that armor began to slowly compact under the pressure. Axl choked out an unbecoming squeak and struggled vainly. The abomination’s booming ‘voice’ echoed in his head, still very unsettlingly sounding like his own. Despite that, all pretense of trying to pass for its victim’s own thoughts had vanished as the beast addressed its own opinions directly.

WHAT A PITIFUL CREATURE. WHAT PURPOSE IS THERE TO ITS CONTINUED EXISTENCE?

It tightened its grip more.

JUST TO DIE LIKE A WORM IF IT WON’T WORSHIP LIKE ONE.

“S-so what!? I’ll just-! I-it’s not l-like I can-!” Axl realized what he was saying, and in what circumstance he was saying it, and immediately shut up. As awesome a boast he could make about never giving up until this foe was defeated, as much like some kind of implacable anime protagonist as it would make him sound, he wasn’t exactly in a position that could end anything but horribly if death was the best apparent option.

The monster didn’t miss the slip, but in a surprise gesture chose to lessen its grip, eyes narrowing. The permeating voice lowered, in tone if not volume.

IT COULD VERY WELL BE GRANTED A PERMANENT DEATH IF SO DESIRED.

Axl looked up, mask hiding the surprise on his face. It was a surprisingly tempting offer...but it couldn’t be true. Was that the promise this thing made to Ren? In a way, it had done exactly that; the human who was Ren was definitely dead now.

That was not the way Axl wanted to go if that was the case.

BUT NO.

It was as if the creature recognized the adventurer’s near-immediate internal rejection of the offer. The feeling of all three eyes focusing on the tiny human only amplified the sudden, gut-wrenching dread as the monster’s bizarre mouth pulled into what possibly was meant to represent a most maniacal, cruel smile. The eyes widened, even more so than seemed possible by the already unnatural standards of the creature’s form, directing all of its malice to a single point between them.

MAKING WORMS LIKE YOU SUFFER IS FAR MORE ENTERTAINING.

Axl barely had a chance to catch his breath when the pressure released, letting him drop for only a moment before the monster grabbed one arm with the tendrils of one of its jawlike-hands, then the other, pulling them tight with a sickening pop, as a cruel child might hold the wings of a fly. His arms felt like they’d tear right out of their sockets, but he couldn’t even muster the energy to cry out. He could only stare at the creature in horror, not quite in the eyes for their distance apart, but rather at its gnashing, v-shaped maw.

The massive beast seemed to take a deep breath, before exhaling a concentrated jet of sickly green fire at the suspended adventurer, engulfing him. Even the hellstone-obsidian alloy of his armor did nothing to deflect it in any way.

After everything he had been through - being digested, sliced to pieces, incinerated in lava, and hundreds of other novel ways to die painfully, including by his own hand - this was somehow worse than it all. The green flame didn’t just hurt physically. He’d become accustomed to that kind of pain; even welcomed it to a certain degree. However, he wasn’t prepared for how it burned within.

Like it was fueling itself on his mind and his soul, threatening to devour not just his body, but every positive emotion, thought, and memory he ever had.

Axl barely noticed when the creature let him drop, screaming, to the ground. He struck the stone writhing as the fire continued to cling. Even after the flames themselves flickered out, he could still feel it eating at him, weaving through his veins and rasping at his bones. He whined and wheezed, clawing at his helmet in an effort to pry it off, to vent the burning and let it die in the stagnant air, but his gauntlets merely slipped off the metal in his desperation. Finally, he managed to tear it free, gasping for breath as it clattered across the dark stone.

I’LL LEAVE THIS FOOL AND ITS ILL-ADVISED COURAGE TO YOU.

The gigantic abomination‘s massive eyes looked down to its subject, before directing off in the direction of the released spirits of light and blood.

I’VE OTHER MATTERS TO ATTEND TO.

Axl couldn’t see how the massive being departed, but he could feel the disappearance of the rumbling of its serpentine form in the ground, as well as the absence of its oppressive aura. How something so large could vanish so quickly was the least of his worries.

Unable to shrug off the ceaseless searing pain under his skin, but unwilling to give up, Axl tried once, twice to push himself off the ground, succeeding on the third try, body quaking as he coughed up flecks of blood. When the tears cleared enough from his eyes to look up, it was into the glowing barrel of Ren’s hell-infused handgun. “You talk a big game, kid,” somehow, Ren’s monstrous face contorted into a sneering grin, “It seems my lord would have me kill you. Over, and over again, until you see reason. A pointless endeavor, naturally,” he chuckled darkly, eye narrowing cruelly, “...considering you’d probably like that.”

It was very disconnecting to see such a bizarre beast holding a weapon that looked so modern - and while talking about reason, no less - that Axl didn’t really internalize the slight. Moreover, something else had caught Axl’s attention; near the foot of where the abomination had vanished, there was a strange glimmer. His eyes drifted to it, fading in and out of focus with his wavering consciousness, trying to make it out.

Ren’s ‘smirk’ darkened slightly, mixing with a scowl. He knew this man was a fool, but this level of inattention was downright insulting. His grin returned, though, as he shifted the gun to one side in a quick motion and pulled the trigger, shooting out his prey’s already nearly-dislocated left shoulder, “Of course, I could draw each death out if that’s what you really want.”

Axl, nerves still overwhelmed to feel much other than burning, just gurgled weakly as he collapsed further, clutching his arm. But he wasn’t going to resign to death. Not this time. He recognized that glimmer. A mirror, unlike the one he’d found in the caves. A mirror with an adorned golden frame.

The same one that brought him to this world.

Axl shook, coughing a few more times, then craned his neck up to glare Ren right in his bloated single eye, “You could... but I don’t think... you’d have the GUS to.”

Ren froze. As the statement sunk in, he snarled, eye going wide in a rage, “YOU-”

With a new sense of purpose, Axl reached out and took hold of the holy hammer where it had fallen. It wasn’t strong, but it would have to be enough. Ren’s distraction denied him the time to respond to that hammer being brought down on one of his misshapen knees, shattering it and sending him to the ground with a piercing, unholy wail.

That distraction was all Axl needed. Leaving the hammer there, he forced himself to his feet, staggering and tripping over himself to make his way to that mirror, even if it was the last thing he did. His body screamed at him. He didn’t care. He couldn’t risk it being his last chance.

“DON’T RUN AWAY FROM ME,” the corrupted human screeched as he whirled about in fury, twisting at the waist unnaturally. He brought up the gun and released two more shots. Both pierced Axl in the back, causing the fleeing man to gasp, collapsing on top of the mirror. As his consciousness failed, he grabbed the artifact in both hands and stared into it with every fiber of determination he could muster. He could barely see for all his pain, not even his own face. He didn’t care what the background in the reflection was… so long as it was anywhere but here.

His vision faded to white.

---

Axl awoke to the sound of chirping birds.

He sat up, slowly. His skin tingled, as if with the remnants of the cursed fire’s burn, but for the most part he felt strangely numb. As his vision readjusted, he took in his surroundings. Despite how obvious it was, his brain seemed to refuse the initial assessment that he wasn’t indoors, instead sitting in an open shrine, somewhere high up. Very high up. He didn’t remember seeing anything of the sort when they’d ascended to the sky islands looking for treasure. Clouds drifted lazily past, and he could hear a breeze, but could only barely feel it against his face.

‘Am I actually dead this time?’ he thought to himself as he looked down. He was no longer wearing armor, and it surprised him to see that he was wearing the clothes he had arrived in, but with one crucial difference.

Beneath the ironic shirt and baggy shorts, he was completely bandaged up. Only his face was left bare… mostly. Looking at his arms and his legs, Axl felt somewhat silly, like a mummy, but at the same time, a sinking dread settled in his stomach. With great hesitation, he pulled the bandages on his wrist aside, only to recoil.

The skin underneath was warped and charred. It hardly seemed like human skin at all, looking more like plastic pulled from a fire. Axl let out a long, withdrawn sigh, with barely the energy to take another breath as he slowly closed his eyes, letting the bandages go and covering his face with his palm.

“Your resolve is commendable,” a lilting voice drifted from out of view, startling Axl out of his stupor. He turned to see… something.

Whatever it was, ‘ghost’ seemed like the most fitting term, almost to the point of the absurdity of looking like it were made from sheets draped over some uncannily tall form. The only thing shattering that silly thought was the fact that those sheets were virtually transparent, revealing nothing underneath. Instead of a face, the figure had a mask.

A mask made from a gold-framed oval mirror.

Axl stared at it in disbelief, only to see his reflection in its surface, cringing. His face certainly could have been in worse condition, perhaps saved by getting his helmet off in time, but the disfigurement was still significant. He looked away, grimly.

“Axl C. Eyre,” the being spoke again, ethereal voice carrying a profound serenity.

Axl had never been referred in such a way before, and something about it caught his breath. He turned slowly towards the mirror spirit, taking care not to look at his reflection.

It bowed, slowly and respectfully.

“We have much to discuss…”

#the wall of text has awoken #long post #fell story #*sits back with a mug of tea*#congratulations you just read an 87-page setup for a pun that one person openly figured out in about 4 #well... a little over 4

13 notes · View notes