CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER EIGHT
Law 19page 137
KNOW WHO YOU’RE DEALING WITH - DO NOT OFFEND THE WRONG PERSON
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He dreams - sometimes - of a world bleached and barren, as though it had been forgotten and left to wither. He dreams of smog that drapes over everything like a suffocating shroud, seeping into his lungs with a heaviness that clings like tar. And amidst this desolate grey landscape, he dreams of a boy…
…always a boy, whose shadow moves through the fog like a ghost, forever etched in the grey.
Perched atop a creaking rooftop, a boy gazed out over a shrouded London, the late year casting a pall of smog that mingled with the dusk. His knees were drawn close and he sat quietly as a watcher, whilst the city below began its nightly transformation. The murk covering the stars above often made it hard to tell when the sun had set, but the symphony of night always reached his ears, like an alarm clock - the raucous cacophony of taverns, the lilting strains of distant church bells, and the indistinct moans of people coming from a building dusted with pink paint.
He was too young, yet, to comprehend what Madame Maria’s was but the Matron’s there had always been kind to him.
A frail figure he was, who bore the marks of struggle: a body too thin from missed meals, a mop of hair defying tame, and glasses that clung to his face with tape, fractured yet functional. The cool air nipped at his skin through the threadbare fabric of his clothes, but he paid it no mind, he was used to the cold.
Curiosity was a flickering thing in the boy's eyes. It lit them alight with a child-like wonder, making their green hue appear brighter - electric - from beneath his round-frame glasses, as he watched Mr Lerwick light the gaslights lining the cobble paths.
The echo of soft footsteps sounded from behind him, barely perceptible against the ambient noise of the waking nightlife. He turned to see another boy, lanky with legs that seemed too long for his body, clambering onto the roof beside him. The boy's face, though still youthful and unformed, held the promise of future beauty; with long eyelashes and prominent cheeks, little curls to his hair and lips the shade of a rose petal.
The boy settled beside him, his movements fluid despite his ungainly limbs. In his hands, he held a piece of crusty bread, a rare treasure and his favourite type of baked good.
Without a word, he extended it to the smaller boy, whose eyes widened in surprise, as a smile lifted his cheeks. The littler boy accepted the offering with a quiet thanks, and snatching hands.
"Where’d you get it?" he asked, his voice hushed as to not alert Miss Cole - three floors away, who donned the ears of a bat: sharp and ever listening.
The boy smirked, a deviant glint in his hickory eyes, "Stole it from Old Barnett’s stall while the sun was still up," he replied, his tone casual.
The little boy nodded, as he tore into the bread with relish. He knew Old Barnett’s stall well - why, everyone did. It was a fixture in the market, overflowing with freshly baked goods.
To steal from there was no small feat…
…though, he supposed, Tom was no small feat.
The little boy continued to bite eagerly into the crusty bread. He savored the taste that momentarily drowned out the ever-present hunger that gnawed at his insides, like a ravaging beast, before his eyes widened comically.
He quickly pulled the bread from his mouth, examining the bitten piece before tearing off a section that hadn’t been touched by his teeth. With a shy, apologetic side smile, he handed the unbitten portion back to Tom.
"Sorry…." he said, his voice soft, so very childlike.
Tom pushed the bread back to the littler boy, a firm look in his eyes that brooked no argument. His gaze then shifted toward the sprawling cityscape of London, lost in the smoggy twilight.
The boy watched Tom as he chewed slowly, marvelling at his almost ethereal beauty. Despite the grime and harshness of their lives, Tom seemed to glow with a magnetism that caught the littler boy, hook, line, and sinker, reminding him of the Prince’s in the fairytales he had read when he was smaller.
Tom turned back, his expression cool, but his touch surprisingly gentle as he wiped a speck of dirt from the little boy's face. His hands were cold and pale, as if they were made of ice, but the boy's cheeks still flared with heat, nonetheless, "Cole says a man is coming to see us tomorrow," he said, his voice flat, devoid of the warmth the boy craved, "You remember what to do, don't you?"
The boy's heart pounded, and he swallowed hard as his eyes became glassy with fear, "Another doctor...?" he whispered, his voice trembling.
Tom shook his head, his gaze hardening, "I don't know yet. She was awfully cryptic, but in case it is, you remember, don't you?"
The boy nodded, his resolve hardening under Tom's unyielding stare, "Stay close to you…"
Tom gave a curt nod and turned his gaze back to the city, a storm of thoughts behind his steely eyes. The littler boy shivered slightly, as a stray tear ran down his cheek. He tried to focus on the view before them, the gas lamps flickering through the smog, but his mind kept circling.
Silence stretched between them, heavy and charged.
The boy, still clutching the bread, took another hesitant bite, more from nerves than hunger. He watched Tom out of the corner of his eye, trying to decipher the older boy's thoughts.
"Tom," the little boy whispered, "What do you think the man wants?"
Tom didn't answer right away, instead, his jaw tightened as he continued to stare out at the darkened city. After a moment, he spoke, "Doesn't matter. Whatever it is, we'll handle it, just like we always do. This isn’t the first time, and it won’t be the last."
The little boy's voice wavered slightly, "B-But what if he tries to take me away from you? W-What if he's like the last one? The one who..." The boy closed his eyes, trying to calm his racing thoughts, before he opened them and looked at the older boy, “I’m scared…”
Tom's gaze locked onto his; unyielding, intense, and would have been scary, if he wasn’t so attuned to him, after so many years together, "You have to get over this. You have to get over him. You’re older now and you know what to do if that happens: you stay silent and otherwise stick by my side. You don't let him take you anywhere alone, and you don’t try to be brave - understand?"
The boy's heart sank at Tom's words, but he didn't argue. He knew better than to challenge Tom. Instead, he nodded, then leaned slightly closer, seeking comfort in the older boy. Tom glanced down at him, before he spoke, abruptly, "You should go and get some rest - you’re going to need it. I’ll be down soon."
The boy nodded but made no effort to move, as instructed.
They were silent for a long time, caught in the hush that had stretched between them.
Tom sighed, after a moment, then whispered, "Scared is just another word for weak. And we can't afford to be weak."
"But… surely everyone gets scared… sometimes," the little boy insisted, his eyes glazed with tears, as he tilted his head akin to a dog.
Tom's gaze softened to a mellow brown as he looked down at the boy, "Maybe," he conceded, "But we don't show it. Not to anyone. Especially not to them. Fear doesn't get the luxury of stopping us. We keep moving, keep fighting. That's how we survive," he reassured, as his jaw tightened and his eyes narrowed, whilst he stared into the distance, “And we will survive, I’ll make sure of it.”
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Waking up in an unfamiliar place had been a shock that he hadn’t anticipated.
Everything, from the colour of the grimy walls, to the dull light peaking through the window, had momentarily left him paralysed with a panic he hadn’t felt in many a month.
And in those minute moments of terror, he’d yearned for but one thing: the familiarity of the Vale.
Instead, he had swallowed his fear like a bitter pill, and mirrored Zeno as he had prepared himself for the day ahead. There had been light conversation, whilst Zeno had shown him the ropes, however it had been delayed and filled with yawns from the other man’s end - according to Zeno, he was not and had never been a morning person.
Abe, seemingly always the first to rise, had shuffled in with a bucket of murky water, just as the sun had cast a golden glow of morning into their shared room. He’d ladled out a portion into two tin cups and handed them over with a gruff, "Drink up.”
Hadrian had gulped it down without trouble, and had ignored the furrowed looks Abe had thrown his way whilst he’d done so. He had once been used to dirty water and scraps of bread. Zeno had followed suit, though far more reluctant - that being evident in the way he held the cup as if it might bite him - and with a collective yawn, they had stepped out into the early morning chill.
The Bloodlands stretched out before them; a desolate expanse of crumbled soil and twisted, dead trees, encasing a large, poorly-made town of wood and metal. The paths they walked were worn, marred by hundreds of footsteps that had etched grooves into the Earth. As they trudged along, side by side, the silence of the barren lands was broken only by the crunch of gravel underfoot and the occasional caw of a distant crow. The sky above was overcast, vowing another dreary day in the lands that had long since forgotten the true warmth of the sun.
They were headed for The Exchange, a place that Zeno had said was one of the most important spots in the Bloodlands. Hadrian chanced a glance at Zeno - he was staring straight ahead, his expression set in an expression that looked too cold and artificial for his features.
At the sides of the makeshift streets, people huddled under ragged blankets, their figures barely distinguishable from the waste that surrounded them. Their eyes were red-rimmed and, as Hadrian looked closer, he noticed that they glowed faintly, a deeper shade of the red, sunken skin surrounding them. Their skin was an unnatural hue of blue, pale from lack of sunlight and nourishment, whilst their veins were dark and bulging, as if something lay beneath them.
Some rocked back and forth, muttering incoherently, their minds seemingly lost. Others cradled malnourished, tiny babies, their little bodies barely moving, eyes hollow and lifeless. Infants like those, born into a cycle of despair, had little chance of survival - Hadrian knew that intimately.
As Hadrian and Zeno passed, some of the half-dead stirred and skeletal hands reached out from beneath their tattered coverings. A woman with wild, desperate eyes grabbed at Hadrian’s arm with a surprising strength. Her nails dug into his skin, as she screamed, “Give it to me!”
Hadrian recoiled in shock. The woman’s voice was raw, filled with a deep, insatiable need. He looked into her eyes and saw the hunger there; it was a monstrous, all-consuming thing that made her look like an animal.
Zeno was quick to intervene, pulling Hadrian away, “Keep walking,” Zeno muttered, his voice low, as he looked over his shoulder, “Stay close to me.”
Hadrian snapped his head up, to look at Zeno, and for a split second, he didn’t see the sunshine silhouette of his new acquaintance. Instead, he saw a lanky boy with hard hickory eyes…
You remember what to do, don't you?
“Hey? You okay?” Zeno asked, concern lining his features.
The image vanished as quickly as it had come, leaving Hadrian disoriented. He stumbled slightly, but Zeno’s firm grip on his shoulder steadied him. Hadrian shook his head and forced himself to keep moving, to match Zeno’s stride, determined not to fall behind.
“Fine,” Hadrian spat, as he willed himself to concentrate.
The town gradually gave way to the outskirts, where the structures became sturdier. Ahead, the Exchange came into view: a tall edifice of white brick, conspicuously grand amidst its impoverished surroundings. Its name was carved into the bricks, outlined with gold leaf that gleamed in the morning light.
The walls were adorned with intricate etchings of large figures in perpetual motion, their hands clasping in the act of agreement over and over: a magical carousel of movement. Hadrian marvelled at its scale and artistry as they ascended the marble steps, and wandered into the building through a set of crystal doors.
The interior was a vast expanse of white marble and gold, every surface gleaming as if newly cleaned. The floor beneath their feet was a mosaic of intricate patterns, the gold veins running through the marble guiding them deeper into the heart of the building.
On the very back wall, a golden set of scales dominated the room, ever tipping one way or the other. Beneath these scales stood a series of high podiums, each occupied by a goblin. These podiums, crafted from the same white marble that ran through the chamber, but adorned with gold accents, also bore smaller scales. They looked to be used for weighing glowing stones, that pulsed with soft kaleidoscopic light, brought forth by the people of the Bloodlands.
The goblins sat above the people, their long fingers deftly handling the stones and scrutinizing their worth with sharp eyes. Their unsightly faces remained impassive, their eyes flicking between the stones and the scales with a practised efficiency.
Lining toward the other walls were multiple short queues of brown-cladded people, their faces weary and resigned. They stood hunched before marble desks, which were manned by figures cloaked in black.
Death Eaters, Hadrian confirmed in his mind, as he tried to dismiss the images of the last time he’d seen one.
Their dark hoods concealed their faces, but the sense of authority they exuded was undeniable, and made every head in the room bow, as if to hide.
Each Bloodlander approached the desks hesitantly, before they outstretched their hands to receive small sacks. The sacks, plain and unadorned, looked heavy in the grasp of the weaker: Hadrian wondered what resided in them. Their exchange was quick and silent, a stern transaction carried out under the watchful eyes of the goblins above, “Come on,” Zeno whispered, as he tugged Hadrian closer to him.
“We’ll see the Goblins first, to get you your Scribe,” he continued.
They reached the short line, leading to one of the podiums lining the back wall. Hadrian willed himself to stay still, despite every instinct inside him compelling him to run, move. The goblin they were waiting to see was wrinkled and sharp at the edges, with long nails and black abyss eyes. He doesn’t look away from the stone between his fingers; not even as he placed it on a set of scales.
The scales tipped slightly, in favour of the stone placed on them. Hadrian watched as the stone glowed faintly, weakly, before the goblin took hold of it again and finally looked the person before him in the eye, “Insufficient,” he spoke sternly, as he pushed the stone toward the woman who had presented it to him, and let it fall to the floor.
She scrambled to collect it, her hands shaking as she did, “B-But,” she started, whilst she tried to give the stone back to the creature, “That can’t be! I—”
“Insufficient,” he repeated, leaning forward in his chair, “Move along.”
Hadrian watched her scramble away. Hot tears ran down her face, which was smeared with dirt and dark bruises. He couldn’t stop the sinking feeling in his chest as she moved as fast as she could, with an uneven gait.
The Bloodlands were not camps as he’d once thought them to be - no.
They were something far, far worse.
“Forward,” Hadrian heard from in front of him, snapping him out of his stare. Zeno grabbed his arm with a surprising grip, and pulled him forth.
“Ah!” the Goblin mockingly gleamed, “Xenophilius, we see each other again.”
Zeno looked down at the floor bashfully, before he chanced at look toward Hadrian. He held his gaze for a moment, allowing Hadrian to see the soft vulnerability hiding beneath his irises. Under the morning light that streamed through the building, setting the marble alight, Zeno looked dull, as if a singular name had the power to render him colourless.
His name meant something to him - so much that he no longer went by the syllables of it.
Deer and prey: he was running from that which he could not outrun.
“Graknar,” Zeno muttered, before he cleared his throat, “I’ve got a newbie with me…”
The goblin, Graknar, scrunched his eyes to stare at Hadrian from his place above him. He resisted the urge to narrow his own eyes at the scrutiny that lay beneath the careful expression on its face. Hadrian had always hated goblins - Graknar, it seemed, would be no exception, “So it seems…” he muttered, before he pushed away from the high podium and moved to lower himself to the ground, “You will follow me.”
Hadrian chanced a glance at Zeno, who was still awkwardly looking at the ground. He lifted his eyes, however, when he heard Graknar’s command, and locked them onto Hadrian’s own. With a small smile, he nodded and threw a thumb over his shoulder, “Got my own line to wait in - I’ll meet you outside, don’t wanna’ linger...”
He watched Zeno turn away with slightly narrowed eyes, hemmed with a curiosity that was rashly broken by a gravelly voice, that was tinged with impatience, "This way."
Hadrian and Graknar moved toward a narrow corridor, cold and unadorned, leaving the grandeur of the main hall behind. They entered a small, dimly lit room where, in the centre, a stone slab surface stood, engraved with ornate circles and patterns. The designs seemed to pulse with a life of their own: a magic that made Hadrian’s skin crawl in an all too familiar way.
Graknar motioned to the slab, "Lie down."
Hadrian’s breath caught in his throat.
The image of the slab, of the room dimmed with low light, of stone and runes he couldn’t distinguish… it triggered a wave of panic, that surged through his veins, scorching hot. His instincts screamed at him to run, to get away from this place, but there was nowhere to go, nowhere for him to hide as he had done these past months.
Swallowing hard, he forced himself to move.
His hands trembled as he reached out to touch the stone; it was cool and rigid under his touch.
With great effort, he climbed onto the slab and laid down, his body turning stiff with alarm as he lay flush against the callous surface. The carvings pressed into his back, the cold lines acting as a stark contrast to the raging heat of his panic. He stared up at the ceiling, trying to control his shallow breathing and the frantic, rhythmic drumming of his heartbeat.
Graknar loomed next to him, a dark silhouette against the dim light, "Stay still, now," he instructed, his voice devoid of any notable emotion, "This will be over soon enough."
Hadrian closed his eyes, willing himself to remain calm.
The goblin placed a long, bony finger onto the slab, and instantly it flared to life.
Hadrian could feel the weight of the magic that filled the room; it pressed down on him, suffocating him like a pair of hands around his throat. The carvings beneath him began to glow with a red, pulsating light, and soon after snake-like creatures, made of stone, began to writhe and rise from the slab on either side of him.
They moved with a strange fluidity, their stone bodies cracking and reforming as they slithered across the slab and onto his skin. Hadrian’s heart thumped in his chest as the first snake latched onto his arm, its stone fangs piercing his skin with an abrupt sting.
He choked out a gasp: the pain was a harsh and immediate thing, and was followed by a numbing cold that spread outward from the bite.
More snakes followed, their stone teeth attaching to his legs, his torso, his neck.
They tore into his skin with vigour, and Hadrian watched - slightly detached, voices filling his head, ghostly hands grasping at his limbs, pulling him deeper into a familiar panic - as his blood ran through their stone bodies like veins of crimson rivers, flowing towards the complex carvings beneath him. They drank his blood greedily, and the room was soon glowing with a red light that intensified as the channels filled.
Hadrian’s eyes began to blur, as a tidal wave of fear washed over him.
His breath came in ragged gasps, his chest tightening as if a vice had clamped around his lungs. His vision waned, and the room around him seemed to close in, the walls inching closer, pressing in on him.
He was in another room, on another slab - Tell me! - blurred faces, distorted voices - Tell me how he did it! - he was trapped, his body was no longer his own - Tell me how! -
His fingers dug into the edges of the slab, his nails scraping against the stone as he fought to hold onto some semblance of his spiralling thoughts.
The room swam around him and the blinding light exuding from the glowing carvings beneath him twisted and warped, turning into familiar faces - blue eyes and a crooked smile, sadistic in nature, a melodic voice that sang him through his torture: Tell me how, or I’ll rip it from your mind myself. He tried to scream, but his voice was caught in his throat, choked off by a suffocating panic. His body convulsed, muscles seizing as the attack reached its peak—
The process stopped abruptly.
…and Hadrian gasped for air, his chest heaving as if he had been drowning.
The weight lifted from the room, and the stone snakes retracted back into the slab slowly.
Hadrian lay there for a moment, unable to move.
Graknar paid him no mind as he moved to the front of the slab. From its base, he procured an object. Hadrian squinted through the haze of his fading panic, trying to make sense of what Graknar held between his fingers.
It was a Scribe: its body was adorned with trim designs, black and gold in colour. Through squinted eyes, Hadrian summarised that the Scribe was similar to that which Zeno presented to him the night prior, and yet, somehow, it felt different - even from a distance. As Graknar held it, the Scribe temporarily glowed red, a vibrant pulse that travelled along its length before settling into a steady, muted glow.
With great effort, Hadrian forced himself up.
His limbs trembled and he looked down to spot several small, bleeding wounds littered across his skin. The sight of his own blood, now smeared across the stone slab, made his head swim, but he forced himself to focus.
Graknar turned towards him.
Hadrian watched warily as the goblin approached, the Scribe held in his clawed hand. He tried to push himself further up, to regain some semblance of control, but his limbs were weak and uncooperative. Graknar stopped beside him, and repositioned the Scribe so its tip was facing Hadrian.
“Hold still,” Graknar commanded.
He braced himself, as the goblin lowered the Scribe towards his skin. The object’s glow intensified briefly, as Graknar’s steady hand pressed the Scribe against his forearm. The tip of the Scribe was cool and sharp against his skin, akin to a scalpel knife.
Hadrian gritted his teeth against the pain, refusing to cry out.
When Graknar finally pulled the Scribe away, Hadrian looked down to see the new mark on his arm, a symbol he did not recognize. It glowed faintly before it settled into his skin, leaving behind yet another runic scar, to join the others littered across his body.
Graknar stepped back to momentarily inspect his work with a critical eye, "It is done," he said, a note of finality in his voice, as he outstretched his hand to offer Hadrian his newly crafted Scribe, "You may leave."
Hadrian plucked the object from between the creature's fingers and swiftly made his way to the door, his legs trembling like those of a newborn colt. The world around him was a blur of stone and shadows, moving both too slow and too fast. He stumbled through the corridor and into the open expanse of the Exchange’s foyer, leaning heavily on the walls as he did, trying to balance himself.
The opulence that had once impressed him now felt suffocating, the gleaming marble and gold walls closing in on his with each step as a callous voice followed his retreat: Tell me, tell me, tell me...
Finally, he burst through the crystal doors into the open air, the sudden lustre of the early sun making him squint. His breaths came in ragged gasps, each inhale a struggle. He scanned the area for Zeno and spotted him at the bottom of the marble stairs, clutching a small brown sack.
Zeno’s face fell the moment he saw Hadrian. He rushed forward with alarmed, but knowing - understanding - eyes. Hadrian stumbled toward him, his legs barely supporting his weight. Zeno grabbed his arm to steady him, allowing Hadrian to lean shallowly on him.
Zeno’s eyes scanned Hadrian’s bloodied arms, “You’re going to be okay” Zeno said softly but firmly, “Just… breathe.”
Hadrian nodded, as his breath caught in his throat.
Zeno wrapped an arm around his shoulders, guiding him away from the Exchange, “Come on, let’s get you back to the Bird…”
As they walked, Zeno’s voice resumed in soothing tones, “It’s over now, you won’t have to see him for… a while,” he squeezed his shoulder reassuringly, “Just a little further, okay? I’m sure Abe will have something strong to wash this down with.”
They made their way through the winding make-shift streets, the shadows lengthening as the sun lifted higher in the sky. Each step away from the Exchange felt like Hadrian was shedding a layer of weight, though his limbs were still heavy with exhaustion and the remnants of dread. The further they walked, the softer the air seemed to grow, and soon enough, the harsh angles of the Exchange gave way to the familiar sight of The Dead Bird: a pub whose sign bore a faded illustration of a headless bird, that looked remarkably like a phoenix.
They reached the weathered wooden door of the pub's entrance, and Hadrian found himself releasing a small sigh of relief at the creaking of the old wood when Zeno pushed it open. Inside, the dim light of the pub wrapped around him as Zeno guided him up the narrow staircase, toward their room.
Once at the top and through the threshold of their shared space, Zeno helped Hadrian sit on the edge of his bed, his touch remaining gentle and somewhat wary. That gentleness, however, swiftly changed, as Abe appeared in the doorway.
"Heard you come in," Abe remarked, as Zeno’s grasp turned harsh and his eyes hardened. The older man turned to Hadrian, first, “Well, you look like shit,” he laughed, before he faced Zeno, "Get to work. I'll take care of the lad."
Zeno nodded, after a moment of stubbornness, before he cast a reassuring glance at Hadrian as he slipped out of the room. Abe approached him, pulling a small glass vial from his pocket. The liquid inside was a deep amber, oozing a potent aroma of whiskey mingled with something harsh and medicinal.
"Here, this’ll set you right," Abe said, offering Hadrian the vial.
Hadrian took it with hands still affected by a slight tremble, the strong scent making his nose twitch. He brought the vial to his lips and with a sigh, Hadrian downed the whole thing. The liquid burned a fiery trail down his throat, he coughed as tears sprung to his eyes.
Abe laughed, a rough thing, "It’s got a kick, doesn’t it?" He clapped Hadrian on the shoulder, "But it’ll help. You’ll feel better after some rest."
The warmth from the drink began to spread through Hadrian’s body, dulling the sharp edges of his pain, “Rest? But I thought-”
“You’re no good to me in this state. Rest, then we’ll talk.”
Hadrian eyed Abe closely, before he nodded and leaned back on his bed, the exhaustion finally overtaking him. As Abe left the room, clicking the door shut behind him, his eyes fluttered closed, and hesitantly, Hadrian allowed himself to fall into a fitful but much-needed sleep.
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Inara sat at her ornate, mahogany writing desk, the dim glow of a single lamp casting long shadows across a sea of parchments and leather-bound tomes. The room, an embodiment of opulent grandeur, was bathed in hues of deep purple and rich gold; the tones dyed everything, from the floor-length curtains to the patterned carpets. Inara, enveloped in a luxurious nightgown of midnight purple silk, sipped her tea with a practised grace, her gaze fixed upon a particularly intricate manuscript.
The quiet murmur of the manor’s bustle seemed a distant hum in the drawing room's refined silence. It was then that the subtle rustling of fabric signalled the presence of her house-elf, who appeared out of thin air - she had long gotten used to Linny doing it.
“Madame Inara,” Linny announced, as she wrung her hands, “a visitor has arrived. One Madame Zabini, if it pleases you.”
Inara’s eyebrows arched delicately, her interest piqued. Setting her cup down with a measured clink, she adjusted her position and extended a hand to smooth the folds of her nightgown.
“Camille?” she mused aloud, her voice a soft lilt that carried her curiosity, “I had thought she would be with Blaise this evening? Nonetheless, please, show her in.”
The elf bowed deeply and vanished from sight.
Moments later, the drawing room’s doors opened to reveal Camille, a figure of striking, bombshell beauty. Dressed in an ensemble of cobalt blue and adorned with sapphire jewels, that shimmered subtly under the lamplight, Camille smiled with all of her teeth as she laid her eyes on her confidante.
From her place, behind her desk, Inara could see how Camille lured men like a fly-catcher, “Inara, darling, where have you been?!” she gasped, dramatically, “I’ve been practically yearning for your company, and here you are, ensconced in these endless parchments!”
Inara’s lips curved into a welcoming smile as she rose gracefully from her seat, “Camille, always a pleasure to see you,” she said warmly. “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting - I’ve been very busy as of late.”
With a flick of her wrist, Inara indicated a plush loveseat nearby. Camille accepted the invitation with a fluid motion, her dress shimmering as she moved. As they settled beside one another, Inara’s gaze softened, “Did you not bring Blaise with you?”
Camille’s eyes lit up, a look that was reserved only for her son, “Ah, he’s with the house elves, it has been quite a long day for him. What with his Literature and History lessons, French and Spanish, too, of course! And now flying! I’m trying to get him in with the Malfoy heir, you see, but Narcissa remains rather… protective of her beast.”
Inara chuckled, her eyes sparkling with affection, “She’s not keen on mingling, I take it? The whole holier-than-thou act?”
“Indeed,” Camille agreed with an eye roll as she leaned more comfortably against the loveseat, “Though, I hear that the Madame Malfoy had quite the tumultuous labour. You know what those Blacks are like, if they aren’t off-their-brooms they are with child! And we all know that the other sister Black is beyond barmy! It makes you wonder, doesn’t it…” Camille’s gaze wandered around the room before it fell upon the scattered parchments and books that cluttered the coffee table. Her curiosity seemed piqued, as she reached over and picked up one of the smaller books, its title clearly visible: Ward Stones and Their Uses, “If you ask me, I would say we will not be seeing a Malfoy Spare in the indefinite future, but you did not hear that from me - what is this?” she inquired, quickly after, “Your latest toil, I presume?”
Inara’s expression shifted, as her shoulders slumped, “Ah, that. I-” she huffed, before she ran her fingers through her hair, “I can not seem to get what Lestrange said out of my head…”
Camille furrowed her brows, “Which part?” she asked, "The one where he accused you of lacking faith in the Dark Lord, or the one where he dismissed nearly all your arguments simply because you are a mere woman?"
Inara chuckled under her breath as she clicked her fingers, the dark purple of her nail polish glittering under the soft light of the burning candles. Linny appeared suddenly, with a low bow, before she squeaked out a Madame?
“Prepare us some tea, Linny, Peppermint and Lavender, and clear away the cup on my desk, too.”
“Very good, Madame Inara,” Linny nodded, in approval, and disappeared with a quiet pop, taking her almost finished cup from earlier with her.
"Rabastan has housed grievances against me since childhood, you know this. His provocations are far from unfamiliar to me. Though, I will confess it angers me that he would stoop so low as to display these resentments at the High Court, if only to garner favour," Inara confirmed, shaking her head, “Nonetheless, that is not what has me… entrapped.”
A tray, topped with china-glass teacups and saucers and a selection of biscuits, appeared on the small table before them. Camille wasted no time in reaching for one of the sweet treats, “If not that, then…?”
Inara grabbed a cup of the soothing tea and paused to inhale its rich, minty aroma. It reminded her of Summer, of a country house in Dorset, of fishing with her Father in trousers - of all things. For a moment, she was back in her modest bedroom on the third floor, gazing out of the window at the setting sun. Lavender and Peppermint on her tongue, as her Mother gently brushed through her hair with a soft song on her lips.
She sipped the tea with a delicate smile on her face.
“We have to replace them constantly,” she repeated: the ensemble of words that had been circling around her mind since the hearing. Inara turned to face Camille, “…is what he said, about the ward stones.”
Camille looked momentarily stunned as she stared at Inara with slightly wide eyes and a raised brow, “O…kay?”
Inara laughed shortly, before she reached to retrieve a book from the table, “Here,” she said, handing it to Camille, “Have you ever read this?”
She flicked through the pages slowly, “The Ward: An Introduction. Inara, please-” Camille complained, “We were assigned this book during our second year at Hogwarts.”
“Precisely!” Inara beamed, “And, look-” she flicked to page 394, “when a practitioner of Magika imbues a fragment of their power into a runic stone (refer to page 276), the stone attains a state of self-sustainability as it cultivates magical sentience, and begins to draw from the latent Magika surrounding it. Such Ward Stones possess the potential to endure through the ages without…”
“Inara! Your point?” Camille interrupted.
“My point is: this text, along with many others, states that wardstones are mainly self-sufficient. They require only small fragments of magic from a Wiccan to work and will otherwise take from the latent magic all around us once they are made. We were taught how to make wardstones at twelve! Far before the age of magical maturity.”
Inara paused, taking in the text once more, as she had for hours since the hearing, “So why would he say that?” she murmured, almost to herself.
Before Camille could interrupt again, she continued, “By the very Laws that we study at twelve, one need not remove a wardstone once it has been made and placed, for it will only grow stronger over time - it is why Pureblood families like my own bury them; to hide them and keep them safe, so that they will strengthen.”
“And yet-” Camille started.
“And yet, by Rabastan’s word, the wardstones being constructed in the Bloodlands are… failing? But how can that be?”
“Well,” Camille remarked, reaching for her cup of tea and taking a delicate sip, “the… inhabitants of that place are hardly the most formidable of creatures, darling. I cannot say I am stunned that we must replace the stones they produce.”
"But that is precisely the point, Camille - I would wager that even a Squib could create a fully functioning wardstone, albeit with considerable effort. A wardstone does not rely on magical prowess; it is their runic patterns that hold the true significance. While I accept that mudbloods lack the intellectual capacity to craft a wardstone comparable to our own, nothing would prevent them from producing a basic stone, which is all that is required of them… so why-"
A slight frown played at the corners of Camille’s lips, "Why are you concerning yourself over such trivialities?” She questioned, finally able to interrupt, “The Bloodlands and all that reside there are… pitiful, Inara - it is why they are there and we are here. You cannot question incompetence when a job is being done by the inept."
"Perhaps, but it troubles me all the same. No matter what they are, it does not take away from the fact that they are protecting our world."
Camille raised an eyebrow, “The failures of the mudbloods are beneath our regard. You should leave such menial matters to the half-bloods and focus on things that actually matter,” she said sternly, “Look around you, Inara. How long have you been cooped up in this room bent over parchments or with your nose stuck in a book? You know I support you in Court, and will continue to do so, but…”
Inara sighed, as she reached for a biscuit, “Well, what would you rather I fret over, Camille?” she cut in, “Finding a husband? I think you do that enough for the both of us.”
Camille smirked, her eyes gleaming with amusement, “I do not think you will have much fretting to do about that. After all, I managed to find two husbands, each more advantageous than the last, before Blaise turned five - and I am a widow. ”
Inara huffed, her irritation only growing as she watched Camille's smirk widen. The woman was still young, yet she had already buried one husband and moved on to another, all while retaining the notable name of Zabini. Her reputation as a black widow was well-earned, but Camille wore it like a badge of honour, her son bearing the legacy of the first marriage that had granted her entry into society's highest circles.
“You have the knack for it,” Inara muttered, “But not all of us are so inclined to... matrimonial obligations.”
Camille laughed lightly, swirling her tea as if the subject were merely a passing fancy, “Oh, darling, I simply make the best of the opportunities presented to me, even if those… opportunities are not the most skilled bed-mates. Besides, one must think of the future, especially when one has a son to consider.”
Inara’s gaze softened slightly at the mention of Blaise, but she quickly steeled herself. “There is more to life than securing a name and an estate. I am not particularly interested in becoming someone’s accessory.”
“Understandable,” Camille nodded, “But… not everyone has the luxury of choice, nor a hundred-year-old manor and a flowing vault in the bowels of Gringotts.” She stated, her fingers tracing the rim of her teacup thoughtfully.
Inara felt a pang of sympathy beneath her frustration.
She knew Camille’s life had not been as charmed as she made it appear. Behind the effortless grace and the beautiful facade was a woman who had fought tooth and nail to secure her place in a world that demanded much and had given her little in return, “I-” Inara tried, “I know, and I know my duties, I just…”
Camille’s smile turned playful, a mischievous glint entering her eye, “I know that face! It is the same one you had at my late husband's funeral,” she laughed, making Inara shake her head.
“What? The face of suspicion?”
The woman leaned forward, closer to Inara, so close that Inara could see the slight shimmer of her red lipstick, “Why not go and see the Bloodlands for yourself? Perhaps witnessing their ineptitude firsthand would put your mind at ease.”
Inara’s breath caught in her throat as the jest landed with an unexpected weight.
Camille, somewhat oblivious, continued, "And who knows? Maybe you will find one worthy of being your maid - that elf of yours is so awfully odd."
But Inara’s thoughts had already started to drift elsewhere.
"Yes… perhaps," Inara murmured, more to herself than to Camille, who had already moved on to a different topic.
But the idea had taken root, and no amount of dismissive chatter could dislodge it from her mind.
┈┈┈ ⋞ 〈 ⏣ 〉 ⋟ ┈┈┈
Hadrian stirred, his eyes fluttering open gently.
Outside, night had fallen, filling the small room he shared with a suffocating stillness, that seemed to press in on all sides. The moon hung high in the sky, a cold, glaring thing that seemed to watch him through the window. It judged him, whispered in his ears - how could you let this happen - as the memories from the day prior filtered into his waking mind.
Slowly, as if moving in a dream, Hadrian lifted the sleeves of his shirt, revealing tiny, blackened punctures that dotted his skin. They were stark, dark and ugly, left there by stone serpents that had sunk their teeth into him with a hunger that had felt disturbingly alive.
The sight of them, littered across his skin like plague marks, made his stomach churn. He exhaled shakily, trying to push the memories down, to bury them deep, before the now and before merged…
Before his memory failed him.
His eyes drifted to the door, where a faint sliver of light crept from beneath, cutting through the darkness. It presented him with a distraction - one he desperately needed before his mind turned to madness.
He flicked his attention to Zeno, briefly, who lay sprawled on the other bed, his breaths slow and even in the quiet. For a moment, Hadrian watched his chest rise and fall, finding peace in the rhythmic motion of his sleep.
Quietly, he slipped out of bed, his feet brushing against the cool floor as he crossed the room. Zeno remained undisturbed, lost in his dreams, and Hadrian was grateful for it.
He reached the door and slowly turned the knob, wincing as it creaked softly, and stepped into the hallway.
The stairs squeaked under his weight as he descended, the familiar scents of the pub climbing to meet him - stale make-shift ale, smoke, and something faintly bitter. It was a place where the night lingered, where the weight of the day could be drowned in a spit-cleaned glass.
Hadrian descended the last few steps, as his eyes acclimated to the dim light. He focused instantly on the lone figure behind the bar, who was quietly wiping down glasses.
Abe's presence was as solid as the bar he leaned against, his broad frame outlined in the muted glow of the, almost, burnt-out candles surrounding him. He looked up as Hadrian approached, and their eyes met across the room.
Hadrian continued to cross the worn floor, his steps muffled, before he slid onto one of the stools at the bar, the wood creaking softly beneath him.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Abe continued his work, while Hadrian sat in silence, the marks on his arms throbbing faintly.
Finally, Abe broke the hush, “How’re you holding up, lad?”
Hadrian shifted slightly on the stool, his eyes dropping to the bar top as he traced the patterns in the wood.
The question, though simple, felt heavy.
…he wasn’t quite sure how to respond.
“I’m… fine,” he murmured, though the words felt hollow as they exited his lips. He glanced up at Abe, who was watching him with an expression that was hard to decipher.
Abe nodded slowly, as he turned and set the clean glass down with a soft clink. In silence, he pulled a pint of something dark and murky; Hadrian watched it fall from the tap and fill the glass until it was almost full. Without a word, Abe slid it across the bar to Hadrian, who took it hesitantly.
He lifted the pint to his lips, and took a cautious sip. The taste hit him immediately - bitter and sharp, almost rancid, like it had been left to ferment for too long. He grimaced, but didn’t complain, instead he forced himself to take another sip.
It wasn’t the worst thing he’d ever tasted. After all, there had once been a time when he’d had to drink stagnant water just to stay alive long enough to run.
A time that seemed so long ago…
Abe watched him, a faint hint of amusement playing at the corners of his lips, “It’s an acquired taste,” he said, “But it does the job… helps with the pain.”
Hadrian set the pint down, swallowing the bitterness with a quickly closing throat.
“The worst is over,” Abe said after a moment, so quiet that Hadrian barely caught it, “What they do to the people here… it’s shit, no denying that, but there’s no point in dwelling on it either. Dwelling doesn’t change a damn thing.”
Hadrian looked at him for a moment, taking in the contours of his wrinkled face, the heavy bags beneath his eyes. He was right, of course, but that didn’t make it any easier. The marks on his arms itched; there was a phantom pain burrowing beneath his skin, one that played with his mind, leaving him unsure if the goblin was from before or from now, if the scars he bore were new or old.
He nodded slowly, not trusting himself to speak.
Abe watched him for a moment, then turned to retrieve another dirty glass to clean.
The silence between them stretched on, a heavyweight in the dimly lit pub. Hadrian stared down at his pint, watching the way the light caught the peculiar liquid, making it seem darker than what it was. Abe continued to clean the glass in his hands, quietly and without a look toward Hadrian.
“I know what Zeno thinks of me,” Abe spoke, into the silence, “Thinks I’m a right bastard, doesn’t he?”
Hadrian looked up, caught off guard by the man's sudden words. It took him a moment to understand that Abe was assuming his silence was as a sign of apprehension - a feeling placed there, perhaps, by the man who lay asleep upstairs.
Abe set the glass down, his gaze fixed on the bar, almost unwilling to meet Hadrian’s eyes, “He’s not wrong, mind you,” he continued, a bitter smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, “But in this place, being a bastard is how you survive. It’s how you make it through another day without ending up like the rest of ‘em.”
He leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest as he finally met Hadrian’s gaze, “I’ve been here since the Bloodlands were first installed, back when it was just a camp,” he said, his voice quieter, “Seen more than my fair share of death. People I considered friends… good people… they’re all gone now. Even boys barely old enough to shave… they were burnt on the same dirt we walk on every day.”
Hadrian felt a pang of something - was it sympathy, perhaps? Was it pity? Or maybe it was understanding, for Hadrian knew what it was like… to lose everything to the raging fire that was consuming the Earth and be forced to rebuild on the ashes.
Abe sighed, running a hand through his greying hair, “You sit and mope about it, you end up in the grave right beside them,” he said, his voice hardening again, as if he were reminding himself of this fact as much as he was telling Hadrian. “This place… it doesn’t allow for weakness. It’ll eat you alive if you let it.”
Scared is just another word for weak. And we can't afford to be weak.
Hadrian fluttered his eyes, willing himself to rid his mind of the image of hickory brown.
Of comfort and crusted bread, on top of the world - it had seemed.
The now and the dream, merging once again, And we will survive, I’ll make sure of it.
Did you survive? He wants to ask, because it feels important, but the boy is just that - a fantasy.
Focus.
“And yet, Zeno thinks it’s wrong - what I do here - he thinks I should bear a bleeding heart. He clings to his delusions, of hope and peace and ‘everyone's the same if you’re comparing marrow and bone’. He’s got this… twinkle, in his eyes, the same kind my idiot brother had,” Abe spat, his eyes turning dull. It grabbed Hadrian’s attention, “Well look where that got him! 6-feet-under and the world still went to shit. It didn’t change a damn thing.”
Abe turned away.
The muscles on his back stretched as he pulled another pint of beer and downed the cup in one. However, the alcohol didn’t make his stance any less rigid. Hadrian watched him closely as he hunched over the bartop, his back still facing him.
"I'm sorry," he murmured, though the apology fell short.
Abe's response was sharp as he whipped around, it cut through the silence, “Don’t be,” he snapped, though there was a flicker of something beneath his gruff tone, something… vulnerable. His gaze was far away, his eyes were narrowed, he was talking to Hadrian as much as he was talking to himself, to the ghosts that lingered around him, “He got what he deserved, and Zeno will too - when he inevitably opens his mouth. I’ve long since run out of the time and patience to keep dragging his arse out of trouble, and yet… here I am, housing the ungrateful fucker.”
The bitterness in Abe’s voice was raw, like a knife scraping against stone.
But Hadrian discerned the struggle behind his words, as if it was difficult for him to voice them. Abe’s shoulders were tensed, like he was trying to hold something back, to bury a truth until it no longer was one. His facade was a good one, but Hadrian had always been adequate at seeing through lies.
Echos of his brother lingered in Zeno.
Perhaps it was the better ones, the ones that made Abe feel his absence, and no matter how much he resisted, he was bound by that likeness, compelled to protect Zeno even if it angered him... or saw him hurt.
The burden of family: Hadrian wondered what name was carved on Abe’s brother’s grave.
“Word of advice?” Abe asked, rhetorically, “Don’t get dragged down with him and that Whisperer of his. You hear me?”
Before Hadrian could respond, Abe turned away, his movements brusque, as if he was slamming the door on a conversation that had gone deeper than he had intended.
However, when Abe reached the door behind the bar, he paused, and tossed a glance over his shoulder. Under the dim light of the dying candles, Hadrian caught sight of something he hadn’t noticed before: Sullied, burnt into Abe’s neck. The scar was faint, almost obscured by time and wear, but it was there, a ghost of a mark that matched his and Zeno’s own.
A shared burden.
“Best be off to bed before Zeno thinks I’ve dumped you onto the streets,” Abe muttered. With that, he disappeared through the door, leaving Hadrian sitting in the stillness of the lowly lit pub.
After a moment of sitting alone, in the silence, he let out a sigh, a quiet release of tension, and slowly began to move. The stool creaked as he pushed it back, but the sound was swallowed by the hush of the empty pub.
He walked through the room with faint footsteps, the soles of his feet barely making a sound on the worn floorboards.
The quiet was absolute.
It wrapped around him like a cloak.
It was the kind of silence that felt unnatural and oppressive. It settled beneath his skin and in his bones, marrow-deep: the room seemed larger, emptier, than it had before.
As he approached the staircase that led to his room, a faint glimmer of light caught his eye. He froze mid-step, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling.
Hadrian turned slowly, his gaze falling on the thinly paned window at the far end of the room.
The outside world was cloaked in darkness, a black void that seemed to swallow everything beyond the glass.
He narrowed his eyes, straining to see through it.
There was nothing out there, nothing that his eyes could distinguish anyhow, but still, the feeling of being watched lingered.
Hadrian shook his head, forcing himself to look away.
It was nothing, he told himself, you’re just tired, Hadrian… stressed… your mind’s playing tricks on you…
He turned back toward the stairs.
His foot touched the first step, the wood creaking softly beneath his weight as he began to climb-
Harry…
He froze, his breath catching in his throat.
The sound had been soft, almost tender, and it had seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere all at once.
Slowly, he turned back toward the window, his eyes wide…
…and that’s when he saw it.
Outside the pub, hovering in the air just beyond the thinly paned window, was a floating ball of light.
It glowed a soft, ghostly blue, and pulsed gently like a heartbeat.
Hadrian blinked, harshly, trying to clear his vision, to convince himself that it was some trick of the light, a figment of his tired mind. But when he opened his eyes again, it was still there. It fluttered in the air, a beacon of light in the stifling darkness-
Harry…
Hadrian felt his feet moving before he could think to stop them.
He stepped away from the stairs, his body drawn toward the window, as if a rope had been tied around his midriff. He released an uneven breath when his fingers brushed against the cold glass.
Come…
It was clearer now - the voice - more distinct, and it filled him with a strange mix of comfort and dread. His breath fogged the glass as he leaned closer, his eyes wide, unblinking, and fixed on the floating orb just beyond his reach.
Come… closer…
The urge to obey was overwhelming, and Hadrian felt the world around him slipping away…
The pub and its darkened corners, the dull throb in his arms, the ache in his legs - it faded into nothingness.
His hand pressed harder against the glass, and for a moment, he thought he could see a hand stretching out to his own, beckoning him, leading him… was that the cool touch of fingers on his skin?
His forehead | move away, don’t listen, run | touched the cold pane.
Look at me…
The words hit him like a physical blow.
He knew that voice, knew the colour of the tone - the exact shade.
With a sharp intake of breath, Hadrian tore himself away from the window, stumbling back as if the glass had burned him.
“Focus, focus,” he chanted under his breath, pressing his palms hard against his eyes. The darkness behind his eyelids was a welcome hideaway. The whispers were still there, lingering and louder, more insistent, but he forced them away, repeating his mantra over and over, “Focus, focus, focus…”
He stayed like that for a moment: eyes closed, breathing deeply, willing himself to rid the bloodstained shade of crimson from his mind. To forget the King of Kings that allowed the colour to bleed from his eyes.
Slowly, he lowered his hands.
…all was dark - the light was gone.
┈┈┈ ⋞ 〈 ⏣ 〉 ⋟ ┈┈┈
The night hung heavy: a thick, suffocating darkness that seemed to swallow the weak light of the stars. He pushed through it, without fear, his steps measured and precise as he patrolled the borders of the Bloodlands. The earth beneath his feet was dry and brittle, it cracked under the weight of his boots as he walked.
The Exchange towered in the near distance, a monument to the scrap-made, wreckage of a town opposite.
It was a place where the dregs of the world were sent to rot, the mudbloods and the miscreants.
That he, a pureblooded scion of the House of Black, was forced to tread through these grounds, was a trounce he barely tolerated, a formidable test of his patience.
His lip curled as he thought of the wretches that called the place a home - the half-dead, broken things that clung to life with bony fingers: too stubborn to die, too worthless to be anything more than the animals they were.
Everything about the place disgusted him: from the way the very air seemed to cling to his skin, to the way the shadows scurried like living things.
It wasn’t where he belonged - on the outskirts of forsaken land, doing the menial work of a foot soldier.
Sirius sneered.
With a sharp, impatient movement, he reached into his cloak and withdrew a small, crumpled box.
Sterling Dual.
He shouldn't have them, but he was not one to resist temptation.
It was a small act of rebellion, a fleeting escape from the monotony of his life.
With his teeth, he pulled a single stick from the pack, letting the rest fall back into the concealed pocket of his cloak.
He held it between his lips before he flicked his wand. A tiny flame sprang to life at the tip, casting a brief, warm glow on his face. The first inhale was sharp, it filled his lungs with a bitter, familiar comfort.
It was a biting relief from the stagnant air of the Bloodlands.
He exhaled, watching the smoke dissipate into the night, and continued his patrol, his smoky secret dangling lazily between his lips. The darkness pressed in around him, but he moved with the confidence of a predator, his senses sharp-
-a sound, a faint rustle, barely discernible, cut through the silence.
Sirius stilled, as ash fell from his lips. He raised his wand, its tip glowing with a soft Lumos.
“Show yourself,” he commanded, his voice low.
From the shadows, a figure emerged, stepping into the dim light with hands raised in surrender. The man was young, with sandy brown hair that fell into his eyes, and a face etched with scars, some old and some new.
“I’m not… armed,” the man said, quietly, almost shy.
Sirius kept his wand trained on the man, his gaze sweeping over the scarred face before him, as the faint ember between his lips trailed a thin line of silver into the night, “Of course you’re not,” Sirius sneered as he took another slow drag, “What are you doing so close to the borders this late?”
The man hesitated, his hands still raised in a gesture of surrender. He seemed to shrink in on himself, as if trying to become smaller, perhaps lesser, to disappear into the darkness, “I’m… I’m here to get my injection,” he finally said, his voice soft.
Sirius’s eyes narrowed further, the glow between his lips flaring briefly as he stepped closer to the man, until they were almost face to face, “What injection?” he demanded.
The man shifted nervously, his movements hesitant, as if each word he spoke was a secret. His height, usually a mark of presence to Sirius, seemed more like a burden to the dishevelled man, something he wished he could hide, “It’s… for my lycanthropy,” he murmured, his voice barely louder than the rustle of leaves.
Sirius’s grip on his wand tightened, his eyes narrowing to slits as he scrutinised the man before him.
“I was told to go to the Exchange at ten forty-five… I’m sure I’m on time, I-” the man added, his voice shaking slightly. He looked up then, and Sirius caught the light in his eyes - a pale green, so very human, filled with a depth of emotion that was almost painful to observe.
His gaze was a quiet plea, a show of humanity that had not been extinguished despite the curse he bore.
Sirius had never seen one before: a beast who wore his heart on his sleeve, for all to see.
The ember of Sirius’s smoke glowed brighter, as he found himself momentarily fixed by the rawness of his green eyes, “What’s your name?” Sirius asked, the question slipping out before he could stop it.
“Remus Lupin,” the man replied, as he dropped his eyes again.
Sirius took a long drag before he exhaled with a slow deliberate breath, allowing the smoke to curl lazily around them. He studied Remus from head to toe, his brow lifting as he noticed the man clenching his hands, that had fallen to his side.
“R-ee-mu-s,” Sirius sounded, his tone laced with dry amusement, “How awfully fitting.”
Remus flinched narrowly at the words, his eyes flicking away, finding sudden interest in the ground between them. But when he spoke, his voice was soft and careful, “Yeah… ironic, huh?” he replied, attempting a smile, that quickly faltered.
Sirius raised an eyebrow, “You don’t say.” He took another drag, the ember glowing brighter before fading again, a tiny pulse of light in the darkness. “What kind of injection, anyhow? Wolfsbane? Or are you here for something else - a pick-me-up for your little friend, perhaps?”
Remus shifted on his feet before responding, clearly weighing his words, “Wolfsbane,” he confirmed, “I don’t… I don’t use Atro…”
“Hmm,” Sirius hummed, “And you can’t get your injection once day breaks?” He asked, with eyes narrowed with suspicion.
Remus’ gaze shifted briefly to the sky as if he were searching for the right words, “No, it’s… the timing,” he spoke quietly, “It has to be administered during the half-moon for the injection to do anything. Any earlier or later and it’s rendered, well, useless, really.”
Sirius hummed, “And you want me to take your word for it?”
Remus’s eyes flicked to Sirius’s, his irises filled with confusion, “I… I have the stamped documentation,” he said, his voice steady but quiet, “From the Goblins. I can show you if-”
The frown that twisted Sirius’s lips was sharp, like the edge of a blade. He scoffed “The Goblins?” he repeated, his tone incredulous, “You think I’m going to lower myself to trusting the word of creatures like them? They’re nothing more than opportunistic varmints, crawling through the cracks of my world for their own gain.” He sneered, his gaze sharpening as he took a step closer to Remus, “And if you think that stamped documentation from them means anything to me, then you’re more deluded than I thought.”
Remus flinched at the words, and though he tried to hide it, his fingers twitched nervously at his side, “It’s… it’s all I have,” he replied, his voice barely above a whisper. His gaze dropped again, “They handle the distribution of Wolfsbane here… the other wardens have allowed me entry-”
“The other wardens allowed you entry,” Sirius repeated back to him, “The other wardens are half-blooded; of course they would sympathise with the likes of you - you are almost one of the same.”
Remus shifted uneasily, “I’m not here to cause trouble,” he whispered, his voice almost pleading, “I’m just here to get what I need - to keep everyone safe. They… they don’t have magic to protect them, not here.”
Sirius released a derisive laugh, the sound held a harsh note in the still night, “Mudbloods should not wield magic anywhere,” he spat, as he inhaled a breath of smoke, “Thieves, you and all of your little friends.”
“Oh, just like how Purebloods shouldn’t smoke Muggle cigarettes?”
For a moment, the two men locked eyes.
Remus seemed to stand taller, his expression carved from stone, unwavering. Sirius stared back, taken aback by the sudden defiance in those light green eyes.
After a short moment of stunned silence, Sirius released a short laugh, as he flicked his cigarette to the ground and stomped it out with his boot.
Without warning, he whipped his wand.
The curse erupted from the tip, slicing through the night like a flash of red lightning, and struck Remus square in the chest. The force sent him sprawling backwards, his body collapsing against the ground like a rag doll.
Sirius approached with deliberately slow steps, his boots grinding against the gravel as he closed the distance between them. Remus lay gasping for air, his chest rising and falling with uneven breaths.
He loomed over Remus as he tutted, “There - right there,” Sirius murmured, his voice a soft whisper, “Beneath me is where you belong.”
Sirius watched as Remus struggled to regain his breath, the rhythm of his gasps echoing the pulse of the night, “Well, what are you waiting for, an invitation?” He mocked, “Get up.”
The Head Black almost rolled his eyes as he watched Remus slowly push himself up. He avoided Sirius’s gaze, his cheeks flushed pink, “There you go - what a good boy,” Sirius taunted.
He stepped aside, a sly smirk playing at the corners of his lips, “Go on then,” Sirius said, his voice laced with mockery, “Get your precious Wolfsbane. I’ll allow it this time.”
Remus shot him a glare, resentment flaring in his pale green eyes. Sirius ignored it, choosing instead to get further in the taller man's face, a vain look adorning his face.
“…because that is the only reason you are getting it,” Sirius continued, “because I-” he emphasized the word with a pointed look, “allow it. Never forget who put you here, Moony. The other wardens may not be as forgiving as I am - consider this a kindness from the Head Black. How fortunate you are.”
“Black?” Remus echoed, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Sirius,” he admitted, the name slipping from his lips almost involuntarily.
Remus rubbed his chest where Sirius had struck him, a faint wince crossing his features. Sirius noted the gesture, “I-” Remus tried, but the words faltered as his gaze fell to the ground. After a moment, he looked up, his voice soft but steady, “Yes… thank you.”
Sirius watched as Remus turned away, the silhouette of the young man framed by the dim light of the half-moon. The silver glow seemed to caress Remus’s figure, illuminating his lanky form as he walked toward the Exchange, each step purposeful yet hesitant. He did not look toward the moon, instead his head seemed to turn away from it.
Reaching into his cloak, Sirius pulled out the pack of Sterling Dual, the polished surface glinting under the soft light. He held it there for a moment, staring at the familiar insignia.
He shouldn’t have them.
…just like how Purebloods shouldn’t smoke Muggle cigarettes…
With a grunt of frustration, Sirius shook his head, casting the weight of his doubts aside. He slipped another cigarette between his lips, and lit it. The ember glowed faintly against the night as he inhaled, allowing smoke to fill his lungs and lift the weight of his limbs.
Sighing, he turned his back on the werewolf and continued his patrol.
It was going to be a long night.
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You’re wizards - the man had told them, with sparkling eyes, and the little boy had swelled with hope.
He would go to school - a real school, Hogwarts - far from Wool’s and the spiteful boys that resided there, when he turned 11.
(2 years - 2 years he would be alone in the Orphanage, waiting for letters from his only friend and hiding his bruised limbs whenever he returned)
He had cried until his vision had blurred: We’re not freaks, Tom, we’re special!
What a silly little boy.
Too small yet to understand the look that passed between the Professor and his friend, as the Professor had left their shared room.
Too excited, too hopeful - and what a childlike hope it had been - to notice that the older boy had moved to stand in front of him, until he could no longer see the twinkle in the Professors blue eyes.
(It was challenge, that had briefly changed his irises from hickory to crimson: fool be those who try to take from the Snake King.)
The Fool, is what is written on the grave of Albus Dumbledore.
┈┈┈ ⋞ 〈 ⏣ 〉 ⋟ ┈┈┈
What possible good can come from ignorance about other people? Learn to tell the lions from the lambs or pay the price.