Cursed

Ianto coughed and spat blood, groaning at the pain in his side from the harsh kick he’d taken to his ribs.  He looked around and blinked to clear the tears and general bleariness from his eyes.  Either the lights were doing strange things, or his eyes were.  He willed them to uncross from the shock of his head being used as a punching bag. 

He cursed as more tears followed the ones he’d blinked away.  Fucking idiot.  He should have known it would happen.  Now he had to figure out what story to tell, to cover.

Because just like the other times, Jack wouldn’t remember.

Jack never remembered.  It was the curse, Ianto repeated to himself, but it offered little comfort.  Something had broken inside this time, and it wasn’t just a rib.  Jack’s cruel words and hard fists – and the boot to the ribs – had finally broken whatever it was that had kept Ianto going.

He swiped at the tears as he pulled himself to his knees, reaching into the inside pocket of his suit coat.  He pulled out the tin and stared at it for a moment.  About three inches wide by six inches long, it held six small phials of solution to all of Ianto’s problems.  He had been carrying it around with him for almost seven years, now.  There had been many times that he had mixed the ingredients and stared down a glass of death, but until this moment, he’d never gotten to the point where he was desperate enough to drink.

He let out a sob as he pulled the still half-full scotch glass towards him.  One by one, he dumped the contents of the phials into the glass with shaking hands, trying to calm himself.  But really...

Enough was enough.

It had been more than seven long, terrible years since he had been captured by the Carrows.  They had exacted their revenge, and though they released him when they were done, never could he have imagined how cruel their litany of curses would be.  The pain of being remade never left him, but it was the horror of not being allowed to reach out to anyone in any meaningful way that had worn him down, inch by inch, day by day.

And this was all he was left with.  His own tears, despair, and a half dozen phials of potions that, when combined, would yield a slow but painless exit from this nightmare of a life.  He wondered if he should leave a note, but no one would care, or remember, or remember to care.  He was, after all, already dead.

That had been a blow.  Seeing the small story tucked away on a back page of The Daily Prophet:

Battle of Hogwarts Hero Missing, Presumed Dead

The hero bit was gratifying, if a bit overstated.  But the fact that they had found his broken wand and just assumed he was dead had been hurtful and frustrating.  But fine.  After all this time, he wasn’t sure why it mattered.

Neville Longbottom is dead.

He sniffed as the tears continued to fall, and tried to will them to stop.  After all, Neville had been dead for a long time, now.  No point in mourning him further. 

Soon Ianto Jones would follow.

He wasn’t sorry, really.  Well.  That was a lie.  But it would be a relief, anyway.  He was just so tired.  He never seemed to be able to get it right.  To take what was offered, but be careful not to ask for anything.  What was patently unfair was that usually he was asking to give, not take.  He just wanted to love, but any offer or ask from him engaged that bastard of a curse and elicited a cruel, sometimes violent response.

Tonight had been too much.  They had sent Tommy back and averted catastrophe, and then Jack had said those lovely things. 

And I wouldn’t change that, for the world.

Ianto had completely lost himself in the moment and kissed Jack.  And for a few glorious seconds, Jack had returned the kiss.  Ianto’s hopes had risen, but were quickly dashed as he felt the familiar, oily darkness of the curse slither from him and possess Jack.  Then had come the blows.  And the horrible, horrible words.

Usually, with some effort, Ianto could convince himself that the curse was the source of the violence, whether words or deeds, but these had cut too deeply.  He had nothing left that would allow him to pretend Jack didn’t, deep down, believe the awful things he had spat at Ianto before leaving him, bruised and bloody, on the floor of his office.

Ianto did know that Jack would be appalled by the beating.  This he knew with an unwavering certainty.  But the words…

Never forget that you are nothing more to me than a warm hole on a cold night.

Well.  That was Ianto told.  And he’d been told that and worse enough times now that there was little he could do at this point but believe it.

The empty potion phials were on the desk, and he was sat on the floor propped against it, holding the glass in both hands and weeping.  The lights were indeed flickering, it turned out.  He tried to calm himself, but all he was able to accomplish was to blow one of Jack’s computer monitors.

“Ianto?” Tosh’s voice called out, and he quickly downed the drink, feeling more than the burn of alcohol as his magic reacted to the potion and a bolt of lightning flew from his chest and smashed into the wall opposite.

“Ianto!  Are you alright?”

He heard feet on the stairs and swiped at his face, knowing it would do nothing to hide the tears he had shed.

“Something is causing power surges,” Tosh ran into the office and gasped when she spotted Ianto.  “Jack!  Owen!” she cried out as she ran over and dropped beside him.

“Stay back,” he croaked, closing his eyes and turning his head away.  “I can’t control it…” he cried out as another bolt flew from him.  “I’m sorry.  I should have realized this would happen,” he choked.

“Ianto, what’s going on?”  In the next instant, Jack was on his knees beside him, gentle hands taking his head and turning it to see the bruises that were already forming.

Ianto felt a moment of regret for not wiping the CCTV, but maybe this could vindicate him, in some small way.  He took Jack’s hand and kissed his bruised knuckles.  “Just remember, Jack,” he said in a low voice.  “None of this was your fault.”

“What?” Jack looked startled, but before he could say anything else, Ianto cried out again.  Owen pulled Tosh away as another bolt of energy escaped Ianto’s body.

“Jack!  What is he doing?” Gwen shouted.  Ianto was unsurprised to see that she had her hand on her gun.

“Ianto, what’s happening?” Jack asked, ignoring her.  “I’ve only seen this happen once before, and that man was a wi…” he trailed off as several loud pops could be heard.  His hand went for his own weapon, but he did not draw it.  He quickly told the others to stand down before they could accidentally shoot one of their allies.

“What’s happening, here?” asked Hermione Grainger.  “We have reports of someone’s magic unspooling.”

Ianto looked at his friend, a mixture of love and pain on his face.  “Hermione.”

She looked at Ianto and frowned.  “Who are you?”

Ianto let out a terrible, despairing sound as another bolt of energy escaped him.  Each one hurt, so much, but it felt like his magic was beginning to settle back behind the wall that had imprisoned it, for so long.

“You know me,” he sniffed.  “Or you once did.”

“Mate, we’ve never seen you before,” Ron Weasley said, looking at the man sitting on the floor.

“You have,” Ianto wept.  “You have, you just… don’t remember.”  He let out a low growl as blood bloomed on his shirt.

“Ianto, what was that?” Jack looked startled.  He reached out and made quick work of the buttons on Ianto’s waistcoat and shirt.  As an afterthought, he loosened the tie and tossed it aside.  “Why are you bleeding?”

“It’s a curse!” Hermione exclaimed, falling to her knees beside Ianto.  “You can’t say, can you?”

Ianto just looked at her.

“Can you answer questions?”

“Not without punishment,” he gritted as another scratch scored his chest.

“Oh dear,” she chewed her lip, thinking.  After a moment, she asked, “Has your appearance been altered?”

Ianto nodded, then groaned as a slash opened across his chest, this one a bit deeper.

“Oh, God, I’m so sorry!” she said, but forced herself to keep going.  “Was it against your will?  No, of course it was.”  She thought for a moment.  “Death eaters?”

“Yes,” he gritted against the pain of the next wound.

“Stop!” Jack shouted.  “Just stop for a minute!”  He took a breath and moved a hand through Ianto’s hair.  “You’re a wizard?” he asked Ianto.

“Yes,” Hermione answered for him.  “But he’s been bound and disguised, and I would bet that any request for help will have been met with violence.”  She looked at Ianto.

“You tried to cut my throat with a peacock quill,” he whispered, speaking quickly.  “Ron beat the shit out of me, Harry almost got me with an Unforgivable.  So did Ginny,” he sobbed as his chest began to bleed with more wounds.  “Luna,” he shook his head, unwilling or unable to continue.  “And Gran…  Oh, gods,” he choked, and Jack pulled him into his arms as he wept.

Hermione, Ron, and Harry exchanged shocked looks.  “So you are met with violence, and then the other person just forgets?” she asked, shocked.

“Can you do something about these cuts?” Jack asked.

“I have Dittany, but I don’t think it will help much until we can break the curse.  First things first, though,” she pointed her wand at Ianto.  “Hominum Revelio,” she incanted, just as Ianto shouted.

“NO!”

But it was too late.  He screamed in agony as Hermione’s spell did nothing but trigger what appeared to be another curse.  All they could do was wait for it to end as Ianto’s body spasmed painfully, as though having a seizure.

Ianto collapsed against Jack, taking deep breaths to try to hang on to consciousness.

“What the hell was that?” Ron shouted.

Ianto, gasping for breath, grated against the cuts inflicted by each explanation, “This is me, now.  It can’t be reversed.  My old self is dead.”

“But how?” Hermione asked.

“They transfused… and made me drink,” Ianto hissed as yet another slashing wound opened up across his chest. 

“Oh, no!” Hermione cried.  “They changed your appearance and made it permanent by forcing you to consume unicorn blood?”

Ianto sniffed, and it was confirmation enough.

“He’s right,” Hermione muttered.  “The changes to his appearance can’t be reversed, and his former appearance cannot be shown.”

“Well, good,” Jack said, holding Ianto defensively.  “I happen to like how he looks.”

“Oi, let me through,” Owen gave Hermione a small push and knelt next to Ianto.  “Wizard, eh?” he asked, his voice calm and full of something that Ianto might have called camaraderie, if he were capable of trusting friendship from anyone, any more.

Owen gave him a jab of painkillers and used the alien healing foam he had developed to close the slashes across Ianto’s chest.  “Hang in there, mate.  We’ll figure this out.”

“No, you won’t,” Ianto sniffed.  “I’ve answered all of these questions, before.”

“Who did this to you?” Harry asked, and Ianto’s head snapped up.

“They haven’t asked you that one before?” Jack asked, hopeful.

Ianto took a deep breath.  He knew this one would hurt.  “The Carrows,” he howled as both thighs opened up in multiple slashes.

“He’s losing too much blood,” Owen shouted, cutting away Ianto’s suit trousers and working quickly to close up the wounds.

“We need information,” Harry snapped, his voice tense.  He looked to Hermione and Ron.  “He’s about our age.  We should know him.”

“His appearance has been altered,” Hermione pointed out.  “And probably his voice.”

“The Carrows did this to him,” Ron added.  He looked at Ianto, his eyes narrowed.

Ianto was panting, a different kind of pain sharpening his focus.  He stared at Ron, trying to figure out how to say something, as fact, that might not be so revealing as to engage the curse again.  So he closed his eyes and told a story, knowing the boy in the story was the furthest thing from Ianto Jones, broken and bleeding on the floor by Jack’s desk.

“There was a boy in your class.  Same house, shared a dorm room with ‘the boy who lived’.  Forgetful.  Had a toad named…” he hissed as he realized names were the biggest trigger for the curse.  “Always running away, the little bastard.  How you met, on the train…  His boggart was the potions master...”

“Oh my God,” Hermione gasped and grabbed Ianto’s hand.  “Neville?”

***