Moroi
The office was shrouded in darkness, the only illumination coming from the flickering glow of a lone candle that cast long, twisting shadows across the room. The man sat hunched over his desk in the dimly lit office, the scratch of his quill against parchment the only sound in the oppressive silence. Lightning flashed outside the window, but the man paid it no mind, his hand moving swiftly across the page.
The boom of thunder followed shortly after, close enough to rattle the window pane. He jumped, and cursed himself for it. Shaking his head, he looked down at the ink blots now speckled over his work. Another fouler curse fell from his lips. He picked up the sleek birch wand at his side, flicking it over the mistaken drips.
He fell back into rhythm, dragging the quill quickly and flawlessly, inking the characters onto the page. Another flash, briefly illuminating the room with a blinding light that danced across the walls like ghostly fingers. In the corner of his eye, the man thought he saw movement, a fleeting shadow that stood solitary before disappearing into the darkness.
He paused, his hand freezing mid-sentence as a chill raced down his spine. He felt as if he were being watched, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end as a sense of unease settled over him like a heavy blanket. But he dismissed it as nothing more than childish fear, the product of an overactive imagination. His wife always said he was quick to fear, chastised him for it on occasion. He blamed it on his youth. After all, his mother had told the most chilling bedtime stories; strigoi stealing him and his sister away in the night lest they behave badly.
But he was no child.
Dismissively, he turned back to his writing, the words flowing from his quill with an urgency that belied the creeping sense of dread that gnawed at him from within. But as he reached the end of the page, a sound caught his attention—a low scratching. As if a fingernail was being drug across the wall. As quickly as it started, it faded into nothing.
His mind flashed with images of moroi, fangs bared, ripping into him—
What would be the issue with continuing his work at home?
With a quick shake of his head, the man rose from his seat, his movements stiff and awkward as he clumsily stuffed his papers in his bag. His wife would be asleep, the children too, there would be no reason not to use the office at his home. Not out of fear, he told himself, pocketing his wand; no, it was just late and stormy and he should be on his way regardless.
Another flash of light and boom of thunder sounded and he dropped the contents of his bag, spilling the paperwork across the floor. He fumbled for his wand in his suit pocket before cursing it all and dropping to his knees, shoving the scrolls and documents and loose quills back into the leather bag manually.
He should visit his mother’s grave this weekend, he thought, distracting himself from the trembling in his fingers. Blasted woman and her horror stories.
He lifted his eyes from the disheveled mess in his bag, and froze. His blood ran cold as he caught sight of a pair of red eyes gleaming in the darkness of the corner. Fear surged through him like a tidal wave, paralyzing him with its icy grip as he stared into the abyss of its watchful eyes.
With a strangled cry, he pushed backwards, his chair crashing to the ground as he fell against it, scrambling to put distance between himself and the figure now cocking its head in the corner.
“Moroi!” He gasped, holding his hands in front of his body like a shield—
“Stai înapoi—“ His voice was cut off as a force wrapped itself around his throat, tightening until he was gargling, fingers tearing at the invisible magic cutting off his air supply.
Black spots danced at the edges of his vision as his capillaries burst; lightning painting his vision as it flashed once more—
Giving him a last glimpse of the red-eyed monster before his neck twisted and snapped.
___•___
Sebastian
Sebastian's boots crunched against the forest floor as he stalked through the underbrush, his wand held tightly in his hand. The air was thick with the scent of spring, the delicate fragrance of blossoming flowers mingling with the earthy aroma of damp soil. Above him, the canopy of trees rustled softly in the breeze, their newly formed leaves casting dappled shadows on the forest floor.
He wiped at the sweat on his brow, clenching his jaw at the assault of memories—
“It’s too hot,” Ash grumbled, craning her neck back as if the new angle would afford a reprieve from the stifling heat. Her eyes were closed, a frown on her pouty pink lips, and Sebastian drank in the sight.
He’d met her only weeks ago, and yet he found himself distracted more often than not.
“It’s still summer, Cendrillion.” He retorted, a smirk pulling at the edge of his mouth as he watched a furrow develop between her eyebrows. She cracked an eye open and he quickly busied himself with the landscape in front of him and not the blonde witch at his side.
“I’m aware of the season, Sallow,” she replied, rolling her eyes as she wiped a bead of sweat from her forehead, “I don’t see why a second trip to Hogsmeade is necessary, the first went so splendidly.” Her voice was laced with sarcasm and Sebastian hid his grin behind a cough.
“You didn’t get to see Honeydukes, our little confectionery store.”
He delighted in the way her eyes lit up, the smallest glint of excitement amidst the shroud of mystery that seemed to surround her. Sebastian considered himself victorious when she clicked her tongue and picked up their pace along the path, “Well. In that case, I suppose a second trip is fine.”
He laughed, and followed her up the path, deciding that he wouldn’t quite mind following her anywhere.
It was May and no one asked if he was ready.
Sebastian pushed through the thick trees, shoving against vines that dangled in his path. He ground his teeth as the sound of fireworks continued over the castle behind him.
Fireworks. For her vigil.
Sebastian ripped the suffocating funeral robe from his shoulders, throwing it into the dirt. A thought had his wand swishing through the air, flames erupting from the tip as he lit the stupid fucking garment on fire.
The ministry had overseen it. After five months of ‘We don’t knows’ and ‘We’re sorry for your losses’ they had been glad to bury the ‘Hero of Hogwarts’ body or no.
Sebastian had stood among the gathered students and faculty in the courtyard, his fists clenched at his sides as he had listened to the sympathies and somber words of Headmaster Black. The same practiced speech the bumbling idiot had given at the end of fifth year with the loss of Professor Fig.
The courtyard was filled with bodies. Sebastian had felt trapped, smothered as he stood shoulder to shoulder among classmates. He could scarcely suck down air as he listened to line after line of ‘a bright light gone out’ and ‘taken too soon’ and his personal favorite ‘cherished by all’.
As Professor Weasley stood, and spoke of Ash's courage and bravery, Sebastian's anger had burned hot within him, a raging inferno that threatened to consume him whole. How dare they stand there and mourn her as if she were already gone? How dare they consign her to the past without so much as a fight?
The weeping had been the worst part. Watching people cry over her, people who had barely spared a glance in Ash’s direction when she was drowning in misery sixth year— it was torturous.
Ominis had held him back when Garreth fucking Weasley stood to say a few words of his ‘beloved friend.’
Ominis couldn’t hold Sebastian back when the fireworks began, not when he had caught sight of Poppy and Natty glaring at the infernal bursts of light and color as if they too couldn’t bare the thought of brightness with Ash gone.
He hadn’t given a speech. Refused when Professor Weasley had asked. He wouldn’t pretend she was dead. Not when he knew otherwise. He had glimpsed Adelaide’s body. The damage wrecked on the girl. There was no doubt what would happen— what had already begun happening— to Ash. His Ash.
Another boom sounded behind him and he turned, slamming his fist against a tree trunk. Fireworks. As if there was something to celebrate. It had been an insistence by the Minster himself, a way to remind the good folk of the light that still remained amongst darkness.
What a fucking joke.
He choked down air, leaning his forehead against the gnarled wood as he fought to fill his lungs.
It was his fault.
Guilt gnawed at him like a hungry beast, a relentless reminder of his failure. He replayed the events of that day over and over in his mind, each memory a fresh stab of pain.
He had lost her.
Sebastian knew one thing for certain. There was someone higher up in charge— someone who had placed Harlow as a pawn in their path. Someone who knew they would find that cave, find Adelaide’s body. Someone who was aware of Bragbor’s experimentation with goblin silver—
Though none of the pieces of the puzzle mattered when he didn’t know where she was.
Dark energy crackled at his fingertips, fueled by the brewing storm of emotions he could scarcely hold at bay. Sebastian pushed off the tree, and stalked deeper into the forest.
___•___
Sebastian tapped his wand along the jagged rock outcropping, a rhythmic set of touches along its stone face. Seconds later, a rumbling sounded as the rock began shifting, creating a small craggy opening amongst the stone— a cave of his own.
He stepped into the darkness and sealed the entrance behind him.
The torches lit as he passed them, into the main chamber. It wasn’t grand— only about the size of his dorm room; but it did the job.
The last torches lit as Sebastian began rolling up his sleeves.
“Right. Where did we leave off?”
He turned his dark eyes to the middle of the chamber, to the figure bound and magically gagged in a wooden chair.
The man lifted his head, his purple and black mottled face grotesque in the low lighting. There was hatred in his eyes as he stared back. Dark brown hair fell limp over his sweat-slicked forehead, fever most likely. Sebastian would need to force another potion down his throat soon.
The man’s bare chest heaved as he sucked down oxygen, a rattling wheezing sound as he tried taking small short breaths. Broken ribs were very constrictive after all. A slice down his left pectoral was still bleeding, and Sebastian lazily tracked a trickle of blood as it slid down his emaciated body.
“Romania, I think.” Sebastian flicked his wand, removing the man’s gag.
“You fucking—“ the man hacked, coughing up a glob of blood and snot, “—fucking cunt.”
Sebastian rolled his eyes, his face the picture of cold contemplation, “Do we have to go through this every time, Theophilus? Or can we skip through your measly insults and discuss why you thought it prudent to bring up Romania.”
Theophilus Harlow spat another glob of old blood and spit at Sebastian’s feet. Or attempted to. It mostly slid from his mouth in a slow fashion, dropping closer to his own bare and mangled feet than to Sebastian’s boots.
Sebastian sneered, “I guess you need the foreplay to warm you up.” Sebastian stepped closer, placing his wand under Harlow’s chin. He tipped it up, forcing the man’s neck to bend back at a near painful angle, “Need to feel like you’re not betraying your cause so much as being forced to reveal your secrets. How noble of you.”
Sebastian drug his wand down, increasing the pressure and watching Harlow’s eyes flicker between rage and preparation. Pain was nothing to a man who’d spent over a year in Azkaban, which is why Sebastian had learned to be creative.
The candles around the cave guttered and went out, leaving the two of them in darkness. Only the sound of Harlow’s rattling breath was heard, the pace of each noisy inhale increasing.
No pain wasn’t enough, fear was needed too.
Sebastian murmured a charm, so low it was near indistinguishable, and his wand tip became icy. He sliced downwards along Harlow’s sternum, not deep enough to cut. A trail of ice followed in his path, seeping into the skin.
Harlow whimpered.
Sebastian nearly grinned at the pitiful sound.
Azkaban was a notoriously dark and frozen place. And there was nothing like a little reminder.
Sebastian held the tip of his wand over Harlow’s third rib, a broken one if he remembered correctly, and allowed the icy fractals to creep along his skin.
“You mentioned Romania last week. The instability. Why?”
“Y-you’re all fucking idiots—“
Sebastian pressed his wand harder, digging into the bruised flesh and Harlow spluttered, groaning as the ice spread.
“Why. Romania.” Sebastian pressed, gritting his teeth—
“Easy target—“ Harlow finally gasped out, and Sebastian eased the wand from his skin, letting the frozen patches melt. The candle nearest them re-lit, a reward for the semblance of an answer.
“For what?” He questioned, listening to the shudders and wheezes from the pathetic man.
“You’re all going to die—“ Harlow laughed, a choking horrid sound. He hacked, leaning his head back as he shivered. His shivering turned into a convulsing shake, his eyes rolling back—
Sebastian swore, tearing through his bag. He yanked out a Wiggenweld and gripped Harlow’s jaw, digging his fingers into the bruised skin and holding it open. Sebastian tipped the potion into his throat, and slammed his jaw shut before he could cough up the green liquid.
He hadn’t known to do that the first time he’d needed to dose Harlow, after a particularly brutal interrogation. He’d wound up with a spray of Wiggenweld and spittle across his face that day.
But Sebastian had learned— had usually known the exact number of days Harlow could go without a healing potion. He kept him toeing the line of unconsciousness, just on the side of lucidity. Just as he kept him on this side of necrosis— letting some of the wounds, especially the sores he’d accumulated from sitting ramrod straight in a chair for five months, fester for a time. His body had begun healing incorrectly, bones arching in jagged patterns matching that of the confines of his chair. A torture in itself.
Harlow’s body arched and twisted in the bonds holding him to the chair, but eventually his throat relaxed enough for him to swallow. He stank like rotting meat, rancid enough that Sebastian considered dumping a second potion down his gullet. Harlow sagged against the chair, unconscious but alive.
Sebastian hated this man. Hated that he was here. Hated that he was forced to keep him alive. He slammed his fist into the man’s abdomen, jolting his unconscious body, listening to the satisfying crack of his freshly healed ribs. Another punch, to his nose, sending blood spattering across the stone floor. Sebastian let out a scream of frustration and hit him again and again and again.
Sebastian dumped two more Wiggenwelds down his throat before he left.
___•___
The sun was setting as Sebastian exited the forest, rubbing dittany along the small cuts littering his knuckles. He’d learned to heal them after the first month, after he noticed Professor Sharp’s eyes linger on his bruised knuckles during one of the few times he actually attended class.
He watched as the purple and red cracked skin sealed itself, swallowing the fury still threatening to consume him.
Months of this. Months of barely pulling any useful information from Harlow. Never any information on who was controlling their operation. Nothing on where Ash had been taken. Sebastian wasn’t even sure Harlow knew himself. If he had access to veritaserum or knew legilimency he would be leagues ahead of where he was now. But veritaserum was banned from Hogwarts. Sebastian had checked every potions cabinet, including Sharp’s personal stores. He’d even checked knockturn alley, but black market veritaserum was rare, and the cost astronomical.
And legilimency? Practically impossible. Sebastian was a piss poor Occlemens; he’d tried learning from Ominis after Anne had initially been cursed. It required immense patience, an organized mind, and a grip on one’s emotions.
Sebastian lacked all three.
And legilimency was a skill beyond that of occlemency, with the need for an even greater grasp on one’s body and mind. He had considered trying on Harlow regardless of his inaptitude, but Sebastian worried he’d shred Harlow’s mind in the process.
And then he’d be back to square one.
Sebastian raked a hand through his tangled hair, longer now, nearly enough to pull back. Ash would’ve enjoyed braiding it, he thought numbly, probably would’ve insisted on weaving flowers into the strands.
Or she would’ve hated it, insisted that it was a hazard for dueling and that his usual length was much more practical.
He wouldn’t know. He hadn’t gotten the chance to ask.
___•___
An owl was waiting for him at the bridge entrance to the castle, a tawny little thing, clutching a scroll in a taloned foot. Sebastian stared at it, wondering if Minister Spavin had finally responded to his requests to see the archives.
He snatched the scroll, unfurling it quickly, all hope leaching from his person as he read the feminine scrawl. He crumpled the letter and dropped it to the ground, walking past the hooting owl without as much of a glance.
___•___
“Sebastian.”
Ominis’ clipped voice echoing off the hallway walls had him slowing to a stop, squeezing his eyes shut at the incoming lecture. He didn’t have the energy today. Or any day, truthfully. Harlow’s choking wheezes were still fresh on his mind, though no more so than those infernal fireworks cracking and booming around his temporal lobe.
“What, Ominis?”
“You haven’t been to class in days.“
“It’s Saturday.” Sebastian replied shortly, turning to face him.
Ominis had changed from his own funeral attire, forgoing the black robes for a soft green dress shirt. No suit jacket. He must’ve been preparing for bed when the bastard decided to hound him instead.
“You know what I meant.” Ominis retorted, before shifting on his feet. He sighed, his face pinched, “We talked about this, I can only cover for you so much—“
“I don’t need you covering for me.” Sebastian snapped, exhaustion weighing heavy on his bones. When had he last slept? He knew the answer to that, but tried to steer his thoughts away from a blonde tracing patterns over his chest—
“Are you going to see Anne tomorrow?”
Sebastian rubbed a hand over his face. What a fantastic reminder. Failure. He was a fucking failure to everyone he cared about in his life. Couldn’t save Anne, couldn’t save Ash—
“Yes.” He breathed, his throat clicking as he fought past the stone lodged there.
“I can accompany you, to see her. It’s been a while—“
“I have to go.” He interrupted before Ominis could continue. He didn’t want to talk, to anyone, least of all his closet friend who should’ve understood— but didn’t. “Professor Weasley owled me. Wants to meet.” He said gruffly, turning from Ominis before an arguement could arise.
Sebastian continued down the hall, listening for the telltale signs of Ominis’ footsteps turning or worse following. But he heard nothing, as if the boy was listening to him go.
___•___
“Please sit, Mr. Sallow.”
He did, dropping into the chair with little grace. He could blame it on the hour, near curfew at this point. But he didn’t care enough to give an excuse. Professor Weasley held back a grimace at his lack of tact and cleared her throat, “Have you put any thought into Auror Crane’s offer?”
Skipping the pretense. He could appreciate that at least. He had lost count of the many condolences and offers for companionship. It was refreshing to get to the meat of the conversation without an ‘I’m sorry’ clouding the air.
Sebastian ran his tongue over his teeth, “I’ve been preoccupied.”
She gave a short nod, letting out a sigh as she herself sat. A bob of her finger had two saucers and teacups floating from the service tray across the room. Her russet colored hair was streaked with grey, more so than years prior and her brown eyes heavy with an exhaustion that mirrored his own. Professor Weasley added a cube of sugar to her own tea, and sent the teaspoon stirring with a twirl of her index finger. “Mr. Sallow,” her voice was soft, motherly, and Sebastian hated the pity that laced each syllable, “You have been through more tragedy than a person your age should bear.”
There it was. Now he was glad he hadn’t voiced his appreciation for the lack of pity, not when it had come only minutes later. Sebastian didn’t respond, and his teeth nearly cracked with the force of his jaw clenching down. He stared at her, waiting for her to get on with it.
“I do not claim to understand what you’ve been through, nor do I want to tell you how to grieve. But…” she paused, considering her words, “I recommend that you expend some of your energy preparing for your future. You are a bright student, and despite your…lapse in classroom attendance, you have a great chance at obtaining E’s and an O or two on your N.E.W.Ts.”
“Did you get a chance to look at the information I compiled on the uprising in Romania?” Sebastian sidelined, leaning back in his chair. He tapped his index and middle fingers impatiently on the armrest.
She shifted in her seat, taking a moment to sip her tea before sitting the cup gingerly back atop the saucer. ”Mr. Sallow, I am concerned and albeit a tad unwilling to know where you received your information, and by what means,” she gave him a pointed look, one he returned with a bored stare. She continued regardless, ”I did however look into it, but I am sure that the political instability in Romania is unconnected to Miss Cendrillion.”
“Just like the disappearances of muggleborns and half-bloods were unconnected?” He said, eyes hardening.
Her lips thinned, but she didn’t take the bait. Instead she dropped her gaze to his untouched tea, an invitation he didn’t acknowledge.
“The ministry has not looked into the exact details of how Miss Cendrillion was taken, nor the circumstances leading up to her departure, due to your assurances that neither you nor her were the direct cause of the…abundance of bodies in the outer regions of the forbidden forest.”
Abundance of bodies was a nice way to put it. The macabre sight must have turned stomachs when the ministry had come to investigate. Piles of burned out husks and entrails cataloged and documented. Everything but Adelaide Oakes body, which had been swept away in tow with Ash— taken before he could study and analyze what horrors had been inflicted upon the girl. The horrors that were most likely being inflicted upon his love—
Professor Weasley cleared her throat, snapping Sebastian from the spiral taking place behind his well constructed mask. She clasped her hands together atop the desk, “I fear that should you delve further into the business regarding—“
“My wand was clean professor, you performed the Priori Incantatem charm yourself.” He interrupted, his voice cold.
“Yes, and—“
“And Ash’s wand was recovered as well, with no history of unforgivable curses.”
She gave a tight-lipped smile, ”Of course.”
Sebastian held her gaze for a moment before pushing to his feet, “If that’s all professor.” He clenched his jaw, turning from the table.
“You would make a wonderful Auror, Sebastian.”
He turned the knob, steadying himself with the cool metal under his touch, “I appreciate your vote of confidence, but Ash and I plan to become professors.”
He left, letting the remnants of the conversation roll off his back like rainwater over tarpaulin.
___•___
The Room flickered to life as he pushed open the door, a burst of light and life—
“She’s not here.” Sebastian murmured, dropping his bag roughly to the ground. The flames in the candles flickered lower, and the soft breeze stilled. He would’ve been insulted at the Room’s preference of company, had he not felt the same hollowness down to his bones.
The Room was untouched, looking exactly as it had 153 days ago. The walls unmarred, marble floors bright and gleaming, a macaron wrapped in a linen swatch on the potion table.
It smelled the same; vanilla, and the scent of her skin— like crackling embers. It was suffocatingly thick. Dizzying. So much so that it felt as if she would waltz in from the bed chamber, clothed only in his shirt, asking if he’d like to see her friendly hippogriff.
He’d been torn between burning the fucking room to the ground—ridding every corner of the evidence that she wasn’t here— and keeping it exactly the same, down to the untouched desert that was as fresh as the day she’d been taken. The latter won out at the end. This Room was the only piece of her left, and losing that, losing her again, would break him.
The only difference in appearance was the abundance of books and maps and newspapers scattered across the floor and coffee table. The maps were scribbled on, notes of where poacher camps had once been found but no longer there, of the cave system on Clagmar coast— now fully mapped after the first month of her kidnapping. That had been his first place to look, deeper in the cave. He checked every chamber, every fucking crack and crevice. It had been frustrating empty, devoid of any evidence of who took her and where.
There were also maps with pins along them, marking the disappearances of those muggleborns and halfbloods; in case of a pattern. A pattern he had yet to find.
The newspapers he’d compiled were clippings from around England and the rest of Europe, both magical and muggle papers. He’d read for any sign of uprisings in the magical, and of strange phenomena in the muggle papers. Romania was his newest collection of scraps. There was an uptick in political instability in the country, noted in both magical and muggle papers. A rapid occurrence, one that had seemingly developed only over the last month after the sudden death of the Romanian minister of magic. It was seemingly unconnected, except for Harlow’s words—
Easy target.
For what and by who, Sebastian had yet to find.
And the books. The books ranged from histories of goblin silver to tracking spells. All in different stages of completion. The tome sat in the middle of the maelstrom, with his and Ash’s translated journals beside it. He’d nearly finished the translation, holding out hope of a mention of a secondary location for Bragbor’s experimentation. It was far-fetched. Whoever was over the entire operation had known somehow that Ash would come to that cave. Which meant that they knew about this journal and its contents. It begged the question, was there another copy of the journal out there that the leader had used? Or was this the only copy? If that was the case, how did it land in the restricted section of Hogwarts?
Sebastian summoned a Pepper-Up potion from the brewing station and downed it in one go before slumping onto the couch. He grabbed the tome, flexing his fingers as the tingling effects of the potion began working down each metacarpal. He needed to finish the translation, needed to rule out the possibility that he could find her with it.
Sebastian flicked open the ancient book, forcing himself to ignore the sweeping and soft handwriting in the green journal next to him, and began.