Wunjo
Minister Drechsler sat at his ornate desk, the flickering light from the gas lamps casting long shadows across his opulent office. Rich mahogany paneling lined the walls, adorned with intricate carvings and the occasional family crest. Heavy velvet drapes framed the tall windows, now closed against the night. His desk was an imposing piece of furniture, cluttered with stacks of parchment, ink pots, and a gleaming silver letter opener. The ceiling was high, painted a soft blue that his wife had chosen when he had taken office twelve years ago.
Two guards stood resolutely outside his door, their presence a comforting reminder— Lukas and Emil. Inside, two more guards flanked the interior doorway, alert and vigilant— his two personal guards, Anton and Felix. He knew that the palace's perimeter was warded and patrolled by his most trusted staff. There had been no option in the increased security, not with the recent deaths. He had ensured that those now monitoring his every move were well compensated for their time. He worked late hours after all, and no one enjoyed standing at a doorframe at half past midnight.
Despite the hour, he was deeply engrossed in drafting a response to the media, condemning his neighboring countries for their hasty and oppressive anti-Muggleborn legislation in the wake of the recent assassinations of their ministers. Disgusting, the way fear had managed to grip those around him. He had received owl after owl urging him to take proactive steps against the blossoming terrorist group.
Wilhelm prided himself on his rationality, and he knew snapping the wands of a large portion of his population due to a small insurrection was not proactive. It was illogical.
The scratch of his quill against parchment was the only sound in the room, minus the occasional squeak of a floorboard under Anton's boot.
Wilhelm dipped his quill back into the ink pot, letting out a huff as a drip of ink splattered on his parchment. The puff of air solidified in front of him, forming a condensate cloud. A chill seemed to seep into the air. He paused, lifting his head and narrowing his eyes. Another breath through his nose, and he swore he felt ice tickle the hairs of his mustache as his breath clouded in front of him.
He swished his wand, casting a warming charm over the room. The guards at the door straightened as their own breath became ice. Wands were drawn. The quill stilled in his hand as he strained to listen, catching the faintest hint of a gurgling noise from outside the door.
His heart skipped a beat.
The sound was followed by a heavy thud, as if a large object had slumped against the door. His guards inside the room stiffened immediately, protection wards already spilling from the tips of their wands around his desk. He made to stand, but Felix motioned for him to stay behind his desk, within the crisscrossing wards Anton was creating.
Wilhelm's pulse quickened as he saw a dark, viscous liquid begin to seep under the door frame, pooling slowly but inexorably into the room.
"Beschütze den Minister!" Felix barked, his voice taut with urgency.
Anton moved swiftly to Wilhelm's side, his stance protective. The Minister's mind raced. The wards around the property should have prevented any intrusion. And the guards along the perimeter should have stopped any intruder who happened to make it through.
How had this happened?
The temperature in the room seemed to drop even further, and the gas lamps flickered and went out. Lumos's lit the end of all three of their wands, painting the room in shadows that seemed to stretch and leap across the walls. Heavy breathing filled the space, with icy condensate puffing from each of their mouths.
His eyes remained fixed on the spreading puddle, a growing dread gnawing at him. The once comforting security of his office now felt like a gilded cage.
The guards exchanged a tense glance, then Felix, nearest the door, slowly approached wand raised. His steps were careful, measured, but the Minister could see the slight tremor in his hand.
"Bleiben Sie zurück, Minister," Anton cautioned, his voice low but firm.
Wilhelm swallowed hard, gripping the arms of his chair. He had faced political battles, duels of wit and words, but this— this was a confrontation with an unknown terror. No, not unknown. He had seen the crime scene photos. He knew nothing but death awaited outside that door. He palmed his wand tighter, holding it level with the door.
Felix reached the door, his hand hesitating on the handle for a fraction of a second before he yanked it open.
The heavy wooden door swung wide, revealing the lifeless bodies of the two guards who had been stationed outside. Their throats were slit, their eyes wide, and their mouths still open in a haunted scream. Their bellies were cut, neck to navel, intestines spilling out like gutted pigs. Blood painted the ground beneath them, handprints scattered among the wooden floor as if they had attempted to drag themselves from whatever monster had ripped them open.
Wilhelm stood on unsteady legs, forcing cold air into his lungs as he increased the distance between himself and what lay beyond the doorway. Anton stepped in front of him, his wand shaking in his hand.
The corridor beyond was eerily silent, the flickering light casting macabre shadows on the scene. Felix began praying under his breath as he forced himself into the hall.
The moment his booted foot touched the blood-soaked ground beyond the office, he evaporated into dust.
No— not dust. Bloody mist.
A cry of terror lodged itself in his throat, and he grabbed Anton by the collar before attempting to apparate off the grounds—
Nothing.
His wards wouldn't allow him out.
The Minister's breath caught as he saw movement in the darkness beyond the doorway. Two glowing red eyes stared back at him, filled with malevolence and an unnatural hunger. He barely had time to register the danger before the creature lunged forward, moving with terrifying speed.
A gut-wrenching scream, and then darkness.
___•___
Sebastian
He hadn't heard from Alexander in two weeks.
Not a word or a single twinge from the coin he carried obsessively with him. It never left his side, or rarely even his hand.
The Swiss minister's death occurred the day after Sebastian had left Bern. Though death was a nicer word than how the crime scene was described. According to the newspaper, both Bern's and England's own, the palace had been a slaughterhouse. Nearly fifteen staff members, including four perimeter guards and eight guards within the manor, had been gutted. The minister himself was unrecognizable the report claimed, innards strewn about the room like party decor.
Spells and muggle means had been used, and fear had grown rampant around Europe that someone could bypass such complex warding as that around a minister's palace.
Another religious quote had been left in blood in the minister's office—
And I will bring distress upon men, that they shall walk like blind men, because they have sinned: and their blood shall be poured out as dust, and their flesh as the dung.
Signed off as 'The sword of Gideon.' Of course, this had sparked debate on who Gideon was and if the leader of the responsible terrorist group was claiming responsibility and naming himself.
Sebastian had no such thoughts. The handwriting was hers, and the words—
The words had been so similar to the reading he had found in Headmistress Beckett's office at the orphanage. It hadn't taken much for him to find a muggle Bible, one short trip to London and he had found plenty. He had scoured the pages until he found it. The quote— Zephaniah 1:17. And Gideon, referenced in Judges 7:20, who led a small, underdog army to victory against a much larger force through cunning and divine intervention.
Was this her master's command? Sebastian knew from Alexander that convincing the public of a muggleborn terrorist group was part of the grand scheme, though merely a distraction, according to Alexander. But had her master insisted on quotes from the muggle God written at the crime scenes? Would a pureblood, because Sebastian was still sure it had to be a pureblood, even recognize those words?
Or had some part of Ash, the part that had grown up reading the Bible and praying for absolution from her own personal hell, remembered it and had chosen the words herself?
He hoped. Merlin, he hoped. Because then she was in there, trapped, but in there. And if she was in there, he would get her back.
The assassination of Minister Drechsler had fueled the flames of fear around Europe. Switzerland, with the establishment of their new minister— one who had a silver ring on his right index finger—had closed their borders. The wards around the country now repelled all muggleborns attempting to enter, or flee the country.
The same wards had been finalized around England and France, as well as those countries that had already suffered assassinations. England's ministry was teetering on the edge of neutrality, with talks of implementing their own muggleborn registry. Suspected terrorists had been captured near Wiltshire, and expedited to Romania. Sebastian tried not to think of what would happen to them.
Muggleborns in Budapest, Hungary had reportedly revolted against the purist regime, inciting a riot in the streets last Wednesday. Retaliation had been swift, and four of those who had been involved in the protest were killed. Others who had been captured at the rally had their wands snapped and were sentenced to ten years in Azkaban— where they would likely go insane before the chance of release.
A precipice was coming, one in which the wizarding world would tip over the edge. Sebastian just wasn't sure when.
The heat of July had arrived, and with it a new wave of foreboding. As he predicted, graduation would arrive earlier than usual. He had one week left in this Room. One week left of feeling her scent wrapped around him as he slept. One week before he had to return to his family home. He wouldn't need to find work just yet, or beg Headmaster Black for a teaching position. The Sallows hadn't been extraordinarily wealthy by any means, but Sebastian had rarely touched his parent's vault since he became master of the house.
But he would lose the Room, the Undercroft, and the library. Most of the books he had compiled at this point, however, were from outside sources, including those Ominis had brought from Gaunt Manor. However, The Ancestral Lineages of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, was from the library. It would remain with him if he did not finish his compilation of pureblood houses by graduation, Madam Scribner be damned.
With transaction records copied from those held in the ministry— Solomon had been an auror, and there was nothing other aurors liked more than helping the family of their fallen, even with seemingly secured records— he was able to narrow his list down further.
His original list contained twenty families, with around two hundred and four male suspects— he did not remove any males from the list unless they were under the age of fifteen. Even Alaric Rosier, who was reaching the age of one hundred and twenty-two. He was barely mobile, but in his hay day he created the acid hex, which left victims' skin melting from their bones.
The transaction records turned twenty families down to twelve. Twelve pure-blooded houses had traded with either Rookwood or Harlow; illegal artifacts, stolen wands, magical beasts, and of course goblin silver. Of course, on bank statements, the sales were listed as anything above the board— pets, fine jewelry, the newest line of wizarding robes.
Otherwise, Sebastian doubted those families would allow their transactions to be written down and kept in the financial department of the ministry.
Sebastian wasn't able to tell what purebloods had truly bought from Harlow and Rookwood, only the dates of service. All dating from fifth year and back. Once again the Carrows, Malfoys, Lestranges, Notts, and Gaunts featured prominently on his list. Unsurprising, with their familial ties to dark magic.
Sebastian had split his focus between his shortening list, and the books Ominis had left him two weeks ago. The books practically seeped dark magic, each tome heavy with it. It crawled over his skin, tingling and twisting his own magic inside of him. It was a familiar feeling, one he acquainted himself with his fourth year. Most of the books were written in Latin, which Sebastian knew well enough, and a few were transcribed in ancient runes.
"No that symbol is definitely for Galleon, look at the thickness of the downstroke."
"There wasn't even a symbol for Galleon in the fifteen hundreds! It's obviously talking about a general metal, it's too similar to the symbol for silver for it to be anything else."
"You are a bloody idiot! Look at the modern symbol for Galleon, look how the three intersecting lines in the middle are nearly identical in band width to the two intersecting lines on that symbol."
"Just admit defeat." He threw a bonbon at her and it bounced off her forehead. She plucked the treat off the floor and popped it into her mouth.
"Never." She mumbled around a mouthful of chocolatey goodness.
He watched her rapturously, his eyes dipping to her sinful mouth. He had gotten a taste of that mouth twice now, and it was never enough. He spent his nights gripping himself under the sheets, thinking about how wet she had been the night of that party, how she'd practically begged him to touch her. And her taste—
Like the sweetest ambrosia.
He had nearly come in his trousers when he'd lifted his fingers to his mouth and sucked the taste of her straight into his bloodstream. And the look she had given him— the heat—
He was a horrible person. Here she was, trying to save the world again, only days after nearly killing herself with her ancient magic, and he was wishing he could taste her again. Not that she wanted anything more. No she was quite clear that she wanted fun, a distraction from her magic. He would give that to her, just as he would give anything to her, despite the fact that it tore something inside of him every time he touched her.
The thoughts instantly stopped the blood from making its rapid descent to his cock.
Her magic had frightened her, to the point where she vowed to never touch it again. If Sebastian hadn't seen the fear and pain in her eyes that night, he might've pushed her, might've insisted she not give up on that part of herself. But he had seen, and so instead he began working on a suppressant potion. He nearly had it down at this point, he was missing only a few key ingredients.
He shoved a bonbon into his mouth and forced his gaze away from her, despite the fact that he knew moments later he would catch himself staring again.
The memory hurt. Worse than whatever self-inflicted torment Sebastian thought he had felt that day with her in the Undercroft.
Every time he translated the runes littering the blood magic books, he thought of her. Granted, he was always thinking of her; but the memories of them shoulder to shoulder, translating that tome while both of their eyes continuously dipped to the others' lips—
It was the kind of ache that resonated down to his bones. It made this Room seem that much more hollow— as if she could walk through the door at any moment, brandishing treacle tarts, but never arrived.
He forced himself to focus on the task at hand.
The first book Sebastian had combed through had information about the construction of blood wards around ancestral property, as well as the rituals accompanying an heir stepping into power. He recognized some of the information— blood wards that tied directly to lineage, barring others from direct entry; as well as regular ward management, which included the lord of the house spilling a drop of blood into a runic circle during a specific time of year.
There were more dark rituals in this specific book, ones that involved spilling muggle and muggleborn blood directly outside of the wards to increase the repellant nature. There were also blood spells that warded specific items of interest— curses that would protect jewels and books from falling into hands outside of the family.
The second book, which Sebastian was still translating, seemed even more useless. It was a first-hand account from Ominis' great grandfather on the importance of blood purity in order to strengthen the family line and the wards that protect it. It detailed his marriage to his first cousin, and the strength which then imbued his descendants. Sebastian was tempted to burn it, but he was afraid that something useful might be mentioned later in the journal.
He still had three books left, and he prayed to Merlin, Morgana, or whatever god was listening that something useful would be in them.
___•___
The moon was high in the sky, its crescent shedding little light as he arrived at the cave. He tapped his wand along the surface, and slid into the opening.
The smell had worsened, though Sebastian wasn't surprised.
Harlow was sitting there, chin rested on his pock-filled chest, mumbling to himself. He was naked from the waist up, with skin missing in sections where Sebastian had to cut away his clothing after it had imbedded into his flesh. His fever would recede for a day or two at a time before returning, turning him near delirious— or more so than usual. His fingers were bent backwards at the knuckles on his right hand, while those on his left were missing.
The shape of his legs had regressed as well. The repeated breaks and heals without reprieve to stand had shaped his legs into something grotesque— and had begun to merge the sloughed off parts of his thighs to the chair itself. His toes were purple and black from the loss of blood flow, and Sebastian wondered if they'd simply fall off on their own.
Frankenstein's monster. And Sebastian was the good doctor.
He had little use for Harlow anymore, with Alex supplying information; except as a plaything. This space was his sanctuary, a place to let the dark out. Or, more aptly, let the dark in. It was a place to try out the new curses he would find amongst the dark tomes as he searched for ways to free Ash. A place to take out his frustrations when another day passed without her.
Some would think that beating on a near-dead man who couldn't fight back was not only disgusting but useless; after all, what was the point in a fight if the opponent let you best them?
Sebastian had no such sentiments.
He drew his wand and pointed it at Harlow's sternum, "Diffindo."
A slash split his skin across the breastbone, and blood spewed across Sebastian's black button down. Harlow merely whimpered and gurgled. Another slash over his mottled ribs, this time deeper; enough to see the sinew and muscle beneath his rotting skin.
He carved deeper, spending hours slicing, until Harlow began convulsing in his chair.
Sebastian dumped two Wiggenwelds down his throat before starting again.
___•___
Alex
Alex stood outside of her chamber door in darkness, save the light of the crescent moon streaming in through the bay window behind him.
Black had kept the both of them busy since their return from Switzerland. Alex was sent on reconnaissance across Europe, ensuring the enthralled ministers had no slips from their leash.
He was also frequently sent to the ministry in England, polyjuiced of course, in order to relay back information of the state of the country. Black himself was frequently at the ministry, sitting in meetings, or utilizing his family seat on the Wizengamot.
She was training. Constantly. Utilizing her magic until the skin burned bright red under her cuffs and collar.
Alex was exhausted after his recent trip back from Hungary, in which he replenished Black's blood along the minister's rune-carved ring.
He was exhausted, and yet he couldn't sleep.
He tightened his grip on the wooden figurine in his pocket before raising his free hand. He knocked swiftly and quietly, and waited a few moments before he opened the door and entered.
The room was darker than the hall, with only a fraction of the moonlight shining in. He could see only outlines of the furniture as he moved into the space.
She wasn't in bed, nor was she staring out of the window. She was facing the far wall, close enough that her nose was nearly pressed against it. Her back was to him, but he saw her hands raised and moving against the plastered surface.
He stepped closer and heard faint scratching.
He pulled his hand from his pocket, releasing the trinket as his brows pulled together. He instead pulled his wand from its holster, casting a quick Lumos, "What are y—"
Alex's voice caught in his throat as he saw the blood glinting from her ruined fingernails that continued to scratch violently at the wall. Lines and curves were gouged into the painted wood, decorating the entire surface with their haphazard design.
"Stop." He commanded, his voice hoarse as he watched blood trickle along her wrist as she hacked at the wall with her fingers.
She didn't acknowledge his order.
He gripped her shoulders, ignoring the icy bite of cold that leeched from her skin even through her clothes. "Stop it," he hissed, panic lacing every syllable.
She dug her nails more furiously into the surface, clawing and scratching with both hands as the skin under her manacles began to crack and burn. No sounds fell from her lips, no expression painted her face or eyes, not even as the skin under her collar began to blacken.
It took him dragging her from the wall and stunning her to end the madness. And as Alex placed her in bed and stepped back to the wall, his hands trembling, he saw that her scratches weren't haphazard at all—
Wunjo. Algiz. Uruz.
They were runes.