This is a super, super belated birthday present for one of my favourite people in the world - Ronnie (Burningloststars). She's an absolutely wonderful, kick ass, philosophy freak. I love her very much.

And she loves Beauty and the Beast AUs, particularly featuring her favourite couple - Jim Moriarty and Molly Hooper. Can't say I disagree.

I do want to warn everyone reading: this fic won't be gentle on ideas of consent, kidnapping, trapping someone against their will. This will not gloss over the darker aspects of this fairy tale. Where its easier to forget that Belle was trapped by someone who wasn't being particularly kind to her, I will not let you forget it. There's a reason I put this on a very high rating.

And I'll do my best to make this as slow burny as possible. This is going to be a difficult ride. Strap in, folks.


Hush, the wind is blowing still.

The sun is falling softly –

The Dark One looks to kill.

Hush, the wind is blowing hard.

Be quiet, child, sleep soundly

Or the Dark One will steal your heart.


She was stumbling over the ice, and she knew it.

Her boots didn't help her at all, not one bit. She knew it would have been more prudent to buy new boots, of course – but Molly Hooper was not known for her prudence in matters of expense.

Her cloak fluttered idly in the wind that the winter had bestowed.

She tried her best to ineffectually bring it a little closer to her shoulders, to tighten the warmth around her, to fold into herself and vanish into the landscape. It often happened with certain souls – with certain music, with certain people.

She tripped over one of the tree roots she had indiscriminately been ignoring for the past few hours.

She had come to be alone. To be quiet. To be silent. For the landscape to whisper into her, the snow to disappear into her veins. She didn't know quite what she had been searching for, but she knew that she was determined to find some mandrake on this day.

And it was getting late.

Molly had a tendency to little regard these things. For many years, she was rather an avoided personage in the small hamlet of Little Strobesworth. She had nothing to do with anyone, she had nothing to say to anyone apart from the baker who brought his bread – and perhaps a few words to be shared with the bookkeeper who was kept busy acquiring books for her. They said her father was an eccentric – and that her taste in books itself, quite something that raised a few eyebrows. Mr. Tatterstall, had, in fact, gossiped openly about the Little Miss Hooper's choice taste in papers that were bound and filled with medical discussions of the most scandalous nature. He assured the village that nothing good could come of it.

And yet, The Little Hooper persisted. Long after her sister disappeared with some lesser known respectable gentleman to some other little hamlet close to Harrowgate. That her sister had, in fact, endeavoured to go south of the Northumberlands had surprised no one – these Hoopers, were, after all, quite odd and decidedly unworthy of their Northern accents.

No one was sure whether the younger Hooper had an accent, however, for she spoke so little and to very few. There had been an incident a year back – with a young man. An outsider, of course – none of the well bred village boys would ever think of casting an eye on the Little Hooper, although many owned to find her slightly ethereal presence a little enchanting. This was summarily dismissed as a witches' ploy, and Hooper retreated even further into her isolated little cottage.

Snow built around the cottage steadily, for she never bothered leaving after a certain point. She did not attempt to attend the Christmas Masses. She was lost, forever, in the building ice – in the words that were wrapped around her head that seem to give her that ethereal appearance that boys found so enchanting.

Molly wasn't otherworldly. She was just unacceptable.

She looked upward at the sky. She bent down at the bushes, picking a few leaves gently.

"No business, staying here, Molly," she told herself. So used to her society, that she simply spoke to herself. "Ought to be heading home, you should."

She looked around.

The sun was falling rapidly, for the sky was clouded over. It looked a little like a curtain, Molly felt. Like something waiting to happen.

The firs rustled gently – ice crunching under her boot, the soft capers of silence becoming evident more and more. Music, perhaps, which was waiting to be heard by someone willing to listen.

Unfortunately there was a single, slightly unwilling audience. Molly was trying her best to get home – and looking worriedly over her shoulder for the storm approaching her with the pace of what can only be called dangerous.

"Oh, heavens," she whispered.

Her feet were treading fast, but not in the correct direction. Firs were useless for cover, and at this point, there was nothing stopping her from getting caught in the storm. She felt certain she had spied a little shed from an abandoned cottage some yards ahead – and she didn't think anyone would miss her, should she spend the night there.

Molly walked towards the shed – hoping, beyond all hope, that her poor sense of direction will not made itself known on this night of all nights. She had, however, been walking for almost twenty minutes before she realised it had.

She looked up at the sky in despair.

"You're in a fix now, Molly," she said quietly.

And as she decided to climb the top of a hill to look and find herself, small flakes of snow started descending.

"Ah. Death by cold. Appropriate," she said. Her feet wrenched every time she lifted them, and she reached the top. In front of her, was, as odd as if it had been invisible for a long, long time – a manor. It wasn't very large, but not shabby – besides, Molly could not quite gamble away what was certainly the only shelter she had because it did not resemble a castle.

She did look upon the thing with some suspicion, however.

Molly had the strangest feeling that it had never been there. That it had appeared simply because she had been looking.


The story, of course, is the oldest in history.

The stone steps of the manor – had they ever been present, had disappeared entirely under a sheet of snow. There was nothing for Molly to do but knock persistently and find herself without anyone responding. She opened the door softly, noticing the unkempt appearance of the manor – and decided the occupants may not be there to receive her.

The door opened, of course. It opened like music. Like water through a small stream. Like snow flakes. Like a whisper.

"Is anyone home?" called Molly.

And that, perhaps, is where the story changes.


As soon as she said it, she was curiously aware of her voice echoing across the walls of the room. As soon as she said it, the trees seem to have become quieter than they were, the air seemed to become quieter as well. Not still, but quiet. Expecting something.

A shudder ran down her back. She spied an old but serviceable chair and approached it.

Her shoes clacked against the floor.

The echoes may have been hers, someone else's, someone from a time before – or perhaps, her own, from yet another time – from yet another place that she had nearly forgotten.

She attempted to quell her fear by settling into the chair – and the darkness stole on her.

It cornered her – embracing her, folding into her.

"Ah," came a voice, rich with a lack of use. "An intruder."

Molly jumped from her chair.

"What a wonderful surprise," continued the voice. She shivered quietly, turning sharply to locate it.

"I must confess," the voice wafted around her, "that you amuse me greatly."

"I'm so sorry," said Molly quickly – and to no one in particular. She twister with every second, for she was certain, perfectly certain – that the voice came from the dark. And the dark was everywhere. "I was – I was lost – and I – I –"

"You found a nice property to occupy. Most understandable," said the voice sympathetically.

Every part of Molly's body was alert with the fact that the voice meant no sympathy.

"So tell me, my dear," said the voice, finally becoming something solid.

Molly's fingers shook, shook, shook. She took a deep, shuddering breath, as the darkness receded to reveal something a lot more sinister.

"What would your name be?"

And the man was smiling, his teeth bright and gleaming and quite straight and not fanglike. They were far more terrifying that way.


Molly swallowed.

"Molly. Molly Hooper," she said, finally.

"A very charming name," he said. Her circled her.

Molly thought it wise to say nothing.

"So, Miss Hooper – it is Miss, I presume?" asked the man in a gentlemanly way.

Molly nodded, scarcely trusting herself to speak.

"How do you find my enchanted manor? Not quite an enchanted castle, but it does the job."

"Yes, sir," Molly mumbled.

"You find yourself stealing from the grounds of an enchanted castle," said the man with an air of quiet amusement. "And one does not encounter an enchanted castle without being trapped."

It was in that moment that everything became perfectly clear to Molly.

"Sir – Sir – please," she began.

"Do entreat me to think of your family, my dear, I'll find it most amusing."

"No – I – sir – I do not signify in the least to you, I'm sure – ple – please turn me out," said Molly, unable to stop herself from going warm in the face. Her eyes were burning hot, and then – as if not by her design, she was crying.

"One does not turn out people in storms such as this, Miss Hooper," said the man. "And you will find that I have been very bored in the last few centuries. You will do well to amuse, I trust – and you might last a little longer than the previous ones, if you are smart enough."

Molly swallowed.

"Sir – I – please," she begged softly.

"You beg very sweetly," said the man. "Would you prefer that I show you what I mean by cutting out your tongue."

"Sir – you cannot – I have –"

And before she knew it, she found her arms had snapped to her sides. Her body, unable to move, her tongue, curling in her mouth, and her fear, raging through her body.

"Tread carefully, Miss Hooper."

Molly stopped crying in that minute. Her fear, which had been unbelievable a minute ago – calmed. Her body, which had been terrified at losing mobility – understood very clearly where she stood.

"Your thoughts betray you, Miss Hooper," said the man. "You wish to escape? I promise, it is impossible. But I give you leave to try. Do your best."

Molly looked at her shoes.

"Any family I should know of, Molly?" asked the man.

Molly shuddered at the use of her name.

"A sister."

He looked at her with an eyebrow raised.

"Please make sure she doesn't come here," said Molly in a small, resigned voice.

He stepped close to her, and it took all the will power in Molly to not step back instinctively. He plucked a hair from her head, and Molly flinched.

His fingers snapped.

In front of her, there was a small, ghostly copy of Elizabeth. Elizabeth. Elizabeth. Elizabeth.

"Elizabeth," whispered Molly.

"I would dare venture to say, Miss Hooper, that your sister was considered the beauty?" asked the man genially.

Molly nodded dumbly.

"And where would she be? In your village?"

Molly shook her head. "Yorkshire," she promised.

"Good for her," commended the man. "How often do you speak to her, if I may intrude?"

Molly didn't reply.

"Good response," said the man. "I sense, then, that you told me to keep her away for rather noble reasons, dear." He looked perfectly delighted by the idea. "I love the noble ones. A lot more interesting."

"And what am I to do here, sir?" asked Molly, ignoring the jibes.

He tilted his head a little to regard her.

"Why, clean, of course. Cook. Organise. I require someone to do a little work here, Miss Hooper."

Molly kept looking at her boots.

"Very poor boots," he commented. "Quite shoddy."

She hid one boot behind another, her hands pressed to her front, and her head bent.

"Let's have a look at you, then."

She didn't know how she knew, how she could tell – but she turned on the spot. She felt something pressing into her – something quite uncontrollable, but tightly wound.

"Some spells. To keep you in your place," clarified the man with a lot of gentility.

Molly shook in her boots.

"Any rules?" she continued.

"Good to see you warming to the idea," said the man. "Avoid the west wing. Of course, if you choose not to avoid it – it is entirely up to you, but I have found that I tend to fly into a rage at times, when that happens."

Molly didn't say anything.

"And, ideally, try your best to keep me interested."

Molly didn't make any promises.

"Lastly," grinned the man sharply, "You are not allowed to fall in love with me."

Molly bit her lip.

"And what of you, sir?" said her quiet voice.

It rang on the walls.

"What of me?"

"Are you allowed to fall in love with me?" she said.

Her eyes lifted up, for the briefest, smallest second.

And the man gave her a small smile.

"Well met, Molly Hooper."


She stepped behind him as softly as she could. He made not even the slightest noise, which was eerie – Molly's boots were loud on the floors of the house, incapable of falling silent.

She had the most curious sensation that someone was watching her. Whoever it could be, she did not know.

"Follow me," the man had said quietly. She half expected him to disappear into nothingness once again, to disappear into the story's pages and become nothing more than the darkness that stayed with her.

And she had followed. She had followed, her feet dragging, her head aching, her fingers buzzing with the encounter. She was in incomparable pain, in a way that she had not felt for so long a time. She wondered, idly, how long it would take for the village to realise she had disappeared – how long, for her sister to send her a letter that would not be responded to for months –

Years, her mind whispered traitorously.

They wouldn't know, she told herself savagely. They won't know of the monster in the manor – and she was a recluse herself, with no visitors for the whole of the winter. She only thing she attended was Christmas Mass and that was more for the sake of her father than anyone else. The village wouldn't care that she had missed one year of many. They wouldn't pay attention. No one was looking. Not even Elizabeth.

Elizabeth.

She hugged her arms closer to herself.

The manor was ice itself. She had the sensation that it had been years since light had touched some of the objects, that the manor had simply dropped out of time and flickered out of existence – only to appear for wayward travellers who looked for shelter. It trapped them. It remained with them. It haunted them.

Molly looked upward, at the tall ceilings of the house, decorated from a time she couldn't place.

"Early eighteenth century," said the man, sounding pleased. "Late Restoration."

Molly chewed her lips.

And then they reached the higher levels – there were cold, cold, rooms. She was assuming they were servant quarters at some time, but as of now – they looked a lot more like they were simply prisons. There was even a nondescript pile of hay in the corner.

"Get comfortable," said her captor.

"Sir – please – wait," Molly said hurriedly.

He looked at her inquiringly.

"What am I to call you?" she said finally.

He was scanning her with his eyes, looking across every pore of her skin and watching her carefully. "When you are in the house, my dear, you may call me 'Sir' or 'Master,' if you want to really arouse me."

Molly's heart dropped.

"And when you are outside, you may refer to me as 'The Dark One,' for the benefit of the public," he continued.

Molly rolled the words in her mind. The Dark One. The Dark One. She had heard this legend before.

And then he gripped her by her forearm, dragger her close, so that she could smell him – death, a little bit of peppermint, and what was unquestionably the smell of the dark. Darkness smelled exactly as you would think it did – of forgotten words, of small animals – that had gotten lost in the woods, and of whispers.

His lips were close to her ear. His breath was unbelievably soft.

"When you are conspiring my dear, when you are searching for friends and foes – you may call me Moriarty."

And he was gone almost instantly. Molly touched her arm, feeling for the grip of the name, that had undoubtedly inserted itself into her blood stream.

Moriarty.


So - HAVE AT IT. TELL ME WHAT YOU LIKED AND HATED.

And if at any moment the consent part is bothering you please let me know.