AN: This is a companion one-shot to my piece Liar Liar, so this won't make much sense unless you've read Liar Liar in its entirety. So if you haven't finished reading that work, I highly recommend you do so because, uh, spoilers abound! Also, everyone can thank meek-bookworm for this piece being written - she is an Alex/Aldon shipper, so I wrote this with that in mind for her birthday. She liked it and wanted to share.
XXX
Aldon Rosier smells like smoke and ash.
It's not a real scent – it's nothing that anyone else would notice. Anyone else would think Aldon smells like lavender, probably the outrageously, overly expensive soap his mother sends him from the south of France, but to Alex, Aldon smells like smoke and ash, like anger.
Alex notices, because Alex isn't entirely human. Some would say he is entirely inhuman, but it is with an almost human sense of curiosity that Alex walks up to his desk, to the pale-faced, half-smiling youth in their very first Magical Theory class, to the boy who smells like anger.
"May I sit?" he asks, the instinct to clip his words in public second nature, now.
Aldon wordlessly pulls his bag off the seat beside him, and Alex sits. He sits there, twice a week, for the next three years, silently surrounded by the scent of smoke and ash and fire. Sometimes, Alex catches the sour, acid tang of fear, or damp, moldy resignation, or, rarely, the salt sea-breeze wind of desperation, but the anger is always there, simmering just out of sight. And Aldon always smiles, laughs, he is always at ease, even if he smells like a charcoal briquette.
They don't talk much, then. Magical Theory isn't one of those classes that promotes group work or chatter. Over three years, they say nothing to each other but greetings and farewells.
XXX
Alex has two lives: one in Wizarding Britain, and one in Serbia.
In Wizarding Britain, he is Alexander Willoughby, pureblood wizard from a middle-class, unremarkable family in Sussex. He lives with his mother and his maternal grandparents. His mother works as a consultant with the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, specializing in Eastern European creatures, his grandmother as a sales manager with the Daily Prophet, his grandfather as a contract potions supplier for one of the shops in Diagon Alley. His father, they say, is an Eastern European pureblood, deceased, and the Willoughbys are so unremarkable, and Serbia is so far away, that the Ministry of Magic takes his falsified family tree at face value.
At Hogwarts, Alex is sorted into Ravenclaw, his mother's house. His grades are good but not exceptional, and while he does particularly well in Defense Against the Dark Arts and Duelling, he does not stand out. In terms of magical strength, he is powerful, but not remarkably so, there are many of about the same magical strength. He's friendly, even if he doesn't have any close friends, and in a House of introverts, that is not unusual. Overall, Alex flies under the radar. Life is simple, peaceful, relaxing, in Wizarding Britain.
But in Serbia, he is Aleksandr Willoughby Dragić, and he is a prince of his kind. He is dhampir, but he is also a wizard, and there are only three of them in the world. He is slotted early for command and trained under their strongest, most senior fighters. He learns tactics, strategy, three other languages, and he works hard to learn it because one day, he'll be the one leading their troops into danger and, hopefully, out of it. He learns about leadership; he learns honour and he learns duty, and those concepts are written into his soul. He learns the sword, and the knife, and the gun, and hand-to-hand combat, and he learns to use his inhuman strength and speed to his best advantage with people who are dhampir, like him, who are just as fast and just as strong and, even unmagical, just as dangerous.
Life in Serbia is anything but peaceful. He has his first blood at thirteen – it's a bad assassination attempt, and Alex thinks the coven thought he would be caught unprepared. It's touch and go for a few minutes, before he manages to have his sword out and in the right size and shape for his hand, but once he has it there's no question. He beheads two vampires that day before his backup arrives. Given the circumstances, the Council permits him to undergo his Ordeal at fifteen, a year earlier than normal, and he kneels and swears his oaths that same year.
When he returns to his other life, he's always relieved. Wizarding Britain is too safe, and the need to hide what he is, who he is, all the things he can do and is most proud of doing, is wearying. But in Serbia, the weight of duty and responsibility lies heavy, and even if it is duty willingly shouldered, sometimes he wants a break.
XXX
In sixth-year, he and Aldon are friends. There is no NEWT-level course in Magical Theory, but they have Curse-breaking together, and that's even better. Their classmates are all Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs, again, and it's easy for Alex to say, "Shall we partner?" and Aldon simply nods. The smoke and ash are stronger, now. Aldon smells like an overblown campfire, but he still smiles easily, relaxed, as if he doesn't notice how angry he really is.
He might not, Alex realizes the fifth or sixth time they work together on the curse-boxes. In the Ravenclaw experimentation rooms, Aldon is breezy, even when he's being deadly serious, even when he's ripping apart curses with a technical proficiency and elegance that seems completely at odds with his Dark, aggressive magic. But that's Aldon in a nutshell, isn't it? He's elegant even in his fury, always neatly pressed and put together, always ready with a flippant remark or two. Aldon floats through life on an air of nonchalance and boredom – but he smells like a house on fire.
Alex wants to know what's behind that lying smile, but he doesn't ask. He doesn't even know how to ask. He's never tried to get closer to others; with his background, getting close to others is a risk. It would take only a few, unguarded instances: a true smile, a few words too many, a misjudgement of his strength or his speed, and there would be questions. So, he doesn't ask, and instead they meet, every few days, to work on first their curse-boxes, then on Charms and Transfigurations and their other work, and Alex waits, watches, and is almost surprised to realize that, smiles and laughter aside, Aldon is almost as alone as he is.
XXX
Dhampir don't have relationships. Not the same way that humans do, not fixed, permanent ones. There is no dhampir conception of marriage. Life itself is temporary, a burning candle flame all too easily snuffed out, and the Order comes first. The Order, and duty, always comes first, and so few understand that. Even for those that do, a true dhampir would never allow it – the covens are always watching, and they know how to target a weak point. Just as Alex knows that the best way to target a vampire lord is through his mate.
A true dhampir loves in short, passionate bursts, and lets them go.
Sometimes, these short, passionate bursts result in children – if they are dhampir, they are brought into the Order. If they are not, they, and their non-dhampir parent, are sent to a safe zone, like Britain, or notoriously speciesist America. Even then, sometimes, the covens manage a hit. That's very hard – that can break even a strong dhampir.
So, the dhampir don't have relationships. And Alex knows Aldon well enough now to know that Aldon, if he ever truly fell in love, would need permanence. Aldon, underneath his smokescreen of breezy nonchalance, underneath the angry scents of smoke and ash, is Alex's favourite blade. He is strong, steadfast, fire-hardened steel, and whoever he fell in love with one day would probably have the complete and utter power to break him.
Alex refuses to be that person, and instead he spends sixth-year sleeping his way through Ravenclaw Tower. He never makes any promises, but he gains a reputation as a heartbreaker anyway.
XXX
In seventh-year, everything changes.
His ears perk up at the news of the Triwizard Tournament. Unlike most of his schoolmates, he's heard of the Tournament before – wizarding communities in the East have been abuzz with it for months. It sounds interesting, and an excellent way to exercise a bit, amuse himself and pass the time within the confines of his role in Wizarding Britain.
He puts his name in, smiles tightly at Aldon who is throwing him a look from the Slytherin table, and there's no surprise when his name is pulled. The first task, a curse-breaking exercise, is thrilling only because of the imposed time limit, and the fact that Cedric, who should have really won the task outright, does not know how to take a calculated risk. The second, Alex has to think – he could probably take on a dragon physically, but not without revealing his particular abilities, so he doesn't bother with that approach. Instead, he transfigures a loose pebble into a shield and resorts to examining the Hogwarts wards for the loop that will let him reprogram the Anti-Apparition ward temporarily. He finds it, changes the parameters to allow him to Apparate across the field, and twists in the air. He has a ribbon almost before anyone realizes it.
And yet, he only secures the alternate position, because Rigel Black's bravery in saving McLaggen's life takes precedence. That's interesting, especially because Black has spent months insisting that he didn't put his name into the Goblet and clearly planned on throwing the second task entirely.
Alex should be disappointed, but he's not. It is what it is, and Alex has a creeping sixth sense that there's something else going on in this Tournament. And, in any case, the alternate position, Cho tells him, is the de facto leader, and Alex knows how to lead.
XXX
Aldon smells like smoke and ash and gunpowder when he finds Alex in his study room. He's still carrying the undertones of anger, but he's also determined, even if his eyes are dancing, his hands are loose in his pockets, his voice is so carefully mild. He wants a spot on the support team, for reasons that Alex can only guess, and Alex is curious.
Aldon asks what spot he should apply for, and Alex hesitates only a second before he recommends Aldon try for a strategist position. He's entirely honest in saying that Aldon is the best magical theorist at Hogwarts, that he would be helpful in a way that no one else could. He hesitates only because he wants to ask why.
Aldon dances through life, skimming the surface, and he has never smelled like gunpowder. Alex wants to know what, exactly, would bring him to it. But his second of hesitation too much, because Aldon notices.
"I sense a "but" in there, Alex," Aldon says, his voice casual and delicate, light, even if Alex knows he's being utterly serious. He doesn't answer, and the silences stretches between them as he shuffles the papers that Cho gave him, organizing them into neat piles on the desk in front of him. Aldon's finger taps the wood, a quiet sound that hits Alex's sharp hearing like a heavy drum.
"But nothing, Aldon," he says finally, looking up from his papers. There is no asking, because Alex doesn't even know where he would begin. Aldon nods slowly, and Alex guesses that he doesn't believe him in the slightest, but he lets it go.
It's surprisingly easy to convince the other Triwizard team members to accept Aldon as a strategist. Cedric is supportive, as Alex knew he would be, and Rigel only blinks slowly and shrugs. Rigel reeks of resignation, of damp caverns and mold, and Alex knows he'll be of no help. It's only Angelina who really needs convincing, and she barely knows Aldon, and just like that Aldon is on the team.
XXX
After the first match, Alex is pissed.
Even with all their preparation, Hogwarts is just not ready for a powerhouse like the American Institute of Magic. Part of it is unavoidable; a Natural Legilimens would have been difficult to fight in any situation, and no one could have expected that AIM would have invented a new channeling method. But a large part of it is avoidable; they knew that one of them could be a Natural Legilimens. They knew AIM had a reputation for innovation. They knew AIM historically came to compete with new things, and they should have prepared better for it. And, of course, they didn't need to lose Angelina so soon. That is a serious error attributed only to pureblood supremacist arrogance, and Alex fully intends to see that corrected as soon as possible.
And that is before the fact that someone has interfered in the Tournament. Jessica Calderon-Boot nearly died – Alex doesn't recognize the exact curse, but he knows when the AIM Healers pull out the Blood-Replenishing Potion and Portkey her out that it is serious. Cuts, even serious ones, are not especially difficult to heal by magic, so he guesses it must be an anti-coagulating curse of some kind, one that they cannot reverse immediately. Someone tried to kill her, and suddenly the Tournament is much more dangerous than it was. And so, Alex flips his switch, uses every ounce of presence and command that he's ever been trained with to control the room. The air is hot with the smell of smoke and ash, and the bitter, coffee smell of worry.
He kicks Bulstrode out. She erred, grievously so, and in his world her failure to report relevant information, along with her reaction, would have been a court-martial at least. Probably not a serious sentence – not death. But a citation, absolutely, and demotion had she been in command. So, he kicks her out.
He doesn't hesitate to use Aldon as his enforcer. Aldon, who always smells like smoke and ash and gunpowder, is finally letting the cracks appear in his flippant demeanour. Sometimes, rarely, he says things, implies things – and Alex finally guesses his secret.
Truth-speakers are rare, but not so rare – they are only rare in Britain because of the blood discrimination laws. Truth-speakers are all halfbloods, because the magic needs to be a touch wild, but not too wild, just enough to break the usual laws of magic. That Aldon is a Truth-speaker and, therefore, a halfblood, explains the smoke and ash.
The gunpowder, though, is something else. The gunpowder determination is new, and Alex wants to see how far that goes, and when Aldon steps forward to protect Rigel, who smells of pungent, gasoline guilt, he pushes and demands a blood-oath from his only friend.
Aldon, shockingly, accepts, and he smells like a burning battlefield.
XXX
When Harriett Potter is unmasked, Aldon smells of smoke and ash and gunpowder, with notes of citrus fear and sharp, salty desperation. He holds on, acts as Harriett's eyes throughout the whole ordeal, and with a strong dose of luck, they get her out. And when she returns to Hogwarts, the drifting scent of smoke and ash and gunpowder pours off Aldon in waves all afternoon.
No one else smells like smoke and ash and gunpowder. Everyone else smells like rain and thunderstorms, like shock.
When she escapes, Alex knows without having to ask that Aldon did it. Aldon, a fellow halfblood and Slytherin, and the best magical theorist the school has to offer, is the only one who could have been behind it. And when he sees Aldon again, the gunpowder is gone, replaced by dust.
The smoke and ash is still there, lying underneath everything, but the predominant scent Aldon gives off is hot desert desolation. He bullies Aldon back out into the field with him, but the strong scent of loss, of hopelessness, doesn't come off him. He's worried, but he isn't sure what to do about it, and instead he takes out his worry and anger on the two Chinese fighters in the Tournament.
They said that Li Xiao Lang was an accomplished fencer. They lied. He is nothing compared to Alex's skills, and Alex toys with him for a few minutes, just enough to get a sense of his abilities, and then pulls a beginner's trick and cracks his skull with the butt of his blade, knocking him out, when he lunges and overextends himself. He weaves an old Slavic hunting spell for Lin Fei Long, and duels her while Cedric and Angelina take on Wu Ji Bai jointly. The minute Aldon reports that Wu out of the game, Alex overwhelms Lin and backhands her viciously across the face, breaking her jaw and knocking her out. And that is how the Hogwarts wins the Triwizard Tournament.
But Aldon still smells like the desert, and Alex worries.
XXX
Rookwood catches him outside their Duelling class. Rookwood smells like bitter, dark coffee, of worry.
"Willoughby," he says, inclining his head in respect. Rookwood is always cautious around him, since he found out that Alex is not entirely human. "Have you spoken to Aldon recently? He is … not himself."
Alex doesn't know how to respond to that. In a literal sense, he has spoken to Aldon recently, because they still have Curse-breaking together, but that isn't what Rookwood is asking. And he is in public, so he can't talk freely.
"I agree," he settles on eventually. "You are his closest friend."
"I was his closest friend," Rookwood corrects him quietly, and Alex catches a drifting scent of spice, cinnamon and cardamom sadness. "In some things, he would confide in me, but… not in this. He believes I wouldn't understand, that I couldn't understand."
Alex looks around, but the training grounds are empty, now. He lowers his voice anyway. "His blood-status."
"And my engagement to Alesana Selwyn," Rookwood shakes his head, a note of salty sea-breeze coming off him between the coffee, the cinnamon and cardamom spice. "He won't talk to me."
There is a moment of pause, but Alex knows there's no other answer but agreement.
XXX
Rookwood lets him into the Slytherin common room that night, and he finds Aldon in the smallest study room. His Ward Construction notes in front of him, and he smells like dust and cold, clean, tundra exhaustion, the notes of smoke and ash only hints. He throws a Muffliato spell on the door and looks at Aldon pointedly until the orange-eyed boy pulls out his wand with a sigh and weaves a privacy ward on the door.
He tells Aldon about things he's never spoken about to anyone in Wizarding Britain, feeling his worlds mesh, ever so slightly. Anyone in Britain who needed to know already knew, and of course all of this is common knowledge in Serbia. He tells him about his family – about his mother, a witch, about his father, a dhampir, killed in the line of duty. He tells him about the codes of honour, about the oaths he has sworn, about choice. He talks about the concepts he has engraved in his soul, about honour and duty and faith, and he asks what Aldon has engraved on his soul. What does Aldon want? Who will Aldon choose to be?
And he knows he has succeeded when the scent of hot dust and cold tundra bleed away, when the smoke and ash assault his nose, and the smell of gunpowder is back.
Aldon Rosier smells like war, and he smells right, and Alex can't help but be drawn, a moth to a flame.
XXX
AN: As a warning, in some ways this isn't really consistent with Liar Liar or anything else. I was trying to write something pretty and artsy, so - can Alex literally smell emotions? I don't know. This is just what happens when I try to write something poetic (disaster!). As always, love reading your comments or reviews, whether here or on discord!