I opened my eyes. I wanted to scream. I had never thought to awake again, and though I'd had mere moments to come to terms with my fate, I had accepted it. Death was infinitely preferable to life as a lyncanthrope, than spending the rest of my life as a monster. I'd have given anything, in that moment, to change the events that had brought me to whatever point had enabled me to recover. Starting to cry, a thought occurred to me. Maybe this was the afterlife. Maybe this was a dream. I might still be dead, please, just let me be dead!
A warm hand squeezed mine, offering silent support. My head jerked round to that side of the bed, and there sat Marcus. He looked like hell. His shirt was torn and blood showed through the gashes. His face was dirty and his hair wild, and for a moment concern for him overwhelmed my other thoughts, and might have continued to do so if it hadn't been clear from his face that his only concerns were for me. "You shouldn't be here," I tried to say, but my tongue felt leaden and dry. I withdrew my hand from his – reluctantly, but necessarily – and reached for a water glass on a nearby table, and, seeing my aim, he passed it to me and helped me take a sip. I wanted to curse. I didn't want his hand and I didn't want his help. I didn't want him anywhere near me. He had to leave, and I prepared myself to say whatever I must to force him away. To think, I had once thought I was bad for him because I was a little selfish! Now, I knew I was terrible for him because I was a hideous monster who would rip him to shreds when the moon became full. I almost wanted to laugh, the thought was so absurd, and I wondered if I was losing my mind.
The water felt wonderful in my throat. Marcus still said nothing, only watched me with those anxious eyes, and I tried again. "You shouldn't be here." The words came out this time.
"Don't worry about me," he replied, "these are nothing." He made a vague gesture at the cuts on his chest. I felt guilty that that hadn't been what I had meant, for it should have been given how serious they looked.
"No," I latched on to the idea. If only I could get him to leave the room! "They don't look like nothing. You should go to the doctor."
"We're at a doctor – at St. Mungo's Hospital," his gesture took in the row of beds behind him and the horrible pale green walls. "It's nothing."
There wasn't enough time for me to collect my thoughts. Perhaps had I more time to think, I would have acted differently. As it was, I gathered all of my wits, my courage, my pain and my horror at what I had become, and put on the most unpleasing expression I could imagine. He had taken my hand again, and now I wrenched it from his grasp and turned away. "That's not what I meant," I said nastily. "You shouldn't be here. I don't want you here. You should leave."
"I know what you're doing," he answered me firmly. I couldn't see his face, and I almost lost my resolve in my desire to look and see his expression. "It won't work."
"What I'm doing?" I snorted unappealing. "You don't know anything. Get out of here. The person you cared about? She's dead. She's never coming back. There's no one here who'll answer to that description. You should leave." I put everything I could in to sounding rough, rude, cruel, and, above all else, uncaring.
He made no answer for a long moment. I was ripping my heart out, and as the moment stretched on I could feel my firmness bleeding out as if I'd actually done the injury. I didn't turn to him, though. I was proud of myself for that. "You don't need to do this," he spoke gently, and it cut me to the core. He sounded concerned, unconvinced.
Obviously, I needed to do more. Werewolves don't need hearts. "Are you an idiot?" I snapped as meanly as I could. I rounded on him now. I'd have to look. My eyes – I hoped – glistened unfeelingly, like ice, and I did my best to fill my face with disdain and callousness. "Don't you know what I am?" I laughed coldly. His worried expression was slowly slipping towards pained. Inside, I cried. "It's over, can't you understand that? I should have died today – Delia killed herself to avoid becoming what I now am. That heart, that soul, it's fled in the face of this. All your nobility, all your good intentions, they're useless to me now, to what I am. I have different goals, different dreams. You'd only be in the way."
"I…" he hesitated. He was upset, but I could tell that for my sake he was trying to be calm and supportive. Damn the man! Did he suspect that it was an act? I looked daggers at him, and he flinched. He continued, though. "I do know what you are. The doctors told me, and suggested that you…that I should leave. I said no. I won't leave you." This last he infused with passion. Knowing how repetitive it is to say, still I'll repeat that it cut me to my heart. I think something of my wavering strength must have shown – given what I was recovering from, how could my strength not be wavering? – and he smiled hesitantly. It was slightly terrible to see, his face pale and scratched and dirty as it was.
"You shouldn't bother," I rebuked him forcefully, the moreso for my moment of weakness. "I want you to leave, so there's no point in being stubborn. You think you know what I am? What do you know about it?"
"Enough to know what you're doing," his hesitancy had vanished. His concern, too, had slipped, and in its place was determination. "If you're well enough to be doing this, then you are well enough for me to be firm. Remember, Delia, I've fought werewolves repeatedly while on WAP missions, werewolves created by this horror that Nox and his allies are perpetuating. I've seen enough to know that the werewolves are victims, and that they can't help what they become." He caught my eyes and held them. I tried to continue looking cool, but it was impossible. I flinched under his gaze and fought down brutally a tide of tears that threatened me. "I know it doesn't change the person they are." He moved from his chair to sit on the edge of my bed. "It doesn't change who they are here," he placed a hand on my forehead, "or here," and the other hand on my heart. "Please, Delia," he begged, not moving his hands, "I know what you are doing, but I also I know what I'm doing. I won't leave you, not now, not ever. Because I love you."
Inside me, something broke. He thought he understood, but he didn't at all. He saw only me, and what I had become, without giving any thought to what it meant for me in a greater sense. My family would disown me when they knew. I'd be exiled from all wizarding society, an outcast, a reject, seen as unclean, dishonest, untrustworthy. I had nothing to look forward to beyond a life as a monster alone. If I was lucky, I'd be able to pass as a muggle, or to find places where I might occasionally spend a month or two where they didn't know me or what I was, a month or two before they realized that the werewolf didn't appear until the newcomer came, a month or two before I was driven onwards. Every wizard knew that werewolves were inherently evil, knew how dangerous it was to let one be around. No promises made while human would bind the wolf, and no human was safe from injury, death, or – worst of all – the disease of lycanthropy while a werewolf roamed the night. The idea of being a monster my entire life was horrible, almost too much to bear. I was not strong enough to face a life time of being reviled, and I wouldn't. I didn't intend to be alive in the morning if I could contrive a way to accomplish it. If I couldn't manage suicide in the hospital, I knew enough about poisons to do for myself once I was released. "I don't love you," I snapped back, with all the rancor and hatred I felt for myself thrown at him. "Get out." And I slapped him in the face as hard as I could.
His head whipped around in reaction, but he didn't move from my side. Turning back to face me, his eyes filled with tears, he moved in a fashion the exact opposite from what I had hoped. He wrapped his arms around me in a tight embrace. He kissed me.
I choked on a sob before the kiss had even ended. Tears streamed from my eyes. He didn't let go of the hug, though, and I cried in to his shoulder, my body shaking, my clawed back protesting painfully. "You have to," I managed around my tears, begging. "You don't know what you are doing, you have to leave! Please."
He met my protestations stoically and said nothing. I wanted to stop crying, but I couldn't seem to make myself do so. I didn't want him to leave. I didn't want him to let me go. I wanted to tell him that I loved him and would do anything if he'd stay, but I had enough presence of mind to hold those words back. I still thought to end it all before I could drag him down with me. Weakly, I tried to push him away. "Go," I whimpered. "You have to go."
His arms tightened. "I do know what I'm doing," he answered. "I know you think you are protecting me, I know you think that this is the only way. Knowing you, you are planning something idiotic right at this moment, and I can't let you do that. You think I don't know what is coming? I know better than you. Your parents left half an hour ago, left when the doctors told them they thought you'd be waking soon. They didn't want to have to talk to their dead daughter. That, they agreed, was what they would tell the world. Better to name you dead than for the world to find out that they had given birth to you. You think I don't know what I'm doing? They told me I should leave, too, and when I said no, they – thinking they were doing me a kindness – went to a lot of effort to explain to me thoroughly how utterly stupid I was being, and how blind I was, and that I had to leave." He sounded angry about it, though I couldn't see his face. "I told them that they should be ashamed of themselves, and that they had no right to call themselves your parents, and had no right to have a daughter like you. They didn't appreciate– I suppose I shouldn't have said it, it was wrong of me – but I was so angry with them, to decide it was better to call you dead than to help you, to try to insist that I should do the same. I knew you hadn't changed; it's been hours, how could you possibly have changed?"
"I have changed," I was glad for the crack. "You can't imagine how it feels, you can't imagine what it's like. If you are near me the next time I change, I'll kill you. I won't be able to help it. You mustn't be near me what that happens – hours?" What he had said sank in. "When I change tonight! You have to leave before then."
"I will," he said sadly, "though I want nothing less in the world. I'll leave when the moon rises, and return at dawn, only and entirely because I have no choice, though it pains me immensely."
"Yes," I grasped this opening. "Leave! But don't come back."
He pushed me to arms length, his hands on my shoulders. "Do you love me?" he demanded.
A shudder ran through my body. I couldn't lie to him. "You have to go!"
"Do you love me?" he emphasized each word. His hands gripped me so hard that it hurt. Tears leaked from my eyes. I turned my face from his and didn't answer him. "Delia!" I snapped back up; his tone could not be denied. My eyes met his, and I felt like I was falling in to them. There was no accusation there despite my expectations to the contrary. There was no anger, there was no rebuke, there was no fear. I don't think I could have answered him if I had seen fear. That would have been the worst of all. Instead, all I saw was strength and courage and hope and love. The man, I decided, was completely insane. "Do you love me?"
"I do."
What else could I have said? His face broke in to an angelic smile, and there were tears in his eyes. He was so busy being strong it was easy to forget that he was little older than me and had been under as much strain as I of late. "Then I will never leave."
And as he leaned forward to kiss me again, I surrendered completely. If I couldn't make him leave, if I couldn't protect him from me, if he really knew what was in store for me – for us – than what else could I do but give in? Trembling, I accepted the kiss. When it was finished –not for some time, it was not at all the modest kiss of the previous day – he held me close and we spoke quietly.
He told me what he knew of the battle. The zeppelins had all been destroyed. His injuries had been sustained when one had been blown up near him. He didn't say it outright, but he implied that this was due to Katrina, and that she might have done it intentionally. Both he and James Ferguson had been hurt in the blast. He knew less of my team, though he knew they had fled not long after I had fallen. Celestine had taken up my body and Deletrious had taken Caius. Lycia had been using the necklace she had to control some of the wolves, but whatever she was doing didn't affect all of them. I asked about that where Caius was, and Marcus told me in believing us betrayed by the Slytherin, for Deletrious – after, thankfully, retrieving the mirror– had been attacked and had barely escaped and that his attackers had taken Caius from him and fled. Marcus thought it possible that Katrina was a traitor as well, though it was impossible to be certain for she'd not returned after the attack. We had won, though at a high price. Hogwarts had fallen. No one had seen the Headmaster since before the battle had finished. Miraculously not a single student had died. The worst that had happened had happened to me. I couldn't find much joy in that.
"Did my parents…did they really…" I couldn't finish, and he answered only with a nod. I shouldn't have been surprised. No, I was only surprised that they hadn't out and out disowned me. In truth, I was relieved that they only intended to pretend I was dead.
When the conversation ended, neither of us broached a new topic, and we sat quietly looking, I'm sure, horribly lovey. Sometime later, there was a knock on the door.
A doctor, wild haired in white and red robes, stuck a head in to the room. "Ms. Prince?" he looked at me, though his eyes didn't quite focus. I had the uneasy feeling that this was the only doctor who had been willing to take care of me. "Yes, indeed, awake after all. Are you able to accept a guest?" I nodded. "Very good, very good. Mr. Reli…" he paused, trying to remember the name. "Mr…Relosh, are you sure you won't submit to treatment? Those wounds will become infected if you don't accept healing." I started guiltily. Despite them bleeding slightly and standing out against his slashed robes, I had managed to get so wrapped up in everything else that I had largely forgotten about Marcus' injuries.
He didn't answer, but instead looked at me. "Go on," I smiled. My face must have looked wretched. Marcus was skeptical. "It's alright, truly." He nodded, and squeezed my hand. I looked at the doctor. "Mr. Relious," I emphasized the name, though the doctor didn't seem to notice, "will accompany you. Please show in my visitor."
"Yes, of course," the doctor smiled, and my opinion of him warmed. Even if he was odd, he at least seemed to be treating me like he would have any other patient. I feared it would be rare for me to find people who didn't treat me poorly in light of my illness.
The silence that filled the room when the door closed behind the doctor and Marcus was absolute. I felt overwhelmingly alone, and I thought I'd not have needed poison to kill me had Marcus left as I'd encouraged him to. This feeling of desolation and loneliness alone would have been adequate to complete my demise. Even knowing he would return, without his strength to support me the weight of what had happened settled on my shoulders, horror at what I had become, terror at the life of wandering and poverty that awaited me. Before my thoughts proceeded far, the door opened. The last person I expected to see came in.
Headmaster Phineas Nigellus didn't look his best. His skin had taken on a distinctly greenish cast and the faint smell of decay wafted after him. He seemed in places bloated, and in places desiccated, and I had the horrifying thought of hoping he wasn't aware of the way in which his body was decomposing while his half-life lingered. I wondered how much time he had left of his 24 hours, but didn't have the heart to ask. He came and sat down in the chair vacated by Marcus and looked at me with an expression I couldn't understand, which I thought in part due to his zombification.
"Ms. Prince," he shifted a little uncomfortably. "I have little time remaining to me, but I felt it only right that I acquaint you with certain information first hand. I cannot but feel that your current condition is in large part my fault, and this brings me a great deal of guilt. Nox…" his voice was momentarily tinged with fury. "I should have done something about Pellucid Nox years ago. Yet now, the school has been taken, the students have fled, and I have mere hours – perhaps less – before I am once more a cadaver. There is nothing more I can do about that man. However, as to your own condition, I can yet be of service. After the defense of the school was completed, I had a discussion with my solicitor. As you are no doubt aware, I have no family of my own. My estates and entail had been to the Black family, to be distributed appropriately. This is no longer the case. I hope their falling on you can in some small way make amends for what you have suffered. Further, as I have learned that your family will not permit you to use the name Prince – I would be honored if you would accept the name Nigellus in its place."
The Headmaster spoke feelingly, though with all of his usual brusqueness. I cannot easily explain what I thought as I heard this speech. To have my situation so kindly accepted by one with pure blood, to see the Headmaster again, to be welcomed in his family, was more than I had ever dreamt of. In an instant, the life of wandering I had feared fell away to be replaced instead by a life of hermitage and solitude. This, to me, was not nearly as unappealing. In a comfortable home of my own, with a place where I would not be driven away, I could take steps to protect those around me. With financial support I could live my life and perhaps have the chance to pursue some of those purposes that had always been my goal. Gratitude and love overwhelmed me. My mentor was a great man.
"What does the Black family feel about this, sir?"
"Well," the Headmaster said a little vaguely. "They are not yet acquainted with the details, since the Will cannot be read until I am legally deceased. As it is, I expect that they will contest it, but I have made certain it is beyond their power to change and written out several letters to that effect. I suspect that this will result in my posthumously being disowned. I consider that the price for the mistakes that I have made." He smiled at me, and I smiled back.
"I don't know what to say. Thank you, Headmaster." I tried to suffuse my thanks with all the affection which I felt for my mentor. Judging by his expression, I succeeded.
"If you'll excuse me," he apologized, rising. "I fear that my time is nearly past, and there are several more things that need my attention. Be well, Ms. Prince." And I watched the Headmaster turn and leave. I never saw him again, nor was I even permitted to attend the funeral.
It was much later when Marcus joined me, but I was pleased to see that his injuries had been bound. He looked angry. I had heard some shouting from the hallway without being able to make out more than the general tone of the conversation, and now I realized that Marcus had been one of the participants in the fight. "Is everything alright?" I asked worriedly. "What time is it?" I had realized, as I lay there, that as the day passed the danger to myself and those around me increased. I suspected that this related to Marcus' frustration and my guess proved to be right.
"The staff at St. Mungos will not allow you to remain the night. They claim they have no secure rooms – despite the fact that I found them myself," he snapped. "They're rather unpleasant rooms, more like prison cells than anything, but they exist. The staff say only the insane are kept there and will not see you transferred. They insist on your removal." He stopped abruptly. "I'm sorry," he said finally. "I didn't mean to say all of this to you. I've been trying to think of where you could be removed to. I thought perhaps my parents…"
I smiled gently. "Don't be ridiculous," I said, "I would never endanger your family, your sisters, with such a foolish move."
"You're right, of course," he sighed. "But do you have anywhere to go?"
I thought about it. It was strange to realize that, unlike so few hours ago, my situation seemed much more manageable. Marcus wasn't going to leave me and the Headmaster had provided for my future. The combination had given me stability, some peace of mind, that now made it possible to think of something other than killing myself as soon as possible. The will to live, they say, is strong.
"Yes," I nodded. "It's not officially in my possession yet, but the guest who came – the Headmaster – has given me a home. He has left his estate to me in his will."
"Truly? That's wonderful!"
"I'm shocked," I admitted. "Though the terms of the will are potentially problematic, still he is certain it will come in to my possession. I can remove there, and find some place in the house where I can be suitably constrained."
With Marcus' help, this plan was speedily enacted. Though my wounds were not entirely healed, the Healers at St. Mungos were determined to see me depart, and I doubt anyone has gone through the paperwork as fast. They even waved the normal 1 sickle fee they charged for Flue Powder, and less than an hour saw me saying my farewells to Marcus. I was willing to accept his companionship, and willing to share our love, but there was no way that I would allow him to be near me during the full moon. It had taken little enough effort to convince him of this, for which I was heartily glad.
"I will come in three days," he promised me. "And we will discuss what we are to do next."
"Do next?" I asked. "Whatever do you mean?"
"We can't leave things as they are now," he said with a smile. "The school fallen, the Germans are winning, Nox is on the loose, willing to use all manner of automata and dark arts to get his way – no, something must be done!" I frowned. I wasn't sure that we were the ones to do this. More than ever in my life I wanted peace, quiet, and solitude. I had thought that I had found that, but judging by the fire in his voice my hopes were not to be.
"We can discuss that later," I said finally. I shifted, a little pointedly, to emphasize that – due to the only partially healed injury in my leg – I found standing to be painful, and Marcus started.
"I'm sorry," he sighed. "Here, let me help you."
We walked together to the fireplace, where a staff member was waiting for us, looking very anxious for my departure. This didn't stop her, however, from gasping in amazement when Marcus and I parted with a kiss. I reminded myself that I would have to get used to such things, just as I would have to get used to what awaited me when darkness fell. Even as I stepped to the fire place, even as I waved at the man that I loved with all my heart, even as I considered that in hours I would become a monster, even as I considered the imprudence of installing myself in a home that had been mine for mere hours and where some would surely attempt to drive me out, one other thought seemed to whisper in the background, Marcus' words ringing in my ears. Something must be done. Something must be done about Nox, about Germany, about the school, about the departed students, about the Werewolves. Something must be done, and I was, I realized with resolve, prepared to do it.
So. Um. That's it. That's where the story ends. That's where the game ended.
One of my dearest friends was met playing this game - Eric, who portrayed Marcus - and though it's been a decade, we're still close. From time to time, we talk about this, and what would have happened next. There was a point, in 2008ish, when I thought about writing more, but the truth is, at this point I doubt it will ever happen. If I were to continue it, I would do so by recasting it into an original fiction story, rewriting this first book and going from there.
The basic outline, though is that they'd take the fight to the mainland, with the help of some of the other students who would say. They'd deal with scads of werewolves, face off against Nox, and rescue Galatea. Presumably, this would have a positive impact on the course of the war, in favor of the allies.
Using her vast knowledge of potions, and her talent for them, Delia would end up being the creator of the werewolf calming potion that, much later, Snape makes for Lupin.
She and Marcus would be wed.
The Blacks would contest the will, ultimately unsuccessfully. The Blacks would not be willing to share their illustrious last name, and even the Relious would be reluctant to let her into the family, so she'd stay a Nigellus, and so would their children.
I wish we'd gotten to play more from here, or even that Eric and I had just sat down and talked it through. Maybe some day we will, but probably not.
So, yeah. Hope you've enjoyed this glimpse of "how far I've come" as a writer - I only minimally cleaned this up before posting it (doing things like removing weasel words - I was MUCH worse about those back in the day), this is a pretty genuine idea of how I wrote ten years ago. It's a reminder to me of how far hard work can get one - I've written probably three quarters of a million words since I finished this, maybe more - and if you like my current writing and are surprised by the lower quality of this, and you're a writer, I hope you'll see that same potential in yourself. No one starts really good. You just work and work until you get better.
Happy reading and writing, folks! :)