Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, we know this... on with the story!
STEPS
Great things are not done by impulse, but by a series of small things brought together…
Vincent Van Gogh
Amelia stared at the corpse in morbid curiosity. She had become desensitized to such gruesome displays over the years, yet she had to admit that this was quite new. The body was stretched out on the examination table. The skin was red and flaky, eyes burnt out and face twisted into a macabre expression. To complete it all, the entire body was a dried-out husk, limbs twisted unnaturally. To think that this was once a man, I suppose death reveals all that we were, she thought grimly.
Someone coughed and Amelia forced her eyes away from the corpse. She turned to her number two and her brow rose in question. He merely gestured to the other side of the room where the healer in charge of the autopsy was walking towards them.
"Well?" prompted Amelia the moment the older man stopped before her. The healer handed her a file, which she quickly opened.
"Well what we have here is a male specimen, young, in his early thirties – identified as Quirinus Quirrell. Cause of death appears to be a very severe and intense bout of dehydration…" the healer started to say before a snort interrupted him.
"We are not asking for the obvious here Johnston." The man beside Amelia said dryly. The healer frowned, annoyed at the large man's impatience.
"Maybe if you let me finish Scrimgeour, then you wouldn't waste more of my time." Johnston replied sharply.
Scrimgeour scowled and made to say something but a hand at his elbow stopped him. Scrimgeour looked down from the hand on his person to Amelia, he bit the inside of his cheek and nodded tightly at the healer.
"Thank you," Johnston said dryly. "I said it appears to be dehydration because that was the effect of what killed him. But to be frank, this body is a mess. The sheer number of things that have turned up are quite staggering; any one of them could – should have killed him. To begin with, my preliminary analysis shows that the man presents all the signs of a powerful curse. What that curse was, I cannot say, you would have to consult an Unspeakable. What I can tell you is that his magic was essentially boiled out of him, drying him out as you can see. Damage is most severe on his head, where you have those hand prints."
Amelia shared a look with Scrimgeour, similar thoughts running through their heads. Amelia gestured for Johnston to continue.
"The body also shows extensive damage and deterioration; nerve damage, muscle atrophy, a compromised cardiovascular system, multiple organ failure and a whole plethora of issues." Johnston continued; his voice flat.
"I have found evidence to suggest a prolonged possession which can account for his body breaking down on him. A body is not meant to support two souls, not like this." The man spoke, a hint of sadness colouring his voice.
"With all that going on, how was he able to keep going then?" Amelia asked, a seed of suspicion growing in her mind.
"That's the other thing – it was some sort of concoction; can't rightly call it a potion I think." Johnston sighed running a hand over his tired face. "The variety of elements and chemicals I found in his body were strange. Some of their effects I'm aware of as they are well documented, yet the way they were used – the man was either mad or a genius, most likely both I imagine…"
"Out with it man." Scrimgeour bit out getting impatient.
"Unicorn blood, manticore venom and trace amounts of Re'em blood," the healer listed out. "…those were the main components. There were other elements – probably to stabilize the concoction, but I would need a much more in-depth analysis to tell you what those are. It kept him alive and strong in spite of the mess his body was." The healer said sounding almost impressed.
"So what do you think?" Amelia asked the moment they got back into her office.
Not even sparing him a second glance, she went around her desk to a simple display cabinet. Pulling out a decanter, Amelia poured herself a glass of whiskey. Looking at her guest's pensive expression, she poured him a glass too and handed it to him. Scrimgeour looked at the dark amber liquid before taking a careful sip, feeling it burn down his throat and setting a fire to warm his belly.
"We were played." He said simply, though his mane of hair bristled, the only sign of agitation he allowed himself to show. "They managed to plant all this information, leading us by our nose. We saw what we wanted to see. It was all a distraction."
"Well it worked, somewhat." Amelia commented glibly.
Despite her tone Amelia was not amused. They – she, had been played. Whispers had gone up all over the oft overlooked corners of their society, something big was going to happen. Like bloodhounds they had followed the scent and yet it had turned out to all be smoke and mirrors. Most of their informants had turned up with traces of compulsion and memory charms. It had the department chasing its own tail for weeks, looking everywhere but where they needed. Quirrell had bid his time and had struck when the school was vulnerable, its headmaster called away.
The only reason Quirrell had not managed to escape with the stone was because of sheer luck. An eleven-year-old boy, no matter how gifted should not have been able to defeat a full-grown wizard. Then again, this boy was nothing close to average – the manner he had subdued the possessed man was far too gruesome. "What did you get from Dumbledore?" she asked eventually.
"Not much we didn't already know. He did file the report on the unicorn attacks, I'm sure you'll find it somewhere under all this…" he gestured at her paper strewn desk, a sardonic smile gracing his lips. Ignoring the scowl on his superior's face he continued, "He claims he hadn't sensed or suspected that Quirrell was possessed…"
"Do you believe him?" She asked him, leaning back on her chair, nursing her drink. Scrimgeour shrugged, the motion sending ripples through his hair.
"I do." he said, the words coming out sour, as if agreeing with Dumbledore was a crime in of itself.
"Possession is always tricky, especially if the entity was being subtle and careful – without any radical personality changes or physical deformations well…" he left the rest unsaid and Bones nodded.
The whole situation was unpleasant but Amelia did take a modicum of comfort in the knowledge that things could have been worse, much worse. Ghosts and spirits often remained on the mortal plane because the weight of their regrets would not let them pass on. The magical community was quite used to ghosts; often they were just a spooky if harmless part of the environment.
Most ghosts didn't bother with people, too busy trapped within their sad existences, chasing an obsession of sorts – some even just went about listlessly. Poltergeists were a nuisance of course but again rarely dangerous.
But there did exist a class of spirits that were much more frightening – Malevolents. Malevolent spirits took it to the extreme, their regrets and obsession twisting the spirit into something violent and dangerous. Malevolents, if they had the opportunity, would most certainly try and possess any vulnerable person to further their twisted obsession.
The fact that whatever spirit had possessed Quirrell was only interested in stealing a magical artefact was sheer happenstance. In her admittedly limited experience with possession, hosts could rightly become violent. It was quite fortunate that in this instance only two people had been victims, and while that was regrettable, it was better than the alternative.
"Dumbledore has asked that we not disclose Potter's involvement in this whole debacle…" Scrimgeour scowled. The old headmaster thought that because of his influence he could shift the narrative to protect his precious hide. Scrimgeour would enjoy reading all about how incompetent Dumbledore had become in the papers…
"I agree." Amelia's voice broke Scrimgeour out of his daydream. He blinked and stared at her confused.
"Why? He killed the poor sod." he asked forcefully, irritation bleeding into his voice.
Amelia turned sharp eyes towards her subordinate. Light reflected of her glass and lent her face a golden hue. The effect made her look predatory and sinister. Scrimgeour suppressed a flinch and quickly composed himself.
"He did..." she answered, her voice betraying her thoughts.
"But…?" he asked, tensing; knowing he would not like what she would say next. He was right, he didn't.
"It was purely self-defence – it's happened before in the past; a child pushed beyond their limits. Their magic reacts and shit happens." She downed her drink, grimacing as it burnt down her throat.
"This wasn't some bout of accidental magic though – you saw the body. This was focused. Johnston called it a curse…" Scrimgeour argued. Amelia merely shook her head.
"That won't matter; a child was attacked by what could reasonably be called a deranged teacher and the child defended himself, resulting in said teacher's death." Amelia said.
"Lady Flamel's testimony says as much and both her memory and the boy's back it up…" she continued pointedly.
"He shouldn't have been able to do it, that's too much power in the hands of a child…" Scrimgeour started but Amelia cut him off.
"So now we get to tell people how powerful they can be?" She asked her tone sarcastic, her gaze meeting his own, before she turned serious.
"What do you imagine people would do when they heard that Harry Potter killed his defence teacher? What do you think would happen if the Prophet got a hold of the details? That despite a report filed by the school, someone in the Department deemed the issue unimportant?" she asked him, her tone soft, belying the steel underneath.
Scrimgeour's face twisted into a grimace and he said, "Heads would roll."
Of that he had no doubt. Say what you will about public opinion, but when it came to their children, the nation did not tolerate incompetence. Add in how they practically worshipped Potter and the Department of Law would find itself in quite a pinch.
"Politics." He said acidly. He then downed the dredges of his drink, grimacing at the burning sensation down his throat.
"Yes, politics. So play nice." She gave him a dismissive wave and he quickly left, leaving her to her thoughts.
"Lucius…" a sibilant voice whispered from the shadows.
He stirred, eyes blinking, trying to adjust to the non-light. But the shadows refused to part. They coiled around him, almost caressing him, beckoning. Tempted, he reached out – at what, he did not know. All he grasped was cold immaterial shadow.
"Lucius…"
A chill went down his spine and he let out a shudder; he knew that voice. It couldn't be, could it? With growing trepidation, he looked around, trying to find something, anything other than the deep shadows he found himself in. He frowned – how had he gotten here? When had he gotten here? The last thing he could remember was dinner with his wife Narcissa. How he got from there to this place of ever-shifting shadows was a complete blank.
"Lucius!" the voice came again, forceful and demanding.
Pressure, akin to a large slab, slammed down onto him. Lucius gasped and fell to his knees. He screamed as his right arm flared in pain. His movements jerky and frantic, he tore at the sleeve of his shirt. There, bold against his pale skin was a mark, writhing and pulsing with dark energy. The mark burned.
"Have you forgotten me so quickly Lucius?" the voice asked, tone light, yet there was cold steel underneath.
"No my lord…it is not so. I have…" Lucius managed despite the pain, but the voice roared at him angrily.
"All you have done is hide and cower." the voice hissed and Lucius felt his arm grow heavy and his breathing grew laboured.
"You have forgotten your master, our goals. You revel in the comfort of your wealth and feeble power." Here the voice stopped poised to strike like an angry cobra. Yet when it continued, it had turned quiet and honeyed. "I lay forgotten, diminished – have you forsaken me Lucius? I, who raised you up?"
Lucius grit his teeth; all through the conversation, the heat in his arm had steadily increased, becoming unbearable. His fists were clenched so hard, he'd drawn blood. Yet despite all this, he managed to find the strength to answer.
"No, my lord…" he gasped out.
"Good, then find me you fool."
The ever-present overbearing pressure that he had felt since the beginning left so abruptly, it left Lucius gasping and shuddering. With sheer force of will, Lucius finally found the strength to look up. Peering into the darkness, his eyes managed to find something – two points of scarlet stared at him from the abyss. Across the unfathomable distance he felt the dark malicious intent regarding him, judging him.
The shadows, agitated, seemed to boil over and rushed toward him and with them came sound; akin to thunder, growing in strength, roaring, as if a great beast was upon him. Just as the shadows were about to engulf him; something hot and sharp struck and dug into the back of his head. Before he could even scream, whether in surprise or pain, it yanked.
"Wake up Lucius!"
The world turned white, he felt more than saw images blur and rush past him, until with a jarring snap everything came into sharp focus. Lucius flung himself up and off the bed. He tumbled down and his flailing arms met something and there was a grunt of pain. Lucius ignored the pained cry, and instead tried to get his bearings. A frantic search and the luxurious room, bathed in shadow and moonlight assured him that he was in his own chambers. He unconsciously let out a relieved sigh. Frowning, he pulled the tangled sheets from his legs.
"Lucius?" the voice was cautious, unsure.
He turned and looked up. It would have been comical in any other situation; the great Lord Malfoy, a dishevelled sweaty mess, sprawled on the floor of his bedroom, his wife looking down at him. But Narcissa was less than amused; in fact, she looked quite distressed. Lucius found his eyes drawn to the darkening bruise on his wife's cheek.
"What's wrong Lucius? Where did you go?" she asked softly. She slid down the bed to sit across from him on the carpeted floor.
"What?" Lucius asked, his brow crunched in confusion.
What had happened? Why had he woken up in a panic? He was dreaming, wasn't he? What about though? He tried to remember but the memories were fleeting, the details quickly fading.
"You left." Narcissa said. Her eyes scanned his face, searching and fretting. Cautiously, she brought her hands up to his face, stroking an errant strand of hair from his face. Lucius leaned into her touch. She frowned – his skin was hot and clammy.
"Your mind, I couldn't find your mind as you slept." she explained, her earlier frustration and worry bleeding through.
She had woken up in the middle of the night and popped into the bathroom real quick – a little too much wine did that. When she got back to bed, she happened to glance at her husband who she thought to be asleep. Except he wasn't asleep – his eyes had been wide open, rolled back until only the whites remained. She had called out to him and received no response – shaking him proved to be equally useless.
Panicking and desperate she had dived into his mind. Her first surprise was when she did not feel the customary resistance of a mind-delve. The second was when she was met with nothing, his mind was gone, there was no conscious thought governing the body. Her husband was essentially a husk. In her desperation she had dived deeper, to the subconscious, and when she felt something she had tugged, pulled as hard as she could. Then Lucius had punched her in the face.
"I was somewhere, it was dark and a voice…he said to look." Lucius tried to explain but his head was throbbing and he couldn't grasp the details of his experience. He brought his arm up to rub his face. Narcissa gasped in horror, staring at his arm dumbstruck.
"Lucius your arm." she said. Without any hesitation she quickly grasped his arm, her fingers light and gentle. Lucius hissed as her cool flesh met the burnt raw skin of his arm.
"Your mark…" she pointed to the still prominent mark; the snake writhing within the mouth of the skull. "It hasn't been like this; at least not after…" she trailed off looking at him her face a blend of worry and realization.
"The Dark Lord has need of me." Lucius finally said. Narcissa looked away from him.
"Lucius, please, surely you can…" she began but he shook his head.
"You know I can't." he said firmly, if wearily.
He tried to meet her gaze but she remained evasive. For a few minutes they sat, on the floor not saying anything. Narcissa continued to cradle his hand, absently toying with his fingers. Lucius sat, waiting.
"Very well." she said finally, nodding and turned to him once more.
Her eyes were bright and her reassuring smile brittle. Lucius nodded back firmly, pretending he did not notice her expression.
*
Lucius grimaced as another twinge went down his right arm. With supreme effort, he resisted the urge to scratch at the bandages wrapped around the appendage. Narcissa would have his head if she found out that he had been fiddling with them after she had expressly told him to 'leave it alone'. There was another reason for his discomfort of course; the poultice on the bandages reeked. If it wasn't imperative that he get his arm healed quickly he would have chucked the wrapping ages ago. Alas, he had a meeting with the minister in a few days and people could not see him hurt or hiding his right arm; that would get the wrong sort of attention.
Shaking his head, he concentrated on the here and now. He was in his study, a room filled with a wonderful reading collection and a large intricately carved desk dominating the centre. His attention though was neither on the desk nor the bookshelves, rather it was on a little space between bookshelves. The space was not empty; rather it had a painting, a beautiful depiction of a craggy landscape, with jagged rocks and tall looming mountains.
He pulled out his wand and ran it across his palm. The wand left a trail of blood in its wake. Quickly, he placed his bloody palm against the painting and pushed his magic through. For a brief moment nothing happened and then symbols flashed out, ringing his hand before quickly fading. There was a groan and creak before the painting and the wall it was on sank into the floor. There was now an entrance – dark and forbidding – where once was nothing.
Without any hesitation he walked through. Witch-lights came alight the moment he stepped into the secret room. The room was a semi-circle and bare stone, with alcoves hewn into the rock. This was where he stored his more sensitive materials. He felt a subtle tug on his mind and his feet carried him to one specific alcove. There, lying innocently on the stone was a small black leather-bound book. As he got closer, he felt subtle fingers brush against his mind, whispering promises, if only he dared use the book.
With practised ease he shut them out. Pulling out a velvet lined cloth he carefully picked it up, making sure not to touch it with his bare skin. With quick and deft movements, he secured the book and placing it in the velvet lined inner pocket of his robe. Without a second glance, he left the room, the wall rising after him, plunging the room into darkness. There was work to be done.
Jab, jab, duck, right hook, duck, left uppercut, jab, jab, duck, left rising knee, sidestep, duck, right hook. Hadrian let himself fall into the rhythm, tuning out the sounds of the gym. His body burnt, muscles protesting, but still he pushed himself. This sort of pain was good, the rhythm was good, it was all that mattered. He saw something coming at him in his peripheral and ducked, on a dime he twisted extending his leg and swiped the man's feet from under him.
"Oof. Dammit!" the older teen grumbled and Hadrian flushed, he hadn't meant to do that.
"Sorry Mark." He apologized holding up a hand to help the downed trainer. The teen accepted the hand good-naturedly.
"Someone would wonder who was training who." Mark groused, pulling off the padded armour.
"Was a lucky shot, you know that." Hadrian said, pulling off his own gloves.
"Lucky shot he says, right." Mark shook his arms and grimaced, they still stung from taking the boy's blows. Hadrian hit hard, harder than most.
"Can we go again?" Hadrian asked, bouncing on the balls of his feet, his eagerness bleeding into his voice. He was tired but he could keep training for a few more minutes.
Mark grimaced, Hadrian always seemed to have the energy to keep going, that coupled with his natural aptitude meant he was a joy to train. But today something felt off, and Mark didn't want to see if Hadrian could put him on his ass again.
"Nah, let's call it a day," Mark said to Hadrian's obvious disappointment. "Besides, wouldn't want to keep your little girlfriend waiting now would you." He gestured to the benches off to the side. Hadrian turned and saw Hermione; her bushy hair was pulled back into a messy ponytail and her face buried in a book.
Hadrian turned to glare at the older teen, his face flushed and not from his recent exertions, "She's not my girlfriend." He said forcefully. Mark merely laughed, waving him off.
Hadrian grumbled about stupid trainers under his breath while he approached her. He plopped down beside her, causing her to jump. He grinned cheekily at her, "Hie Mione." He said airily.
"Prat," she said with no real heat, though he noticed that her cheeks grew rosy. He wondered why.
"Are you done then?" She asked, her eyes turned to look at the boxing ring where Hadrian's cousin was still running through drills.
"Yea, early though. I think Mark had places to be today." Hadrian mused; it wasn't the first time Mark had ditched him.
"Well I for one don't mind." Hermione said cheekily. Hadrian raised a curious brow.
"You're the one who insisted on coming along. Don't complain if you got bored." Hadrian snarked.
"I had a good book to read actually." She waved the aforementioned book in his face. She scrunched up her nose in distaste. "Can we at least go outside though, while we wait for Dudley. This place smells – so do you, by the way."
"Sure, there's a small park just a bit a way, Dudley can catch up later. Let me just take a quick shower." He got up and, in a flash, took of his sweaty top and threw it at Hermione.
"Dammit Hadrian!" she cursed as the damp cloth smacked her face. Hadrian ran, laughing all the way to the showers.
Minutes later the two were sitting on a park bench. Hermione had still been irritated at Hadrian's joke and so he had decided to bribe her with treats. Hermione having dentists for parents was rarely allowed sweets after all, and she seemed quite determined to vent her pent-up sweet tooth on her cone of ice cream. Hadrian watched her in morbid fascination – she seemed to almost inhale the treat, never minding the threat of a brain freeze.
"Enjoyed that did you?" he asked when she finally finished, a content smile on her face. Hermione flushed and Hadrian chuckled.
"Oh hush you. I deserved that, staying in that smelly gym…" she said with mock disdain.
"Again, nobody forced you to come." Hadrian shrugged lightly.
"I know, I just had the bad luck of visiting on the wrong day." She said with mild regret. Hadrian merely let out a grunt of acknowledgement, his mind drifting. The two sat in a comfortable silence for a while.
"How have you been though?" Hermione asked suddenly.
Hadrian turned to her a bit startled. She stared back at him, biting her lip, eyes full of concern. Hadrian looked away and found his eyes straying to his hands. Long fingers, he had always had long fingers. Now he couldn't help but see those same digits digging into Quirrell's face – Quirrell's burning and ghastly face. His fingers twitched, a spark of magic arcing between his fingers. Quickly he closed his hands into fists and closing his eyes, took a deep breath. Just breathe, he heard Madam Pomphrey's voice in his head. Yet his mind cast about, delving into the past and he found himself back there.
"It was him professor." Hadrian spoke, voice soft and unsettled.
He felt a hand squeeze his shoulder reassuringly. He turned and met McGonagall's concerned gaze. Looking forwards he met the Headmaster's calm eyes.
"It was Voldemort."
He looked at them, expecting surprise and shock and yet what he got was silence and knowing glances shared between them. It took seconds for him to understand.
"You knew?" he accused, voice angry and hurt.
He turned to look at his aunt and she sighed tiredly.
"You have to understand Hadrian…" Minerva began but Hadrian shook his head, shying from her.
Minerva clenched her jaw, hurt flashing across her face for a moment before her face smoothed over into impassiveness.
"You knew and let him into the school." Hadrian turned glaring at the headmaster.
Dumbledore met his glare calmly, unbothered. The headmaster's attitude instantly cooled down Hadrian's anger. Dumbledore sighed and pulled a chair from the side, sitting down with care.
"We didn't know, not really," the headmaster began calmly, eyes looking to the side, remembering.
"We suspected though. Ten years ago, Voldemort disappeared and while his body was destroyed, I suspect a part of him survived, clung on to life – something lesser." The headmaster explained. "Quirinus – professor Quirrell – likely encountered this entity when he was on his sabbatical and the rest is as they say history."
"Why don't people know this?" Hadrian asked finally.
"Because I never brought up my suspicions." The headmaster shrugged.
Hadrian stared at him confused, the question plain on his face.
"There was no evidence, nothing substantial." Minerva interjected. "You can't make such a bold claim, no matter who you are without clear and concrete evidence."
"And so we searched," the headmaster continued. "We have heard whispers but seen nothing, Until now."
"So what do we do know?" Hadrian asked looking at Minerva.
Minerva looked at Dumbledore, and an entire conversation passed between them in moments. Until finally the aged headmaster nodded.
"The Aurors will be here in the next half hour, to take your statement. Professor McGonagall will help you through the process. As you are a minor, your magical guardian must be present. I will be back later." The headmaster said before rising and quickly leaving the two.
"I'm sorry about what I said earlier. I…" Hadrian started to say but Minerva waved him off.
"It's okay." She reached out and held his shoulder, "I'm just glad you're okay."
Hadrian leaned into her touch, enjoying the rare moment of open affection. They sat like that for a while, lost in thought.
"Do you trust me Hadrian?" she asked him suddenly. He blinked at her confused. She looked at him, her eyes resolute and open.
"Yes." He finally nodded.
"Then please, trust me when I say that you must say nothing about Voldemort being alive to anyone…" she told him her voice taking on a stern quality.
"What? Why?" he asked surprised.
"I can't explain right now, we don't really have that much time. But you have to trust me, please. For your own sake." She looked at him then her eyes bright.
Hadrian couldn't hold her gaze for long and turned away. He knew his aunt had his best interests at heart. But this seemed like something that the authorities should know about. Yet there was a person he trusted and admittedly knew more of what was going on than he did, cautioning him not to.
"Fine." He said finally, nodding. "So what will I do when the Aurors ask?"
"They will ask you what happened and you'll give them a statement. Then they will request the memory of the event…" she stopped seeing Hadrian panic.
"Shh…" she soothed. "That part maybe tricky but it is easily solved." She pulled out her wand, the tip glowing a pale silver.
"Now concentrate on what happened, in as much detail as you can." She instructed.
Hadrian looked at her feeling sceptical – still he closed his eyes and thought back. The events came easily to him.
"Don't dive too deep, just hold onto the memory," Minerva's voice sounded a bit far off.
Hadrian tensed as he felt her shift next to him, there was a hum in the air and then something cool touched the side of his forehead and he gasped….
His eyes flew open when he felt another set of hands close around his own.
"Don't…" he started to say but Hermione gently shushed him.
"It's okay. We are fine – see?" she tugged his hands and he looked down. No errant spark of magic in sight.
Hadrian stared at their intertwined hands in rapt fascination before letting out a sigh. He leaned back and looked across the park. For a moment he felt bitter; looking at the other children his age having fun oblivious in their bliss. He would never have that again.
"When I close my eyes, I see him, hear him. I can still feel him, the smell. I…" he stopped not knowing what else to say.
"Oh Harry…" Hermione said, her voice thick. He spied her wet eyes before she quickly pulled him into a hug. He clung to her, desperately. An errant corner of his mind wandered what the gossips must think of them, but a larger part of himself couldn't find the effort to care.
"I'm so sorry that this happened to you…" Hermione was saying. "I wish it never had."
"It's okay Mione," Hadrian heard himself say.
"But it isn't…none of this is…I – if only…" Hermione trailed off, lost for words. Instead she held him tighter.
The two stayed like that for a long while until their limbs felt stiff. Slowly Hermione pulled away, sniffing. Hadrian offered her a weak smile, trying to reassure her.
"I got your top wet," said Hermione, flushing. "I'm supposed to be helping you and here I am making a mess of things. Padma is so much better at this…"
Hadrian frowned when he heard that, "Hermione, it's okay, honestly. You're here and are one of the few people I can actually talk about this with, that's enough. So please don't beat yourself about it."
Hermione looked at him, appraisingly before nodding reluctantly. They again sat in silence, expertly ignoring the curious stares from people.
"So will we be seeing you at school when we open?" Hermione asked. Hadrian had confided to her that he wasn't sure if his aunt would let him go back. Something that wasn't all that surprising to be honest.
"Yea you will." He answered though his expression spoke volumes.
"What?" she asked.
"It was strange though. I begged her really and she wouldn't budge but Dumbledore and Aunt Minnie visited and well… yea." His eyes narrowed, his mind casting back to what aunt Minnie had done back in the school's infirmary. He shook his head, he shouldn't think like that, he couldn't.
"Well that's good, isn't it?" she asked optimistically.
"It is but I just can't help but feel that I'm missing something – that they're not telling me something." He said finally.
"Mm I guess we have another thing to figure out." She smiled mischievously at him. Hadrian looked at her surprised before he chuckled. Trust Hermione to always be curious.
"Will you be going to Neville's party then?" she asked all of a sudden.
"What party?" he asked surprised.
Hermione looked at him strangely. "Neville sent you an invite, he said so. Why are you surprised?" she asked him accusingly.
"But I didn't get any invite…" he explained, shaking his head. "Actually, I haven't gotten a letter from anyone in a while…" he trailed off his tone turning bitter.
"Really?" her eyes went wide in disbelief. "Neither Padma or I have gotten any letter from you either. We thought you were just blowing us off, after what happened. I've read that it's pretty common after trauma, people can retreat and close off – it's why I just decided to call."
Hadrian narrowed his eyes, thinking. Something strange was going on here.
"So you didn't get any of our letters?" she asked again. He shook his head.
"Nope." He shrugged.
"That is strange." Her brow scrunched up in thought. "Could it be a faulty mail ward?" she asked finally.
"Maybe…" he answered unsure. Aunt Minnie had been around at the start of the holidays to give the wards a look over, if there had been a problem, she would have found one. Despite this, he found himself telling Hermione much differently, "I'll talk to Aunt Minnie about it."
Hermione nodded apparently satisfied.
"It's still weird hearing you call her that, you know." She glanced at him sideways.
"What? Aunt Minnie? She's a big softie." He grinned.
Hermione shook her head and huffed, "To you maybe. She's so stern and powerful, I can't imagine calling her anything other than professor." Hermione's voice took on some slight admiration which Hadrian chose to promptly ignore.
"So, you were talking about a party?" He prodded.
"Yea," she smiled enthusiastically. "Neville was thinking that since your birthdays are right next to each other, you could just throw one big party at his house."
"That sounds great actually. I'll talk to my aunt and uncle about it; I'm sure they won't mind though." He said, knowing that his uncle would get just excited as he was.
The two continued chatting after that; what they missed about Hogwarts, laughing about all the silly things they remembered, plans for the coming year. The two chatted away, oblivious to the large eyes peering at them, hidden from sight.
Perhaps it was a function of her heritage, but the dark had never scared her, even as a child. Many a night she had spent gazing at the stars in the open air; her mother pointing out the various constellations and the stories that went with them. She grimaced and glanced up, the stars were behind the clouds tonight and the moon was absent. The shadows were as deep as they could get and she welcomed them.
Sticking to the unseen corners, she navigated the narrow, cobbled streets with practiced ease. Her steps silent and fleet, she made her way to the house she had visited only twice before, her memory serving her well enough. She stopped in an alley, her form blending into the dark.
Unhindered, her eyes peered across the street, studying the building that stood before her. The sounds of the night filtered down to her sensitive ears. A couple, a block away and a few stories up, was arguing. Another family in the same building were sitting down for supper. Her nose twitched, lasagne. Shaking her head, she focused back on the building across the street from her.
She closed her eyes, focusing. When she opened them again, they had gained a subtle glow. Now she could see more – the building in front of her was surrounded by a dome; a complicated web of magical energy – wards. For the next few minutes she stood stock still, unblinking like a statue and gazed at the defences, trying to find a weakness, something she could exploit. Her eyes landed on the first-floor window, perhaps that would do. She blinked and the world dimmed, the threads of power fading. A few blinks later to get rid of the spots and she was ready to go.
She hesitated though; it felt easy. She hadn't gotten this far with easy. This was quite possibly a trap, but she was out of options. She focused all her senses again; searching. Nothing – the area was clear, all her senses told her that; and yet she still felt on edge, a prickling at the back of her spine. Her hand drifted to her right wrist, toying with the familiar bracelet there in a nervous gesture. Steeling her nerve, she took the plunge.
Swiftly she crossed the street, a streak of shadow, barely perceptible to mortal eyes. In moments she was clinging to the side of the building, peering in through the window. The room was dark and empty; it would do. A tingle went down her hand to the window. There was a click and she pulled the now open window up and slipped in. Quietly closing the window behind her, she quickly and silently left the room and found herself in the hall.
With familiarity she crept down the stairs, skipping the creaky step. The foyer was clear of anyone, but she quickly noticed the coat hung by the door. Her nose twitched and she smelt something strong and earthy – tobacco. Light was spilling in through the door frames on her right. Anxious she waited, indecisive. Taking a deep breath, she lightly pushed the door open, it swung on silent hinges.
The room was a parlour, plush leather chairs spread about on a luxurious carpet, facing a fireplace. A merry fire was blazing there, spreading warmth and light. Yet a sad pall hung over the room.
"You shouldn't have come." a glum voice croaked.
Selene clenched her fingers, irritation welling up inside her. "Where else could I have gone, I have nowhere else!" she spat angrily.
The chair in front of the fireplace creaked and groaned as the man got up to look at her. For a moment the two took each other in.
Selene in her worn clothes was pale, her hair wild, and dark circles hung heavy under her eyes, yet despite that there was strength in her stance, a fire in her eyes – bent but unbroken. In contrast, the man was dressed impeccably, dark dress pants, a maroon waist coat and pressed shirt. His salt and pepper hair slicked back and glossy. Yet despite this he looked sickly and haggard, his tall frame slumped.
"It's nice to see you after all this time Selene, you've grown." The man said, trying to smile but it came out more as a grimace.
He approached her, hand reaching out but she tensed shuffling half a step back, eyes tracking the appendage. He stopped short; lips pursed.
"When I had heard about your mother…" he trailed off when she grimaced. He inclined his head in apology before continuing. "I feared the worst when I heard nothing of your whereabouts. I am glad you seem fine, but you shouldn't have come…"
Selene frowned in confusion. This had not been the welcome she had imagined. Giovanni was a friend of her mother, they had history. Her mother had always told her that if she ever needed help Giovanni would be of service. She had met the man before and while he tended to be a bit stiff, he was nice to her; this was different. She quickly noticed how his eyes kept darting around the room, unable to meet her own. He was nervous, afraid even. The nervous ball in her belly tightened.
"Look I get it, I'm a liability so I won't take up much of your time. I just need some information and maybe some supplies if you could spare some." Selene said tensing.
Giovanni opened his mouth but someone clearing their throat stopped him. Selene whirled around, a snarl escaping her lips when she spotted red hair and glowing blue eyes accompanied by an infuriating smirk.
"You." She spat.
"Me." He answered, arms spread out mockingly.
Her opponent only had a moment to widen his eyes before with incredible speed she rammed into him, throwing him across the room. The wall cracked when he crashed into it. Swiftly she followed, but he was already up and ready. Her kick was dodged, and she buried her foot into the plaster. Taking advantage, he jabbed at her ribs. There was a crack and Selene hissed as she jumped back, fire lancing up her side.
If she just stood still for a few moments the pain would subside and her bones would mend as her healing kicked in; but she didn't have moments. The red head had smelt blood and wanted to capitalize. So she grit her teeth and defended herself, getting pushed back. He was taller than her, older too; that gave him a longer reach but surprisingly he couldn't overpower her. He wasn't stronger nor faster than her she quickly realized. She smirked internally.
Isaac was getting frustrated, even injured the girl could match him in speed and he found he couldn't simply overpower her. Still he pushed, letting his anger and frustration power him. His blows came faster, his kicks fiercer. The two tore and bounced around the room, little more than blurs, leaving splinters in their wake. Finally! Isaac almost crowed – the girl was a little too slow in dodging his arm and so he capitalized. Twisting, he shot out his right leg, intending to crush her chest.
He never saw Selene grin – with enviable flexibility, she bent backwards and watched the leg fly inches above her. In the same motion her left knee rose and connected with his raised leg. He cried out as his bone snapped and he flailed off balance. She sprung back up and blurred forward and caught him by the neck and slammed him hard onto the floor. He immediately tried to buck her off but she pressed herself on top of him, her knees pinning his arms. She raised a hand, fingers straight, her claws extended, glinting and promising death. Isaac's eyes widened in panic and fear.
"Enough!" A voice thundered.
Selene looked up, eyes widening when they fell on Giovanni. He was slumped forward and unconscious. The only reason he was still upright was the hand holding him up with barely any effort. Selene felt a growl bubble up in her throat. In anger she tightened her grip on Isaac's neck. A dark satisfaction filled her as her ears easily picked up the grinding of his bones.
"Ah ah like I said, enough of that. Unless you want your friend here to have more than a concussion in the morning." Caleb warned. "Now let him go." Caleb brought a single finger against Giovanni's cheek, his claw drawing blood.
"I could kill you both," growled Selene, "I'm stronger than him," she glanced down at Isaac whose eyes were full of rage. She ignored him though, confident she could keep him pinned.
"I'm also pretty sure I could give you a run for your money." She said projecting bravado into her voice. Internally she was panicking and her eyes couldn't help but track the single droplet of blood trailing down the mortal's cheek.
"Oh I'm sure that you could manage that with some effort." Caleb said pleasantly, a chuckle escaping him.
"But there is no way you can get to me before I snap his neck and we both know you don't want that. You care about this fool; it's why you kept away for so long."
Realization filled her in that moment; they had been waiting for her. She glanced at Giovanni with something approaching betrayal. He must have known.
"You were waiting for me – he was bait." She accused.
"And like the little bird you are, you fell for it." he smirked in triumph before his eyes hardened. "Now let my foolish partner go."
For a few moments Selene debated going for broke. She was fast, faster than most of her species. She could cross the distance between herself and Caleb before he finished blinking. She could make it certainly – but not quickly enough she knew. For a moment she entertained the idea of just leaving – she was certainly fast enough to get out before the two knew what was happening. But Caleb was smart – Selene could feel a dozen presences surrounding the house, she wasn't going to escape; not easily.
She glanced down at her bracelet, the pale stones and beads glinting in the firelight – her precious gift wouldn't be enough either. With a disgusted sigh she got off her downed opponent and stood off to the side. Isaac got up warily, wincing as his dislocated leg jostled. Caleb tsked, his face conveying his annoyance. He reached into his coat and pulled out a crystal vial.
"Here." Said Caleb and tossed the vial at his injured partner. Selene's sharp eyes caught the red liquid inside and her nose the coppery scent of blood as Isaac quickly downed the contents. The redhead let out a pleased hum as he felt a tad bit rejuvenated. Selene ignored him and instead met the cold grey eyes of Caleb.
"What now?" she asked the apparent leader of the two.
"Now I finish this fool and you come with us." Caleb said confidently.
Selene opened her mouth to say something, panicked. She took a step forward, her body turning away from Isaac. That moment cost her. There was a shift in the air – the hairs at the back her neck stood up – and then she felt a sharp pain at the back of her neck. She jerked forward and twisted and the world spun with her; colours bleeding into shapes, distorting. Her limbs grew heavy, rubbery and unresponsive. She slumped onto the floor and her last sight was Isaac looking down at her a vindictive smirk playing on his lips.
Caleb without any real care let Giovanni fall. Thankfully the carpet was thick else the man would certainly have a lump on his head come morning. Not that Caleb cared about the mortal; he had done his part and that was that – killing him was unnecessary at this point. Stepping over the useless man as one would over a smelly puddle, he crouched down by the unconscious girl. It was here that her real age showed, young by any standard.
"Damn she put up a fight." Isaac said rubbing his neck. Caleb could see the imprints Selene's fingers had left. Caleb looked up at the younger vampire and glared. Isaac flinched, taking a step back.
"She could have put you under, a few more seconds and all that would have remained of you would have been ash." Caleb fumed. He pulled out a length of enchanted rope from the depths of his coat and proceeded to bind her
"Well you weren't late and lo and behold I'm fine." Isaac said casually, a grin worming its way onto his mouth. Caleb growled, eyes darkening.
"We had a plan and you decided to see if your ego could match her power. Maybe I should have let her kill you." Caleb said menacingly before with surprising gentleness he lifted Selene into his arms. With long strides he led the way out of the house.
"She's barely in her teens how the hell is she so strong." Isaac groused following behind, his leg much better now.
"Perhaps if you had taken but a moment to use your head, you'd have realized that she was born of a witch hence beyond you." Caleb said stopping just outside the door.
He whistled, two sharp notes. Before the sound even echoed a dozen vampires were lined up before him. Swathed in dark clothes, only their pale faces and glowing eyes visible.
"We're done here, let's go." Caleb said. He adjusted the girl in his hands and then in the next breath the street was empty.
The colours changed, a kaleidoscope of neon bathed the moving mass of bodies, writhing and grinding to the rhythm of music. He took a sip of his drink and hummed; this was the way he liked it. He cast his eyes about club, looking for his next prey.
A pretty brunette caught his eyes – of course her hair looked blue at the moment but that was just the lighting. He flashed her a smile, his teeth pearly white – she ducked her head, blushing and looking coy. He smiled just a bit wider. A quick gulp had him empty his glass, and with practised ease he rose from his chair, smooth and graceful.
She met him in the middle – her step a confident sultry sway. Her eyes beckoned him and with full confidence his hand found her waist, trailing up and down her side. She pushed against him, grinding her crotch to his. He let the music take him and the buzz of alcohol guide him. Time lost meaning as they lost themselves in each other. The air between them grew hot and heady. It was intimate and crude and sensual – their breathes came fast and their sweat mixed. A fire raged in his belly, tingling down to his loins.
"I need you…" she whispered, clinging to him.
He stopped and stared at her, his eyes clouded, his mind light. Still he felt a stirring within him and he nodded. She smiled and spun, her hair rising up to tickle his nose. He inhaled deeply, her scent sweet and intoxicating and his mind grew foggier. He felt her tugging his hand and he followed, his eyes drifting to her swaying hips. She pulled him past the throng and led him to a side door. He looked around, noticing it was a storeroom. The walls were dirty and painted with graffiti – did she mean for them to have their fun here?
She pushed him against the wall and he let out a breathless gasp. Then her lips were on his – demanding and needy – and any protest died down. His hands trailed against her, following the contours of her soft body. He clawed at her dress, finding the material restrictive and unnecessary. He tugged at her slim back, trying to find the zipper. She drew back and he groaned in protest. She smiled, satisfied.
"You want me, right?" she asked. Her arms were pulled back and she seemed unsure. That coupled with her smudged lipstick and wild hair made her damn near irresistible.
"You know I do." He said. He closed the distance between them and captured her lips. She gasped in delight and mewled in his arms.
She pushed him away again and he frowned, wondering. She giggled at his expression. Reaching behind herself she pulled down the zipper of her dress. Holding it up, she stared at him, her eyes smouldering with lust.
"Close your eyes…" she purred. He grinned and complied.
There was the rustle of clothes and shifting, "Are you ready?" she asked.
He felt her heat next to him, her breathe against his cheek. He licked his suddenly dry lips and swallowed.
"Yes." He gasped out; the anticipation was killing him.
"Open them."
He did and pain exploded across his face. The blow sent him to the floor. Surprised and disoriented he still managed to pull out his wand. He gasped as a kick connected against his ribs, sending him tumbling. He rolled over, unable to cast. Then a heavy boot stomped on his hand and he let go of his wand. He cried out, pained and angry. Desperate he tried to pull at his magic but it escaped him.
"Finding it hard to cast?" a voice mocked.
He got up, his injured hand held close and cradling his bruised chest. Looking around he noticed a few things; the girl was gone and around him were three men – their clothes dark and their faces non-descript. He shook his head and tried to look at their faces but he couldn't grasp any detail.
"Don't bother, you won't get past the charm, at least not with how full of drugs you are." The apparent leader of the group said his voice layered and distorted.
"You drugged me? How? I check my drinks…" he said confused.
"Didn't your mother ever tell you not to dance with strange girls? No? Well, she should have…" his assailants laughed.
"What do you want? Do you have any idea who I am?" he growled out.
"Of course we know who you are, you blond pomp. As for what we want – Gilderoy Lockhart, your debt's been called…" the leader said darkly.
AN: Sorry for the massive delay with this chapter, things were a tad difficult for a while.Anyway please read and review, constructive criticism is very much welcome. Stay safe, wherever you are.