Never procrastinate by playing The Legend of Zelda: Twilight Princess. Never. That game ate my brain, which is why this chapter is short and the plot is stretched and the writing is just generally below par, because now I've got Wii spit-up for brains. You know I'm going insane because I actually just typed Wii spit-up.

I've got a novel, a crap-shit lawn mower and the impending doom of school munching on my cerebellum too, so if I don't update for a few days, or just generally vanish off the face of the earth, you know why.

Disclaimer: I do not own the Mortal Instruments.

Magnus felt his eyes widen. "You mean the potion?" he asked, his hand darting instinctively to the lump resting in his pocket, cold even through the material of his jacket. "You want it back?"

The Queen laughed—a sound like shattering glass, shrill and hard and yet beautiful. It made Magnus' ears ache. "No," she said, settling back down onto her couch, dangling her legs over one end and resting her head against the other. Her hair lay beneath her, falling to puddle on the ground beside Magnus' hands. "Once a boon is won from The Folk it cannot be taken away. It is yours now, to do with what you will."

Frowning, Magnus shifted, trying to dispel the aching from his bones, but it just grew more acute, stabbing at his joints, making his arms and legs wobble. "Then what do you want?"

She smiled her cruel, I-know-something-you-don't-know smile and tapped long pale fingers against the frame of the couch, beating out a fast, lively rhythm. "I want many things," she said, cocking her head to the side. The light caught her eyes and for a split second, they physically glowed, slivers of blue ice, sharp enough to cut him. "But even I have learned that what you want is not always what you get."

Magnus resisted the urge to sigh, biting back the sound until it caught in his throat and stuck there, an unpleasant weight throbbing every time he swallowed. "What do you want from me?" he amended.

"I want nothing from you but to see the disappointment in your eyes when you realize everything you have done, every trial you have bested, and each you have failed,"—she leaned closer and her voice dropped to a hoarse, dramatic whisper—"was for naught."

"I'm damned if I do and damned if I don't," he murmured, not meaning for anyone to hear. But, of course, everyone did, cold, remote stares crawling over him with a feeling akin to spiders walking up his spine, hair-raising and shiver inducing.

Her smile was as fleeting and lovely as a shooting star streaking across the sky. "In a manner of speaking. See, I will not heal the Shadowhunter. But I am the only one who can tell you how."

Magnus glanced towards Alec, saw the gaping blood-encrusted hole, the glimmering sweat, and the frail rise and fall of his chest. Somehow, he was still beautiful. Magnus just wished he would open his eyes. Anything for him to open his eyes. "But my magic—" he started, but the Queen interjected with a wave of her hand and a shake of her head.

"It is not the magic of Lilith's Children that will save the boy."

Eyebrows shooting up to burrow in his hairline, Magnus drew his hand back from his pocket, placing it on his knee. "Then what will?"

She pointed to the bulge resting against Magnus' thigh, and he felt the bottle grow warm, burning his skin through the thick material of both his jacket and his pants. "The bottle in your pocket—"

Magnus—stupid though he knew it was—cut off the Queen mid-sentence. "But you said—"

Her beautiful face froze over, becoming terrible and cold as snow, distant hatred in her eyes as she glared down at him. "Do not interrupt me, Bane," she said, her lips hardly moving, her words a breath bearing all the power of a cry. "You will not like the consequences."

Magnus bobbed his head to hide the blush filling his cheeks, glancing up at her through his long lashes, crusted with glittering tears that he refused to let fall. "Yes, my Queen."

Her face melted into the falsely warm mask she always wore, only the nutty glint of her eyes betraying her façade. "That's better," she whispered, reaching down to pinch his cheek. It might've been an affectionate gesture, had her razor-sharp nails not sliced into his skin, letting rivulets of blood amble over his face and drop down to stain his jeans. The quicksilver smile that darted over her lips assured him it was intentional. The things she did always were, every little move working towards an ulterior motive.

"As I was saying, the bottle, the potion stolen by that traitorous naiad,"—an ugly grimace flashed across her face, making her look somewhat human, if only for a moment—"contains mortal blood, faerie magic and a curse older than time itself—the essence of humanity. It will turn any Downworlder into a mundane, but it will heal any mortal on the brink of death."

Magnus had been wiping the sleeve of his jacket across his cheek, but he stopped in his tracks, letting his gaze work it's way up to meet the Queen's. Blood dripped down into his open mouth, tasting of salt and iron and rust. He didn't move to spit it out. "You mean…"

Someone laughed. Magnus never found out who. Someone with a high silver-chime voice. One of the courtiers. "Yes, warlock," the Queen said, her eyes flickering to something behind him and back. "The only way to save him is to give him the potion, and give up your last chance at mortality."

I apologize. I realize it's super short and another cliffhanger, but I just didn't have enough brainpower left to write more. Don't shoot me.

Please review, tell me how to improve. I can always improve.