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Standard Disclaimer:

"Oh bloody Nora…" said Emily King, looking at the latest project to enter her workspace, "Mr. Stone?"

Thorber Stone, long term editor for Triage Inc. strode purposefully from his office, crossing the stage, and entered Emily's cubicle, took one look at the story they were to publish, and just did a one-eighty without slowing his pace, "Nope."

"Mr. Stone!" protested Emily, and the tiny redhead grabbed hold of the man, refusing to let go.

He had dragged the girl halfway across the stage before he stopped, completely ignoring the readers and glowered at her, "We haven't even finished Convergence Paradox and it's latest chapter."

"Well it's only got like three hundred and twenty-six views so far…it's probably not everyone's cup of tea." offered Emily.

Thorber thought about that a moment, then shook his head, "I think it's more like there's just two chapters in, and hardly much lore to go on for anybody to be invested in it."

"That, and maybe because we don't have a great rate of publication."

"Yes…hey, don't think I don't know what you're trying to do here." said Thorber, glaring at Emily again.

The girl looked nonchalant and innocent, "Oh? What am I trying to do, sir?"

"You're trying to manipulate me into telling our readers that we don't own Harry Potter, and our latest appeal to J.K. Rowling was met with failure yet again to gain ownership. And that we are not profiting in any way off of the stories we write here. You're a sly one, but I'm on to you, missy!"

Emily looked at the audience and winked, grinning, "Thank you so much, Mr. Stone. Enjoy the story, folks!"

She lets go of the man's arm and scampers back into her office, slamming the door shut and locking it with many creative wards and a bolt.

Blinking stupidly at the shut door for a minute, Thorber finally turned and realized he'd been standing centre stage the whole time. "Flaming, shadow-loving, blood-be-damned, trolloc-kissing cretins! SHE DID IT AGAIN!"

Muffled laughter could be heard from within Emily's office. Thorber stormed back to his own office. "Don't forget to read and review," he growled at the crowd.

Author's Notes: I'd written this story before, based on a prompt by Misty from the Flowerpot Discord server. The prompt was for Veela Tears and the unique effects it had based on the Veela's emotions. While I had a good head of steam when I started that, and managed to get ten chapters in under one month, I had made too many mistakes and it needed a re-write. This is that re-write. Fancasting time. Blacklock looks like Shrike from the Mortal Engines movie.

Fleur Delacour and the Secret of the Teardrop
By Triage
Prologue

It was a dark, stormy and windy night along the coast of the seaside, somewhere in Britain. Great waves crashed against the rocks on the shoreline, deafening all to any other noise, yet the heavy, partly metallic footsteps of the humanoid figure could be heard despite the waves and the winds. It had a decidedly male form, clad in a dark shirt, vest, trousers and a frayed dark brown overcoat.

He could have passed for a homeless man, but for the flesh on his face looking sunken and almost entirely rotted through, and the brightly shining green orbs within his eye sockets illuminating his path before him. He glanced down at his skeletal hands, almost entirely devoid of flesh. What little of it remained clung to the blackish metallic bones of his fingers.

His throat began to make a metallic rattling noise. He turned his shining green eyes towards the sky, splaying his arms wide apart and let out a horrified scream, the sound akin to jet engine. When he stopped, he looked down at himself, hearing a pulsing sound that pounded in his eardrums.

He tore at the middle of his torso, clawing the vest and shirt apart, heedlessly ignoring the damage he was doing to his clothes and rotten flesh beneath. And there, nestled where his stomach and intestines should have been, something bright audibly pulsed and and hummed with each pulse, matching a heartbeat. He had no heart left, but this appeared to have taken it's place.

His breathing came in ragged gasps, despite the fact he was most certainly no longer a living being. Yet he knew he was not dead either.

"No," he rasped, his voice possessing a metallic rattling quality to it, "Rrrrrr…NO!"

He turned and walked until he was ankle-deep in the waters and smashed the largest rock with a metallic fist, "NOOOOOO!"

The rock shattered and crumbled upon impact, and he retracted his fist, looking it over, checking for damages. There was none.

He stood there for a long time, letting the waves crash against him, as he pondered what to do next. When a thought struck him, he began to search around his trouser pockets, then the coat pockets. In his right coat pocket, he found what he was looking for. A black hawthorn wand, with silver etchings on the handle, intricately designed and curved within each other.

The few remaining muscles and flesh on his and mouth bent upwards in a weak smile. He was a wizard, and what kind of wizard would he be without a wand? He grasped it and incanted, "Lumos."

Nothing happened, and he blinked, the eyelids still relatively intact. He tried again, then cast something else. He went through an array of spells, but nothing happened. He turned his head upwards, and once again let out an anguished scream.

He closed his eyes and twisted on the spot, but once more, nothing happened. His roar of frustration echoed and rivaled the crashing waves.

Then the pulse within his belly slowed and made a low humming noise that came in weak pulses, but he felt something in the distance pulling him.

"Yesss," he rattled, "yesss, there are others...I will find them...find them all."

He plodded forward, the sands further along the beach muffling his heavy footfalls, but once he reached a pathway, only a deaf person would miss the sound of his approach. He had a quest, and he had all the time in the world to accomplish it, so he made no efforts to break into a run, and simply walked at a slow but steady pace.

~ O ~

Seven years had passed since his emergence from the seashore. He had named himself Blacklock, and knew to keep out of sight, especially during the daytime, when his frayed attire was less able to conceal his inhuman nature. He'd also added a fedora hat and a pair of Muggle sunglasses to better conceal his shining green eyes at all times. The collars of his overcoat he'd kept pulled up, better to conceal himself in shadows.

At least the pus, ooze, and phlegm had stopped sometime in the second year and he really was a desiccated walking corpse now.

Be it in Muggle or Wizarding locales, everyone who spotted him had the sense to give him a wide berth, even at their own inconvenience. Better to avoid the tall figure with metallic footsteps. He had found his quarries. He knew that there were six in number. And aside from one that he found hidden in a hut, he had been unable to access the rest. But, as he learnt quickly in his first year since his rebirth as the being he now was, he could not be killed, not even with the killing curse. He also seemed impervious to most spells.

Unfortunately for the Death Eater who tried killing him, he was not as impervious to repeated blows from a metal fist. Blacklock was not above poetic justice, and when he learnt the man he killed was a serial rapist, he'd hung the corpse at the entrance to the Ministry of Magic by his member.

But he found himself circling around one particular quarry most often. He was baffled by the fact he was just a boy. He knew the legends of course, and he had followed him easily, mostly because of the obnoxiously loud relatives he had. Honestly, even if Blacklock lacked sight, he would have located them. They grated on his nerves something fierce.

One day, he had stalked them extensively, when the woman, her son, and the boy were in a Muggle shopping mart. He did not follow them inside, but he watched them through the window nearby and noted the chubby boy was bloody disgusting in every way possible. If Blacklock still had biological impulses, he would have gagged at the volume of splooge and seepage that he was prone to.

As opposed to the underfed one next to him, who was quiet and observant. He ducked away from the window when the boy seemed to notice him. He had matching green eyes, except his didn't shine. At least, not like Blacklock's did. When he felt a drop of water on his hat, he glanced up into the sky and surreptitiously put a bony hand out to feel the raindrops as they pelted. He was saddened to know that even the sensation of moisture escaped him these days.

He felt very little of anything. At this point, he would welcome even Scotland's cold weather. He had been that way a few times and was glad he could still see the castle. His magic may be gone, but he was still a wizard in some way.

He noted that the family was exiting the shop now, and he huddled himself against the corner, falling into his guise as a homeless man. The skinny boy looked up at him as they passed, his gaze was intense and thoughtful. This intrigued the revenant, and as he straightened up, the boy smiled at waved at him with his free hand.

"Boy, what do you think you are doing?!" shrieked the horse-faced woman, and she immediately slapped him, "You don't even look at such people, you hear?"

Blacklock scowled at how he was treated but noted with interest how the little boy did not even cry out, though he was obviously hurt. Almost as if he was used to this.

This was why he decided to remain in Surrey for the time being. He wanted to observe the boy and see what he would become. The woman's reaction was borne of rancid fear. Like he was a walking time bomb. Maybe he was. Time would tell.

Although he didn't need sleep, Blacklock liked having a place, a dwelling of his own. But he was not inclined to pay a visit to Gringotts. The quarry there affected him far too strongly, and he was not yet keen to test his resilience against goblin weaponry, and there was the matter of their tenacity in pursuing a thief if one managed to flee the interior of the bank with ill-gotten gains.

There were woodlands just behind the home of his quarry, and he decided that was as good a place as any to set up a make-shift residence. Without magic, he had to do everything by hand. Fortunately, his metallic limbs and immense strength meant that he could cut and shape the trees and other resources to whatever shape he wanted. In a week, there was a simple shelter he could take refuge in.

Again, while he himself didn't really need it, his clothes didn't share his resilience, and thus it was prudent to protect what little he had. He didn't enjoy stealing or pilfering rubbish bins for castoffs, even when necessary. He was just glad he didn't need food or any form of sustenance anymore.

Once he had settled into his little shack, he resumed observing the boy, careful to maintain the cover of the shadows. The neighbourhood of Little Whinging was unfortunately filled with nosy folk who liked spying on each other. This meant they were exceptionally observant, and a skulking suspicious figure was bound to attract too much attention. There was also the fact he had occasionally seen the short half-goblin wizard occasionally wandering through the place.

The boy was clearly of value, and the folks of the Old Fool were carrying out his whims.

There was also the matter of how the house seemed to appear or disappear depending on certain thoughts Blacklock had regarding the boy. Whenever he considered dark thoughts and actions, such as killing the child, the house vanished. But if he considered abducting the boy with the express desire to raise him himself, the house was glaringly obvious.

This meant that the Old Fool clearly had some powerful enchantments and protection surrounding the boy. But why give him abusive guardians? It did not make sense. Once, he had managed to steal a glance through a window one night, and he was outraged to see that the boy was being housed in a small cupboard under the stairs. He had nearly broken into the house right then, but if he wished to take the boy, what would he do? Unlike him, the boy needed food, a proper shelter or home, and a far better environment to grow up in.

When did he even begin to consider raising the child? He was his quarry!

He'd skulked away, and began to journey on foot to Diagon Alley.

He still didn't want to go to Gringotts, but there were other ways of obtaining galleons. A few weeks of stalking Knockturn Alley had gotten him a purse with an enlargement charm on it, and a fair handful of coins, but his golden opportunity came one evening near the Ministry of Magic.

Lucius Malfoy, and a visit to the ministry usually meant bribery was about to take place. Blacklock would have bet whatever coins he had on it. The only problem was approaching him. His footsteps were so heavy and loud, the man would see him coming long before he'd be able to grab hold of him. Luck was on his side when he spotted a nearby refuse pile full of discarded clothes.

His muffled steps (thanks to him wrapping his skeletal feet in five layers of cloth) got him close to Lucius, and thanks to the blonde ponce trying to be invisible himself, there was no one nearby. He grabbed Lucius by the neck and slammed him face-first into the wall and the man slumped to the ground, unconscious.

Briefly, Blacklock considered placing a heavy foot to the man's throat, putting him out of everyone's misery, but when he heard voices nearby, he bent over Lucius and pilfered whatever valuables he could find on his person, including his cane, in which he hid his wand. By the time the Ministry security found the man, Blacklock was long gone and on his way to a shop in Knockturn Alley.

It was almost a year later that Blacklock had everything in place, and he walked up to the front door of Number Four, Privet Drive. He drew back his fist and with one blow, knocked the entire door off its hinges and into the living room.

AN: Thoughts, reactions, or Blacklock's festering putrid mucus curd?