The Lion and the Snake

Two headlights passed by the cafe, blinding the singular scarred man who sat there. He tensed his hand that sat in his pocket as it drove by. Preparing for the one in a million event of an attack. He took a sip from the cup of coffee in front of him, which sat on top of a newspaper. Screening the newest of stories to the town of Blackpool. The luminescent yellow lights buzzed in the cafe, as the man took another scan of the windows that opened up into the dark streets.

"Plain bagel, with plain cream cheese for Mr. Atkinson!" The cafe barista announced to the nearly empty cafe.

An awkward silence followed before the man dubbed Mr. Atkinson stood up, one hand still in his pocket. He grabbed the bagel from the kind barista woman, flashing a soft smile, before she focused on his face. His scarred middle-aged features greatly contrasted his jet black hair. The scar that spanned across the right side of his face was a much darker tone than what his pale skin was like. It ran from above his eyebrow, through that very same eyebrow, to beside his eye. A worm-like line that scrawled down his face. The woman took her focus away from that scar and stood, almost as if taking in an order from another customer. Atkinsons clear white, square pair of glasses slipped down his nose as he turned to walk back to his seat. Though, without touching them, they somehow returned to their original place.

Atkinson sat down in his seat once again, raising the newspaper up. He quickly glanced towards the barista again, she was swaying and struggling to keep her eyes open. Atkinson returned his gaze to the newspaper, quickly scanning the pages. He gripped the object in his pocket, and pulled it out. It was a stick. A nine-ish-inch long stick that seemed rather rigid. With an oddly bright wood colour to it. A pine wood stick. It was a wand… aparecium the man spoke in his mind. Not at all to his surprise, a message began fading onto the paper. On the paper was a quick and simple mission statement. Right after he read it through twice, the words burned to a crisp. Forever gone. O'Connor. Atkinson recognized the name from somewhere, but he could not remember in the moment. He brushed it off, almost right away.

Atkinson stuffed the wand back into his pocket, a dangerous practice many shook their heads at. Yet Atkinson could not care less. He was skilled enough to not blow a hole in his own thigh. He would scoff at those who questioned it at all. For he was a wizard. An Auror to be exact. A police officer, almost, in the wizarding world. A position only the strongest wizards and witches could apply for and pass. Atkinson was one of those few who were appointed.

Atkinson stuffed the bagel into his mouth, devouring it as fast as he could. Before calling to the now asleep barista on the counter.

"Thank you for the food." The man was clearly from London.

The Barista shot up from her sleep, calling back "Your welcome sir!", before falling back into the counter, practically asleep instantly. Atkinson laughed to himself as he left, but the chuckle was immediately replaced with a frustrated frown. The air outside was of an undesirable temperature. Atkinson could see his own breath; it was so cold. Atkinson grumbled as he rubbed his hands against his arms to at least try to warm himself up. For someone so attuned to magic, it pained him to not be able to use magic in the public muggle eye. Apparently seeing someone suddenly create a fire out of nowhere is strange to muggles.

Atkinson shadily peered around checking for any onlookers as he swiftly took a sharp right turn into a back alley. Atkinson rearranged his smooth, black hair as his height quickly reduced to that of a small animal. He was transformed into an aerodynamic black lump with thin grey legs. The animal cawed, and flew up into the sky, after a small run to gain momentum. Nothing was left behind in the complete change. Not even a single hair. A Crow. The animal that had been Atkinson was flying through the night. Using the strong winds to glide comfortably.

Atkinson; a wizard who was known by many. At least that is what Atkinson liked to think. He knew many-a-spells, but none of them were particularly strong. He had no ace up his sleeve. No expelliarmus. Though, his wand was extra adept at learning new spells, and he was someone who found learning obscure spells interesting. It was a match made in heaven. Though, that's what a wandmaker's job is.

Atkinson continued gliding through the wind, occasionally flapping his wings to bring himself back up. The south pier passed him moments earlier as the central pier appeared on the horizon. The Ferris wheel being the obvious center of attention. It was completely motionless, except for the sway of the carts from the strong winds, even then, it was quite still. Atkinson slowed down his flight as he came close to the wheel, spreading out his talons to prepare himself for landing on the very top of the amusement ride. The metal was uncomfortable and cold.

This was where he needed to be. Atkinson scanned the surrounding area, at least for what he could see in the midnight light. His target was in hiding in this very area. Plain sight. Atkinson never understood those who hid in plain sight. Those with eyes could easily find you. Without a doubt. Except this certain wizard was able to evade the eyes for years. A special one. Atkinson nearly began flying away to circle, but something stopped him. A bright green flash of lightning shot past him. Missing him entirely by metres. Atkinson locked onto the origin. A blue-roofed building. Atkinson ignored the attempt on his life and dove straight down. Trying to be as fast as possible. A second green light erupted right past Atkinson as he dove. This time it was much more inaccurate. Who would have thought hitting a fast-moving black feathered animal at night would be difficult?

Atkinson took a sharp upturn before coming to a complete stop behind a building. The crow that was Atkinson, grew larger and larger into a human male once again. His hair sent into a frenzy, and his glasses having fallen down his nose. Atkinson whipped his hair out of his face and pushed his glasses up with his free hand. The air went silent. The wind stopped. Atkinson's eyes began adjusting to the dim lighting, but it seemed like everything around him could possibly start moving. He felt his heartbeat rev up, whether it was from fear or excitement, he could not tell. He just knew his body was preparing itself. Atkinson stood completely still, with his wand raised to the darkness.

Almost out of nowhere, in the distance, a siren approached. Flashing red lights erupted. It drove by in a short shot. The blaring was gone in an instant. Atkinson normally would not even pay attention to an emergency vehicle passing by, but this instance was different. It distracted him. He took his attention away from sound for a split second. That was his mistake.

A thin white string shot straight at Atkinson's chest. Hitting him right on the chest. Three deep gashes tore their way through the flesh of his torso, like a knife through butter. The blood did not stop coming, neither did the offensive spells. Atkinson had to crawl away from the endless spells. Slowly and painfully he left a blood trail leading to behind a wall. Light blew beside him, past the wall he was lying against. Vulnera Sanentur. He circled across the lacerations on his chest. Atkinson could feel his blood slow down, and each individual tissue in his chest painfully stitch together. His panic slowed down. He was able to focus better, but he was still in agony.

The footsteps quickly approached. They were loud and clacky, like his opponent was wearing tap shoes. How they managed to sneak up on him, Atkinson did not know. He prepared his wand, aiming towards the corner that his opponent was going to turn. His wounds were not fully healed, but Atkinson did not care. He did not need to be at full health to fight. Bombarda. His explosion spell blew up a corner of the building. Sending fragments of the building at the enemy wizard. Atkinson finally caught sight of his enemy. He was rather ragged and gaunt like he had not eaten in weeks. Yet he was as spry as a rabbit. The man's pale skin directly contrasted his black robes that looked like he ripped off of a homeless man's makeshift bed. A death eater they would call him. One who followed He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, the greatest evil. The Hitler of the wizarding world. Unknown to the entire muggle world. Though, after his defeat in 1998, his followers, the death eaters remained. Those who were not captured continued his legacy. Like the death eater right in front of Atkinson.

The death eater was sent flying back from the blast, hitting the hard wall of a building. Avis. Atkinson continued on with his attacks, his wand shot out crows that immediately honed in on the death eater. They hovered around him and pecked at his flesh. The death eater screamed in frustration at the birds, as he got up he just screamed and screamed. Not pain, just anger. With one swing of the wand, the birds all blew up into feathers, the death eater staring into the eyes of Atkinson. His eyes were cold and furious. The two just stood there for a moment, only the air separated them. Atkinson felt a cold sweat forming as he tried predicting any movements. The death eater smiled with his rotten teeth, Atkinson could only imagine the spell. Blood dripped at the feet of the death eater.

A red light shot at Atkinson. Protego. The red light was completely blocked. A second red light followed, then a grey light, then a white light, then a yellow light. It was attack after attack from the death eater. There was a barrage of blows that were all blocked by Atkinson. Until finally a large explosion appeared right in front of Atkinson. Blowing him away. Atkinson could feel the heat of the explosion remain in him even after the explosion. A wall grew closer and closer to Atkinson. He had to think fast. Mollaire. He casted as soon as he hit the wall. It softened the blow, but the wind was still knocked out of him. Out of the confusion, Atkinson heard the death eater's shoes click and clack, until he spoke.

"This is for him." The death eater spoke with words utterly sopping with hatred. "Exterreri."

Atkinson felt a point of warmth hit him in the spine. He felt his eyes ache for a moment, before the heat disappeared. Atkinson thought he died for a moment, because as he stood up, he was in a castle. A familiar castle. Filled with children wearing black robes with different coloured accents to the robe. It was a school. Hogwarts. Yet it felt cold and lifeless. Nothing like how he remembered Hogwarts. He saw students walk about the castle, without looking at him. Leaving him be, as if he was not even there. Except as the red, green, blue and yellow accented robes walked past, he began recognizing faces. Housemates, and friends, and enemies, and acquaintances. Even himself. The thin frail boy speeding through the halls, with books stacked in his hand. He was a smart boy. Who prioritized studying over pretty much everything. A habit he brought into his job. If he died, no one would mourn his death, except maybe his employer. It helped him do his job, and he had no downtime anyways so he could not care less.

Atkinson began walking around the scene, following himself around. Atkinson wanted to vomit at the sight of his younger self, but he continued anyway. He noticed that as he walked past the torches, he felt nothing. An observation he noted. He might be dead. Or he might still be alive. He pinched himself on the forearm. He felt it. Alive. Perhaps a spell?

Atkinson decided he should continue following himself. Maybe this was just a memory spell, or… He remembered the incantation the death eater used. Exterreri. Not a commonly known curse. It had been outlawed years upon years ago. Too many witches and wizards ended their own lives because of the Exterreri curse. After being hit with the curse they began to see things. Images of their past. Things that they would rather forget. Things that would haunt them for the rest of their lives, until they ultimately ended it. A counter-curse was never developed. Atkinson was cursing to himself. He must be wandering around like a crazy man in Blackpool. The thought reminded Atkinson of the drop-off onto the sand and sea. He stopped moving. If he was moving around in real life, he did not want to possibly drown or snap his own neck. Even though he completely stopped moving, the dream moved him anyway. He was following himself once again.

Inside of a classroom now. Half green collared, half red collared. A student kept on glancing at his younger self. One in a red collar. A Gryffindor. The class did not matter to Atkinson as of now. The memory instantly came back. He wanted to leave. He immediately broke his own rule of self-preservation and tried leaving the classroom. Except, as he reached the door, the professor had closed the door with magic. The door was solid. Even the handle was solid, but as Atkinson pulled, the door did not budge.

Atkinson turned around, something awful sat in front of him. Every single human being in the room had their undivided attention on Atkinson. It felt as if they were staring directly at his soul. They had dropped everything to get an unmoving glance at him. You could hear a pin drop. Their eyes were wide and piercing. They were deer at a snap of a branch. Until after an uncomfortable moment, everything resumed. Buzzing bees once again. Continuing on like what just happened, never did. Atkinson got the message, and he walked back to where he was before. They went back to ignoring him like he was an ant on the sidewalk.

The room was back to the lesson, and Atkinson just stood there, watching them from the outskirts of the room. Uncomfortable to make any move for attention or escape. He stood unmovingly. He feared what his own mind could do to him.

Atkinson noticed his younger self muttering to the student next to him. They began snickering to themselves a second later. The Gryffindor student glanced down again, he began talking to another student next to him. The other student began laughing as well, except looking at young Atkinson and his friend. The two pairs were on opposite sides of the room. One in the green collars, and the other in the red, Gryffindor, collars. A difference the Gryffindor noted in the halls a moment later.

"You're just a dirty little Slytherin, huh?" The Gryffindor practically spat in his face.

The Gryffindor had followed him into a remote hallway, in which no one wandered except the two.

"I had no control…" Young Atkinson responded. "I didn't want it…"

"You wanted it, the hat didn't even touch your hair and it said Slytherin. You're just a slimy little liar." The Gryffindor pushed young Atkinson to the floor, tossing all of his books across the dusty floors of the hallway.

The Gryffindor looked around sceptically, before he continued walking, at a quick speed. Atkinson remembered the caretaker's cat showing up, and how he got a big talking to for damaging library books. But the vision did not show it, it just flew right past it to another time. The end of first year. The house cup winner announcement. Gryffindor had won by a landslide. Atkinson remembered the feeling he had. Seeing someone so cruel being on the throne. The Gryffindor was stood up, clapping with his housemates. Cheering with his entire heart. It was obvious he knew they were winning. They were the house. Everyone knew that. The bravest and kindest and most courageous of wizards came from that house. They established that every year with the house cup and the quidditch cup.

Atkinson remembered the feeling of seeing them win every single year. In both Quidditch and the House Cup. One of the greatest runs of Gryffindor house, a six year run. The resentment grew in him. Atkinson only remembered what he did, as an evil act. An act that would only confirm one's beliefs of a Slytherin. An act that would only confirm the bias in someone that all Slytherin's were evil. That all Slytherin's would just grow up to be dark wizards and witches. Atkinson could feel his skin crawl in preparation of what he was going to see.

He saw himself in the great hall, from second year to sixth year. The Gryffindor banner being shown around proudly. The headmaster grinning ear to ear about the house winning. Even a few of the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs were cheering on the Gryffindor's as they won. Yet not a single Slytherin was moving. It was not only Atkinson who was being treated like he was. The Gryffindor's and Slytherin's were rather nasty towards each other. The innocents were caught in the war. It only fueled them to join the war of injustice. Something even Atkinson joined in on. It took until his seventh and final year to do something.

Atkinson was able to read the Gryffindor like a book. He could read everyone like a children's book. It was a rather useful skill he had developed. It was not the only thing he had learned. Atkinson learned that the Gryffindor was rather stupid, but he had a good eye. If you hid from him in good places you could evade him. In plain sight, however, you would not be able to get away. It was like the eyes of a hawk. He could spot you from a crowd. The Gryffindor had dreams of becoming an auror. Something he would probably be able to achieve with enough work.

Atkinson was walking in the halls in clear view. Something he never did. He always took secret passages and back hallways to get to where he needed. Trying his best not to come across a single human being on his way to and from class. Today was different, however. He had a goal. He made a deal with a rather biased professor, with the same objective. Atkinson knew the Gryffindor's habits. Even people who did not know him, took a quick glance at who he was. It was the year he ignored his looks, and began to look rather greasy. It was a year Atkinson would rather forget.

Atkinson was dreading what was going to follow. He saw the Gryffindor approaching him. From the back, he was focusing directly on him, like young Atkinson had murdered his parents or something. Before he knew it, the Gryffindor had pulled him into a side classroom, with no one noticing. At least to the Gryffindor's knowledge.

"It was you wasn't it?" The Gryffindor spat at him.

"What?" Seventh-year Atkinson responded in feigned confusion.

Atkinson knew what he was going to talk about.

"Tommy. It was you wasn't it?"

Atkinson shrugged his shoulders and put his hands up. "Wasn't me."

The Gryffindor threw a punch at Atkinson and it connected. Atkinson greatly exaggerated the punch's effect. He sent himself flying into the floor. This clearly inflated the Gryffindor's already enlarged ego. He grinned, as his hand twitched a bit.

"I forgot. You're just a weak little Slytherin. Not even fit to serve You-Know-Who." The Gryffindor stuck his twitching hand into his pocket.

"You're just a little boy with a big temper. Violence is against the rules, you know?"

"Rules don't matter. Tommy was attacked, and I don't see anyone screaming anything about rules!"

Modern Atkinson cringed before the line even came.

"That's because Tommy is just a rat who picked a fight he couldn't win."

The Gryffindor pulled his twirly wand out of his pocket, quickly aiming it at Atkinson's face. Before the hidden professor could stop the Gryffindor, the Gryffindor had already begun casting the spell.

"DIFFINDO!" The range was point-blank.

The scream of agony and pain could probably be heard across the castle. For a few seconds, before they were stopped in an instant.

"Expelliarmus!" The hidden Professor jumping out of their cover quickly disarmed the Gryffindor.

It was far too late, however. The damage had been done. Atkinson's younger self was sprawled out on the ground. Instantly knocked out, with a giant gash that tore through his skin, flesh and skull. The cut was scarily well done, you could see each bleeding layer of tissue in Atkinson's head. Fragments of Atkinson's skull were sent around the room. Blood had begun pooling on the floor with alarming speed, reaching both the Professor's and the Gryffindors feet. A few tears swept down Atkinson's face, mixing into the blood pool on the stone castle floor.

A second professor burst into the room. Stopping almost instantly, staring at the scene in front of them. She gasped horribly at the sights. Before the biased professor yelled;

"CALL THE NURSE!"

Atkinson had enough of the scene. He wanted to leave the sight. The strong emotions overtook. He closed his emotions. He closed his feelings. He closed his eyes. He breathed. Not letting anything in. He could feel the presence of the curse within him. He tried to eliminate it. But the best he could do is suppress it. The act of occlumency. Normally this would be used against a Legilimens, but this case was different. Atkinson suppressed it as much as he could. He opened his eyes, and he was back in the real world. Except it was different. It was still night, and he was still on the pier. Everything around him was the same. Except, the Gryffindor stood in the darkness. Staring at him. Atkinson looked away from the Gryffindor. Trying to forget him. Atkinson knew he could never do that. As he looked away from him, he reappeared in vision. With an expulsion notice in hand, no wand noticeable. Equipped with a rage-filled expression.

He looked away once again. The guilt grew in Atkinson. He could feel the occlumency slip, he had to feel nothing. Yet he could feel the dam holding the emotions, crack. Atkinson pushed back his feelings once again. Becoming a husk. Except, there was more. There were more hallucinations. He saw himself. With the hole in his face, before St. Mungo's stitched him up. He saw the Gryffindor in a worsened state. Like he had not slept for years. The professor who Atkinson made a deal with, stood there. The shock permanently etched upon their face. They were admitted to St. Mungo's, around the same time as Atkinson. They never came out.

Atkinson resorted to looking down, where figures began appearing in his vision. Just the feet. The shoes of a student, the shoes of the professor. There had to have been twenty pairs that suddenly surrounded him with one actually making a sound.

A slow, tension-building drip. The time between each drip was random and had no warning. It gave him an odd sense of anxiety. He stopped moving. A pool of water in front of him. Shoes blocked his path. The shoes themselves were clearly soaked in water as well. They were muggle shoes. Shoes that would blend in with the muggle masses. Originally red, they were a deep, blood-like maroon. A gurgling sound erupted from the interrupted silence, before a cough sent water falling down to the floor. Adding to the already large pool of water.

"It's your fault." The voice in front of him spoke.

There was a frog in their voice that made them sound off like they were talking while submerged. Atkinson still did not look up.

"You did this to me." Atkinson heard it again.

A rectangle-shaped piece of paper fell into the water. Slowly going limp from the water. 'The Slytherin' was written on the front, with his old apartment's address on it. He recognized the letter. He had gotten it right after graduating from Hogwarts. The words never left his brain. Atkinson looked away from the letter, trying to avoid eye contact with the Gryffindor right in front of him.

Yet, even though he avoided it, his eyes met with the Gryffindors. Except they did not have any glint to them. They held no emotions to them. They were sunken, and smaller than they were supposed to be. Staring off into space, yet directly into Atkinson's eyes. The skin of the Gryffindor was wet, and slippery. It seemed to be abnormally tight, with green spots that dotted his skin. Water kept on filling the Gryffindor's mouth, even though they were on dry land. He kept on having to cough it out. As if it was reflex, not choice.

"It was you." The voice spoke, dripping more water onto the floor. "Your fault."

"No…" Atkinson responded, the environment around him returning to the fantasy.

He was on top of a bridge. With a wide river underneath, flowing by with power Atkinson had never seen. The Gryffindor was at the top of the railing, looking down at the river. He looked at Atkinson.

"This is all because of you. Rat." The Gryffindor spat at Atkinson.

As the Gryffindor spoke his curse, Atkinson could feel a burning sensation on his arm. Like he was being pricked by thousands of needles at once on his forearm. He even felt a wand tip on it. A familiar wand tip. One of his own. Atkinson swept his brain once more, reality surrounded him. In front of him was his own wand casting a spell on his forearm. A black rat writhing in pain was cemented on Atkinson's left forearm. It sent Atkinsons immune system into panic. It felt wrong.

A glowing red rope shot out from behind a building, directly at Atkinson. He blocked with the standard protection spell like he had been. His left forearm was still in pain. Bombarda maxima. Atkinson shot his next spell at the building from which the attack had come. After the rubble settled, Atkinson could hear nothing. Except for the whispers that came from behind him. The whispers that belittled him, they stabbed him. Whispered his own darkest secrets to him. Whispered lies, and falsehoods. Recited quotes from the most vile of human beings. All while he was trying to focus on battle.

"You know, you reap what you sow." The death eater called back from the building.

"You're a death eater?" Atkinson replied in confusion.

"I will get what's coming to me. I know." The death eater replied as Atkinson grew closer. "You must pay your price, however, and I'm here to collect."

"Pay for what?" Atkinson asked as he was just outside of the building. Leaning up against a wall.

"You've seen it. I know you have. You're fighting it right now."

Atkinson could see the Gryffindor in his peripheral vision. Just standing there, looking at him.

"So you knew him?" Atkinson asked as he crept closer.

He could see the rat tattoo on his arm squirm a bit like it wanted to run away. He hated how accurate to his feelings it was.

"I knew him better than anyone else."

"A Gryffindor then."

"Correct."

The two met eyes. Both holding up their wands, ready to fire at any moment. The rat on Atkinsons arm inaudibly screamed and writhed.

"It seems you want to live." The death eater cackled to himself. "You want to run. A true Slytherin."

Atkinson realized this man really knew who he was. He knew about the Gryffindor, and he knew about his house.

"The Snake and Lion are eternally in battle. For thousands of thousands of years. Neither gaining power over the other. They both grow as they battle. Until the Snake creates venom, and bites the Lion. Leaving it to die a slow death. The Snake finally wins, but a second Lion approaches, its family. The second Lion and the Snake battle it out until the Lion and the Snake bite each other. Leaving it to die a slow death, but unlike the Lion, there is no second Snake. The Snake had blocked everyone out, it had no one to turn to. So it died a lonely death, but the Lion died next to its family. Joining its brother Lion in the afterlife." The Death Eater suddenly recited.

"What's with the story?" Atkinson asked, a cold sweat forming on his face, as the voices behind him broke down the story beat for beat to Atkinson.

"It's a nice moral on the importance of family." The Death Eater grinned. "It's also frighteningly similar to the exact situation we're in."

Atkinson stopped. "You're family?"

Atkinson remembered the name in the newspaper. Tommy O'Connor.

"It was you wasn't it?" The Gryffindor was now next to the Death Eater. "Tommy. It was you wasn't it?"

Atkinson never took the time to learn or remember the Gryffindor's name. It was his face that haunted his dreams. His every waking moment. The dam let loose. His environment began changing again. He saw the warm lights of the gigantic main hall. The long, long tables spanned the entirety of the room. From one end to the other. Atkinson saw a bunch of plain-black robes at the front. Each with their own wizard and witch hats. They were tiny compared to how tall Atkinson was. The dream pulled him closer. Names were being called individually. Slowly. As one kid was called, they walked up to the front, and sat on a chair.

"- Atkinson!" The professor called.

Young Atkinson walked up to the podium. He remembered being terrified. Except the hat never made it onto his head. Something everyone would remember. It almost immediately shouted out "Slytherin!" to the hall. His thought process was something he remembered just in the moment. He remembered being scared of the Slytherins. Scared of how excited they were. Scared of how intimidating they looked. He had heard many tales of the Slytherins. A girl he met on the train went on and on about how evil they were. How they would backstab you at any chance. That they always turned out evil. Young Atkinson vowed in the moment to not turn out like the other Slytherins. To turn out good.

Half of that came true. As Atkinson accepted his own feelings, he shut them away. He was a Slytherin. There was nothing he could do about it. It was just who he was. Yet, his job was to fight evil wizards. Wizards who have done evil acts. Even if he did commit an evil act, he was not the one who killed the Gryffindor. He was not the one who killed… Lionel. Lionel O'Connor. He did it to himself. Yet he was not free of all the guilt. He was the one who added fuel to the fire. He was the one who lit the fire, and then left it. Left it to burn everything around it. Until there was nothing left. Atkinson accepted that. It did not mean he had to turn out evil. He could still save lives. From people like the remnant death eaters. Such as the one who was just in front of him.

"It seems like you're back." Tommy, the death eater grinned.

Atkinson did not respond. He knew what he needed to do. He could not run. The rat on his arm began calming down. The fact calmed down Atkinson even more. It seemed like the rat was a direct mirror of what he was feeling. A physical creation of the psychosis. Tommy across from him suddenly began smiling a toothy smirk. The sound of wood against wood ended the tension. Tommy had spread out his hands like an eagle. Exposing his torso to Atkinson. His hands empty of a wand.

"I've already bitten you, now it's your turn." He grinned.

"You're crazy." Atkinson mumbled as he held his wand up to Tommy's chest.

"KILL ME." Tommy yelled into the empty night. "KILL ME LIKE YOU KILLED LIONEL."

Atkinson never considered it for a second. After all, he was not one to let his own life be dictated by stories.

"Petrificus Totalus." Atkinson muttered.

Images of Lionel appeared around Atkinson, all screaming a rage-filled scream. Endless shouting. It took hours for them to calm down. It infuriated them. It infuriated them that Tommy fell to the ground, in a stiff fall. Instead of the limp but hard fall. It enraged them that there was no blast of vicious green light. No final breath. Atkinson felt the wind return. As if it had been waiting for the two to stop fighting. The black-haired man wrapped Tommy in a thick enchanted rope. One that would seal him even if he woke. He grabbed the wand that Tommy had dropped. The wand that had cast Atkinson into eternal psychosis. Into eternal torment.

After Tommy O'Connor's imprisonment, Atkinson continued his work as an Auror for years. Lionel never left him. He was stuck to him like a leech. Forever sinking its teeth into its victim. Even after the death of Lionel, the curse remained. Not a single witch or wizard could cure the exterreri curse. The rule remained concrete. No one could cure the exterreri curse. Atkinson could only strengthen his occlumency. Learning from the greatest of teachers. Yet it never left. The visions returned in his sleep, when he woke up, or whenever he was in a stressful moment. Lionel would forever be muttering his hatred to Atkinson. On occasion, something would join. He would see the death of his best friends. His closest co-workers. His wife. His children. He saw visions of himself, in an alternate timeline, in a powerful position, underneath a new death eater group. Yet that specific vision always made Atkinson feel better. He knew that he was living his best possible timeline. Despite the hardships. It was the best for him. Even if the lion bit him, he sat comfortable, knowing that it would not kill him.