"Remus, for you," Lyall Lupin announced, absentmindedly sifting through the morning mail.
The spoon between Remus' fingers plummeted to the tea saucer as he reached out to pluck the letter from his father's hand. But one glimpse at the familiar childish scrawl, and he knew it was from Peter. He grimaced, tossed the envelope aside, and sank back into his seat. With a sigh and an arm crossed over his chest, he seized the miniature silver spoon to resume stirring the tea with the exact absentminded likeness with which his father had handled the morning mail.
Lyall watched him furtively, raising a brow at the clinking, spinning spoon in Remus' hand.
"All right there?"
The spoon continued its slow circles, scraping the bottom of the porcelain cup.
"Remus?"
"Huh?" Remus looked up, meeting his father's stare. With his chin, Lyall gestured towards the discarded letter.
"A row?"
"No, no," Remus replied nonchalantly, shaking his head once. "Nothing like that." But he was all too aware of his father's remaining and unwavering scrutiny. Again, he sighed. "Peter writes when… I don't know, nothing intelligent. Nothing special."
"Well, now, that's no way to speak of your friends," his father reminded him.
"Right," he uttered, the first and only word that crossed his mind. But, upon further deliberation, his face tightened. Bugs crawled on his skin; his fingers began to tap relentlessly against his upper arm as he fished for more to say. It wasn't as if Peter was actually there, so who would he apologize to? His father? Remus nearly scoffed but held back, the urge to rebuke and thrash at the older wizard growing stronger with every increasing second of suffering silence. "Right, but, you see," he eventually yielded, turning to challenge his father, "Peter's been obsessed with girls— it's all he can be arsed to talk 'bout. Reckon his letter's 'bout some bird he's found, how she looks, and you know, her baps."
"Ah."
Checkmate.
Remus bowed his head to direct his gaze downward.
Lyall removed his attention from his son to the fridge.
With the full moon only three nights away, neither Lyall nor Remus felt inclined to address the brazen and agitated spat of words that had preceded just moments ago. And they most definitely were in no position to gossip about Peter's trysts and fixations. In truth, they seldom delved into anything meaningful together, worsening as time passed and Remus grew older. The rare occasions they did spend with one another were strained, often marked by long silences and cautious avoidance. As of late, the sole safe topic of discussion left on the table was Remus recounting his latest academic achievements, and his father responding with a meager 'well done' and a smile that never quite reached his eyes.
After finishing the last sip of tea, Remus unceremoniously stood, grabbed the letter, and trudged with heavy legs up the stairs to retreat to his room. Despite the routine nature of his departure, it never failed to dig a pit in his stomach when he walked away — turning his back to— without acknowledging his father. And yet, it was just another writing on the wall that reminded him how little Lyall expected from him.
Frankly speaking, what was the purpose of politeness when the other person in the room wished him gone?
The letter received no care, cast aside on a cluttered pile of books as Remus crawled back into bed and hauled the covers over his head.
"I'm going to shut my eyes and count to three," the young boy instructed, a smirk curling the corner of his lip. The young girl looked up into his grey stare, her own glistening with the rays bouncing off the sea. He lifted the stone he had found on the beach where they stood. The waves lapped at the shore, soaking the young girl's shoes, but she didn't move, squinting as the harsh summer sun burned her eyes. "You're going to run as fast as you can. You have only three seconds," he listed. "And on the count of three, I'm going to open them and aim this," his eyes momentarily flickered to the stone, "at the back of your head." He tilted his chin down. "Understood?" She nodded. He grinned. "Good. On the count of three." He closed his eyes, and she turned to run. "One." She ran, her feet kicking up sand. "Two." Her limbs felt like cement, struggling to move. "Three."
Her own gasp woke her.
Eyes flying open, wide awake as ever.
Instinctively, she grabbed at the back of her head, then frantically scanned her surroundings as it dawned on her where she had been and where she was now. With a heavy exhalation, she fell back into the pillows, turning her head as her hair tangled against the fabric to stare intently into the fading embers of the fireplace in her chamber. The bedsheets draped over her stomach rose and fell in rapid succession, matching the rhythm of her pounding heart, which, at that moment, resonated as the only audible sound in the room.
With a deep, trembling breath, she fought against the lightheadedness and shifted to confront the shadows in the room. She blinked slowly, her vision adjusting to the night. As usual, an eerie stillness enveloped the space. The emptiness of the castle appeared to stretch on endlessly, encasing her in an overwhelming wave of disquiet. Her senses sharpened, each touch on her skin a delicate displeasure, her nerves raw and exposed.
Everything still seemed too vast, as if the world beyond her bed led to nowhere.
So quiet.
Entirely barren.
She couldn't remember the last time she had dreamed, or rather, the last time she could recall a dream. But, day by day, as she remained on Hook Head, her past selves emerged from the walls to haunt her. Every memory of who she had been, of who she could have been, flooding her in the dead of night.
The hours dragged on, yet Eve remained restless, possessed, fixated on the walls around her. Sleep would not come anytime soon. No, instead, her every thought began to transform, consumed with what she had left, kept, chosen to preserve. Still glistening days later, shining like an emerald without a single sign of rot in sight.
Should I eat it?
One tiny bite.
No.
Such a masterpiece of secrecy. The essence of fairytales. The fruit that would never bruise, never rot, never die— how was it possible? Why did it exist? It dominated her day and night. Repetitively, endlessly, intriguingly.
Should I eat it?
"Any Irish worth knowin' will be there," Fergus Fitzpatrick promised with a grin as wide as the sun. "It'll be a week's worth o' celebration. Events planned from Grianstad an Gheimhridh until New Year's Day. And we'll have a room made up just for ye—everything taken care of."
"Oh, but we've already promised the Blacks we'd attend their Boxing Day Dinner and the Rosiers' New Year's Party," Dervilia intervened, her jaw tightening slightly as she shared a cautious glance with her husband.
"Yes, yes, quite right. We must consider the—" Duncan paused, the rise in his chest visible to all. He rubbed at his temple— the cat had caught his tongue. Eve curiously watched her father through her lashes; Fergus reclined in his seat as if trying to decipher what had been left unsaid, while Dervilia, on the other hand, engrossed intently on the goblet filled with wine in front of her.
"Consider the what!?" Fergus finally prodded, his usual merry countenance underpinned by an unleashed vexation.
"Eh, you know how these things go, Fergus," Duncan muttered, running a hand through his peppered black hair.
"I do? Do I?" Fergus countered.
"They've been our friends for a long time," Dervilia interjected, speaking for her husband again. "We can't cancel—"
"Friends?" Fergus repeated with a scoff, his attention darting between wife and husband. "That's news."
"Well—"
Inhaling sharply, Dervilia fixed Fergus with a piercing glare.
"Druella Rosier and I have been the closest of friends since we were eleven," she bit back. Eve shrunk further into her chair as the tension at the dinner table came to a boiling point. "Since even before our sorting into Slytherin—"
Their guest interrupted by blowing a raspberry, prompting a surprised widening of Eve's eyes and an unexpected upward curve of her corner lip. The youngest witch fought to suppress a giggle of her own, hiding her amusement by lowering her face and pretending to attend to her food. She stabbed her fork into a piece of meat and aimlessly shuffled it around her plate.
"It's the diplomatic repercussions, Fergus," Duncan explained.
"To hell with diplomacy," Fergus chanted, his grin growing bolder and brighter. "Diplomacy? Ha! Over a bloody holiday?"
"You don't know them," Duncan responded under his breath.
"Over a holiday?" Fergus pressed on, a slight furrow growing between his brows.
"They're perfectly fine," Dervilia remarked, her knuckles whitening as her hand tightened around the goblet's stem.
"The O'Connors are pushing for sanctions, Fergus," Eve's father continued, lifting his stare to his best friend. "And I'm afraid the English will retaliate. It's crucial that we maintain an open dialogue between us—"
"Ah, fuck 'em!" Fergus snorted. "Ye'd pick those bastards over yer best mate?" He threw Duncan a pointed look. "It's only a week, maybe two. Duncan— the English won't come crossin' the channel with torches because ye went on holiday."
"It's the O'Connors—"
"And fuck 'em too!" Fergus added. "Donough and the entire O'Brien clan are on holiday! Ye think he's worried about the bloody O'Connors? He'll be enjoin' his mead at Sí an Bhrú, ye be sure of that!" Eve's father could only manage a halfhearted smile. "The Oireachtas isn't meetin' until after the second, ye know that." He leaned in toward Duncan. "Ye'll pace back and forth in yer study, drive yerself crazy in this castle, ye will."
A hush fell over the room as all concern turned to the Head of the Kavanagh Clan.
"Aoife," Duncan's voice carried a hint of unease as he suddenly addressed his daughter. Their gazes locked, each trying to gauge the other's thoughts. "You'll attend the Boxing Day dinner and New Year's ball, won't you?"
Before Eve could respond, Dervilia butted in with an all too characteristic haste, "Of course she will."
"I—" Eve choked. Everyone's focus shifted from her father to her; that, coupled with the sickening silence and her mother's stifling pride, made the grotesquely large dining hall feel far too small for the four of them. "If that's what's expected of me."
"Of course it is," Dervilia said, lifting her bright red lips into a stiff smile. "Besides, why would we drag you along with us? Away from your friends?" She chortled, directing her comments to Fergus. "Last thing I wanted to do at seventeen was be seen with my parents."
Right, Eve thought.
"Right, right," Duncan echoed distantly, his hand cradling his forehead. "You're still friends with their boy, aren't you? What's his name? Ethan, was it?"
"Evan," Dervilia amended sharply before Eve could answer. "Evan, Evan Rosier." Her mother clasped her hands together. "Oh, they'll be delighted if she attends!" She glanced at Eve, immediately frowning at the sight of her deathly still daughter. "You disappointed them when you didn't show over the summer."
"Does the girl want to go?" Fergus canvassed, his head tilting as he, too, observed Eve's sudden pallor.
"Of course she does," Dervilia insisted, waving her hand dismissively toward her daughter. "Don't mind her. She's stressed from her last year at Hogwarts. They're rather difficult, the NEWTs, and Eve is taking quite a few of them."
I'm nearly failing all of them, Eve wanted to say but refrained, for there was nothing to win or gain from her parents' discovery that their only child was a failure.
"Why'd ye even send her to that bloody school?" Fergus asked, reaching forward for his pint of ale.
"Hogwarts is a great school—"
"And 'ye, Dervilia?" Fergus returned to scrutinizing the older witch, eyeing her over the rim of his pint. "Ye' go instead of the heir of Clan Caomhánach? Reckon 'er business is on this side of the pond."
Once again, a sparkle of anticipation danced and jittered among Eve's extremities, closely observing the two engage in a cold war of sorts. But the slow smile threatening her lips immediately faltered as she noticed the anguished expression on her father's face. Unable to continue looking, her shoulders curled over her chest, and her upper teeth sank sharply into flesh. Their voices became distant and distorted, the conversation dispiriting, and the food on her plate nauseating.
"And let my husband be seen without his wife?" Dervilia retaliated, a vein appearing to throb on her forehead. "For me to be seen without my husband? They'll think we've fought, separated."
"Nonsense," Fergus chuckled insincerely.
"I know you're not acquainted with—"
"The girl should be with 'er clan," their host snapped. "Ye keep sendin' her off to this Hogwash—"
Duncan released a heavy huff while raising his palm to all who sat at that table.
"It's over, Fergus. Please," he said wearily.
"She should be with 'er people," Fergus went on unabated. "Er kin, the people she'll one day lead—"
"And she will be," Duncan assured him. "But for now, it's crucial that we demonstrate our willingness to engage in discussions. Given the current circumstances, we cannot afford them to think that we have isolated them as the O'Connors and O'Gradys have."
"Bloody hell."
"Why is everything always about business with you?" Dervilia hissed, eyes constricting, but her husband's stern look silenced her, making it clear that the matter was not up for further discussion.
And, incontestably, the matter was closed to all.
Possibly, maybe, if Eve crawled under the table, Fergus Fitzpatrick would take note and force her parents to see day in the castle's grim darkness. But would she ever dare do such a thing? And, besides, what was the point? Once again, Eve had been offered up on a platter to be served as hors d'oeuvres at another pureblood soiree.
It was nothing new.
She was ensconced atop a makeshift dune sculpted by relentless sea winds, buried in a woolen cloak as thick as walls that offered little defense against the biting drafts. Goosebumps permanently dotted her skin, and the tip of her nose had gone numb, yet the cold did little to dissuade her from staying put. Since dawn, she had remained there, solitary, with nothing but the sea and the swirling grey clouds for company.
It had become habit. She could no longer sleep within those castle walls, so she turned to the sea for solace.
Each gust of wind made her squint, forcing her to pull at the cloak's hood to shield her face from the stinging sands. Despite her attempts to disappear within the confines of the cloth wrap, she remained purposefully fixated on the distant horizon. Underneath it all, her fingers traced invisible lines on bright red flesh.
Up and down, up and down.
Another gust swept by, but just as she prepared to squint and tug her hood tighter, she released herself from it, lifted her head, and exposed her face from behind the cloth. Unraveling from the acrobatic wrap she had put herself in, she noticed something unusual dotted the skies in the distance amidst the familiar scene. At first, she thought it was a flock of birds— too dark to be a cloud. And yet, it was one singular thing— a slender, elongated figure moving faster and lower than the clouds.
Immediately, Eve's glare sharpened.
Whatever it was, it didn't appear to be changing course.
No, she realized, not at all.
Her eyes bulged at the very last moment, certain of an imminent impact. She hastily brought her knees to her chest, covered her face, and curled into herself, bracing for the collision. Holding her breath but blinded under old wool, she strained to hear past the wind's incessant howling. It was too difficult to discern or distinguish the whooshing sound of the sea from that of the creature encircling her. Moments passed, but nothing attacked nor retreated, leaving her in a standoff, hoping for an interruption of sorts.
What was it doing?
Would it leave, stay, pluck at her cloak?
Eve's fear slowly gave way. With a tentative yet yearning motion, she lifted her hood from her sheltered position, stealing a glimpse at the mysterious creature.
An eagle— black as obsidian but with a wingspan comparable to that of a baby dragon. It circled her again and again. Fast as a bird but no faster— yet it couldn't be a bird. And if it was, what kind of bird was that? Almost immediately, she released her teeth from the insides of her cheeks, her posture perking up as she caught on to a pair of luminescent golden eyes.
As if startled by the cognizance, the creature swooped out of sight.
Eve twisted, spinning to track its flight. You're not scared, she thought as she studied it. No, it was toying with her, taunting her with its graceful maneuvers, even if only seemingly. The bird's mocking dance left her head spinning and her wits reeling, a clear sign that it was playing a game rather than fleeing in fear.
She had no time for such parodies.
"GO AWAY!" she yelled in stilted Irish.
Scooping up a handful of sand, she flung it at the imposing bird, but the wind cruelly blew it back into her face. "Argh," she groaned, wiping at her mouth. In response, the bird made a noise disturbingly like laughter, causing her insides to coil. What sort of mockery was this?
"I have nothing for you!" The words hung in the air, thundering back to her much like a strike across the cheek. It was a bitter ringing notice of self-disbelief: Was she truly yelling at a bird? She rapidly blinked, then a sudden soundness of mind manifested, settling in and soothing her senses. It's only a bird, she reassured herself—a bird.
"I know you're hungry," she said empathetically. "But I've nothing to give you."
Much to her surprise, the bird landed directly in front of her, its head cocked to the side.
Finally, the raid had concluded.
"The sea's empty, isn't it?" Eve pursed her lips. "The O'Gradys are responsible for the water. I'll have my father write them a letter."
Naturally, Eve hadn't expected any response from the bird, much less such a direct one. Still, her face scrunched up as the bird unfurled its wings. It ascended, flapping and rising ever higher; the thrust of air from the vacillating feathers forced her to shift back and squint once more. Yet their gazes remained locked in a silent exchange, each watching the other intently until the bird made one final graceful movement and vanished from view.
This time, she did not turn in search for it.
Rather, she returned her interest to the sea. It roared with increasing ferocity, its tumultuous dance mimicking her inner thoughts. What bird? From where? It was as if its name hovered tantalizingly at the edge of her memory. An inexplicable sense of familiarity, as if the interaction had not been the first.
"Gracious offering," a voice chimed from behind, sending a jolt through Eve.
She spun around, eyes stretched open, to discover a creature lounging beside her on the sand. Its furry arms were casually folded behind its head, and its feet playfully swayed back and forth, kicking up and scattering sand as it flashed a toothless grin in her direction.
What the fuck? Eve thought. Had she never woken up from that dream— any dream, for that matter?
"However, raw fish doth not stir the fires of my appetite. Nay, a more delectable morsel would be welcomed with open arms."
It used its finger as a toothpick to scratch between its own teeth. She looked around the empty beach and then back to the creature beside her. Speechless, truth be told. But Eve's initial shock and befuddlement transfigured into measured observation— taking in the creature closely to outline each and every one of its distinct and unmatched features.
The thing sported ears reminiscent of a hare, a feline visage, a wild mane of dark, shaggy hair akin to that of a wild dog, and feet that hinted at a mix of goat and rabbit. Were it not for its articulate speech and striking golden eyes, Eve might have confused it for a faun. Even so, the closest forest was Tintern Abbey, nearly 15 kilometers from where they lay.
No, this was no faun.
"Puck," she whispered, the realization dawning on her.
"Took you long enough, didn't it? Oh, the fun I had watching you scratch your head!"
"But why—" Eve began, her tone cautious yet the desire to know, to investigate, stirring deeply. "What brings you here?"
"Ah, look at you!" Puck burst out. "Just when I thought you were all sweets and sugar, you're shoving me aside faster than a cat with a hot potato! What's got your feathers all ruffled, hmm?"
"I don't have feathers."
"Unfortunate."
Quelling a smirk, she pressed her tongue against her teeth.
"Haven't you someone to be pestering?" Eve posed, snooping about while admittedly having great difficulty in trying to keep a straight face.
As unlikely as it seemed, she could sense Puck's childish mirth pierce through herself and the solemn grey atmosphere. The kind of banter only experienced between siblings or best friends— both of which Eve had none of. Yet, there she was, borderline grinning from an unsaid inside joke as if they had been friends for a long time— as if their bond stretched back through the mists of time.
But Eve didn't know Puck— no, she knew of Puck: a character from stories and legends who had raised her younger self. As children, they were warned to be cautious around Puck— cleverer than the rest, mischievous, immortal as a vampire. Yet, Eve found nothing intimidating in the outstretched, furry creature who caused her inexplicable amusement.
"Curiosity's got me gripped like a tick on a hound," Puck admitted, sighing longingly.
"Curiosity's got you gripped like a tick on a hound," Eve repeated, snorting lightly at the theatricality of Puck's speech. Of course, Puck was also nearly ten centuries old, if not older. It was only expected. She returned to the horizon; this time, however, her thoughts alert rather than empty. "There's nothing for you to be curious about."
"Reckon you're onto somethin' there," Puck ragged on while staring intently at the back of Eve's head. "Nothin' but a banshee and a foul stench lingerin' about."
She tilted her head to the side, eyes lifted to the sky, while her inner ramblings faltered. The feeling was unshakeable, as if she understood precisely what Puck alluded to. A funny thing that was— to know but not know. Yes, she knew what Puck meant, but if asked, she could not affirm it. How was that? How could she know something but not give credence to it?
"I only smell the sea."
"Oh, but I smell it," Puck asserted, tapping the tip of its nose. "Tucked in your grasp, hidden under those covers. I could sniff it out from Bray Head, I could." It pulled its chin upward, a darkness blanketing its yellow eyes. "Are you such a birdbrained banshee that you can't smell it yourself?"
Eve went rigid— yet not for the reasons she would have had it been anyone else delivering that exact sentence. Instinctively and without second-guessing it, she gripped the apple beneath her cloak, her fingers pressing into its flesh as she swallowed hard.
"Banshee? Where?" was the only response she could muster in the most monotonous of tones. Her expression turned glassy, detached from the world around her, barely acknowledging Puck's presence. And yet, it was not herself she was trying to protect.
"Mhm, listen close, dearie," Puck began, propping itself on its elbows to close the distance between the two. She could feel the heat emanating off its body, and its stern, gold peer concentrated on the side of her face. "You're the same Aoife I've ever known across countless lifetimes, gentle yet quaking in the shadow." Eve remained motionless. "You can not fool me. Any ol' witch or wizard, mortal or betwixt, they'd all be shiverin' in their smallclothes at the mere glimpse of me, mark my jessst!"
Across countless lifetimes, she repeated in her head.
"We know each other," she realized, pivoting to meet Puck's staunch stare as her quickening pulse thawed the blood in her veins. "But that's not possible."
"You poor thing, clueless," Puck said, clicking their teeth. "What tricks have they played on your feeble mind? We've danced this dance for too long, dearie."
"What dance?"
"Ah, sure, for I've danced through the ages while you've been asleep," Puck riddled once more.
Eve attempted to disentangle the riddles, her body temperature rising in tandem with the attempt. She scrambled to deconstruct every corner of its face, foraging for a sign of trickery. But Puck was no longer laughing, smirking, or chuckling, and as she recounted the last few words spoken, she could uncover only sincerity, no matter the silliness of their delivery. Aside from that, it made sense, and it didn't— at least, not when she used her own memory to make sense of it. Because there was nothing there, or had her own recollection failed her? How could she forget something such as this?
"I don't know you. I can't," she repeated, barely audible.
Puck's guise softened.
"Ay, but your soul remembers."
Eve pinched the corners of her eyes.
She inhaled deeply and then exhaled, relinquishing everything.
Fuck it, she thought. Fuck it all.
So she scraped it, opting to turn a blind eye. There was no purpose in seeking truth from a jester. Every answer only further tangled the web, each thread leading to more questions, and Puck could easily see the bewilderment etched across her face. Perhaps Puck's apparent earnestness had been yet another part of his jest all along. Her distress being its leisure.
"But you're here for a reason, aren't you?" Eve questioned, for curiosity would serve her much better than any confusion. "You must be." What she did know, what she could remember from the tales, was that Puck did not appear for a pleasant chat for the mere sake of pleasantries— Puck appeared with reason, usually a bad one. One thing was certain: Puck had confirmed that there was something foul about Evan's gift.
"Ah-ha, now that's the question, isn't it?" Puck grinned roguishly, reading her mind.
"It's the apple."
Its head inclined in slight affirmation.
Damn, Eve thought, nodding slowly.
"Witches and wizards might have fancy tricks and all, but us, now we've got the sense for a good prank, don't we?"
"I can't smell it," Eve reminded, brushing off Puck's crafty remark.
"Ay, but not all is well."
"I can't," her breath hitched, nearly forgetting what she wanted to say. "I can't quite put my finger on it. It's a feeling— not a smell, nothing like that. And then there's Dipsy—" Puck's snort forced her to a halt.
"So, you claim your nose is as dull as a rock, yet you're convinced something's amiss? Quite the curious dilemma, wouldn't you say?"
"Dilemma?" Eve repeated. "It's perfect."
"How perfect?" Puck challenged, leaning in close, their faces mere inches apart. "It's stinkin' to high heavens, so it is. I'd wager it's not half as perfect as you're makin' it out to be, dearie." Puck extended a furry, paw-like hand toward Eve. Acting on impulse, she surrendered her hold on the apple, gently placing it into Puck's waiting palm.
"OOOH WEEE," Puck screeched, tipping its head back while pinching its nostrils shut and holding the apple at arm's length. "It's like a dung heap on a hot day! And you dare call this perfection?"
"It is perfect," Eve retorted. But what could Puck sense that evaded her? She had spent days examining the apple, scrutinizing its every nuance. Sleepless nights were spent confronting its unyielding surface, wishing for it to decay, to shrivel into nothingness. Nevertheless, it never did. It remained perfect.
"Devil's snare, autumn mandrake, the roots of Henbane bell! This apple, my dearie, carries a wicked brew. Ancient sorcery, forgotten tricks, woven right into this flesh." Without warning, Puck thrust it straight up into her face. "'Tis the Thessalian Trick, dearie!"
"The Thessalian Trick?" Eve repeated, her thoughts darting back to her studies of potions, but it remained a blank space in her knowledge, never having crossed her path until this very moment. Or perhaps it was just another thing she had forgotten. Fuck, how much had she forgotten? How much had she lost herself in that poison? She gnawed on her bottom lip, searching the sands for some sort of souvenir, a hopeful hint of recollection.
"Oh, dear Aoife, surely ye ain't forgotten amidst yer many lifetimes? Death's a mere trifle, I reckon. The ancient magic lingers," Puck's voice lowered as if someone was listening, "afore those interlopers appeared, of course."
Amidst yer many lifetimes, Eve thought. She wanted to inform him that her birthday was the 28th of July in 1960— and, so, by Puck's calculations, just how many lifetimes did that add up to?
"I don't know," she confessed. Once more, trying to comprehend Puck seemed futile. After all, Puck had a proclivity for mischief, a benevolent but renowned trickster. Not everything spouting out of its mouth should be taken seriously— if even at all.
"You poor, poor thing."
Their eyes met, and they sat in silent contemplation for a while longer. Eventually, Puck's hand opened, and they both stared as the apple dropped back into Eve's lap, where it was caught by the soft wool cloth. Then, Puck rose, unmannerly brushing the sand off its furry skin while disregarding the witch's probing watch. Her neck was arched backward, as far it could go, inspecting Puck while accepting the beads of sand blinding her vision.
"You're going, then?"
"Mm, my task's complete. Don't expect me to stick around for applause."
"There wasn't going to be one," Eve retorted. Puck snorted.
"Perhaps one fine day, the secrets shall unfurl before your very eyes. But alas, my purpose lies not in unveiling such mysteries." Puck pointed its finger to the sky. "Nay, I was on a grand mission—to banish that foul odor from yonder apple, tainting the very air of Wexford and Wicklow county!" The same finger turned to wag at her. "Do us all a favor, won'tcha? Toss it over the pond next time, for the sake of all that's holy."
"Toss what over the pond?" Eve quipped, but true to story and legend, Puck, for better or worse, had come and built a three-ring circus right on Hook Head. "You won't even tell me what the Thessalian Trick is?"
She observed Puck as it raised its arms and extended its shoulder blades, watching in wonder as the fur turned into feathers that kept growing longer and longer. Its goat-like legs started to shrink, melding into its lower body. In the end, only its face was left.
"A philter of the foulest brew," Puck answered.
In the blink of an eye, Puck's face vanished, leaving only its piercing golden eyes. They stared at one another, just as before, as it lifted and ascended higher and higher above her. Yet, there was no final send-off, no feather left behind to mark the reality of the encounter. Puck merely circled her once before the wind whisked it off into the distance.
Eve's thoughts returned to the fallen fruit, lips curling into a grimace as she turned the apple over in her hand, scrutinizing it from different angles.
A philter of the foulest brew.
As days passed and she underwent the ritual of being adorned and readied for her departure to the Ancient House of Black, Eve found her mind growing increasingly blank. Nothing. All she did was gape into space, think of nothing, dream of nothing. Even the banshee was silent. Occasionally, she thought she heard something faint, far, far away, but it never came closer.
It was probably for the best.
"Evan Rosier will attend the dinner this evening," Dipsy pointed out as the last button on the back of Eve's dress snapped closed. Eve's attention drifted to the door. The words didn't penetrate. Not one bit. "Is it wise for Miss Aoife to be in Evan Rosier's presence?"
"If I don't go," Eve sighed, "father won't go with the Fitzpatricks," she pursed her lips and swallowed, "and mother will be upset." Dipsy didn't reply. She knew as well as Eve the repercussions her parents had conjured up if they, in any way, stepped on the House of Blacks' toes. "It's only a dinner."
"Miss Aoife promises to be careful?"
Eve nodded quietly, exchanging in a concerned glance with Dipsy, failing to provide the elf with much, if any, reassurance.
For even Eve couldn't ascertain if she genuinely cared anymore about what could happen in the next few hours. She wondered what Evan would do when he saw her— his plan. Would he approach, or would he ignore her? There were no promises to be made, for there was no certainty in any outcome.
When it came to people, there never was.
"Miss Aoife is ready," Dipsy announced as she draped a dark green cloak over Eve's shoulders. The Kavanagh pin flew up from the elf's hand and fastened itself to her chest. Eve turned to face the mirror. It was the briefest of glances, lasting mere seconds before her watch moved to the apple, still sitting upon the ornate vanity table.
She reached out, caressing the tainted fruit in her hand. As she had many times before, she rotated it between her fingers while meandering towards the dresser. Upon reaching it, she smoothly pulled open the top drawer, pausing to observe the apple, feeling its heft in her palm. Then, delicately, she nestled it on top of a stack of letters. For a slight second, emptiness transformed into presence. But she shook the feeling off and quickly snapped the drawer shut. Still, her eyes lingered a second too long on the spot where it had withdrawn from sight.
"Miss Aoife?"
Her senses refocused, glimpsing at the mirror— to her reflection—and then falling to the elf.
"Thank you, Dipsy."
Eve staggered and stumbled as she landed, her legs buckling beneath her from the disorienting pull of the portkey. Luckily, she caught herself just before hitting the ground, her hands grazing the rough surface beneath her. Blinking rapidly, she tried to steady her breath in order to regain composure. But it didn't take much to stabilize her heart rate— or rather, freeze it. One fleeting look around, and it was all too obvious that she was not where she was meant to be.
The damp, narrow streets around her were unmistakably Knockturn Alley.
As she slowly straightened up, her vision flickered about, ingesting the dark, twisted architecture. One eye twitched. The shadowy, unfamiliar, and decay-scented depths triggered her pulse to quicken. A random creek of a swinging, chipped, and faded sign prompted Eve to reach for her wand. But it did little to reassure her. Instead, a sense of foreboding crept over her as she realized with a sinking stomach that the portkey had been tampered with.
She tried to gather her bearings, but panic clawed at her. Who would have done this? Why? Eve's mind raced through the possibilities, each more unsettling than the last. But there would be no immediate answer for this, and she knew that. Once again, it was pointless to ruminate on dead ends. Eve shook her head to clear it and, with a deep, forced breath, compelled herself to find a way back— to ignore whatever unsettling reasonings dwelled behind the porkey tinkering. Daring one last look around, Eve tightened the grip on her wand and started to move forward, each step cautious and deliberate.
"Lost your way, have you?"
A voice, icy and deriding, resonated from the darkness.
Eve gulped.
Naturally, and somewhat naively, she had hoped to walk out of that forsaken alley with feigned indifference, but her face turned ashen as soon as she had been addressed.
Someone was there, and someone had been waiting for her.
She stood still, paralyzed, motionless.
"I've been waiting for this," they continued.
Eve's eyes drew thin, trying to pierce the gloom. She recognized the voice but couldn't quite place it. Was this all because of that godforsaken potion? But before she could ponder further, a figure emerged from the shadows. Despite the dim light, the cloaked silhouette became visible, adorned with a mask that appeared intricately crafted from shimmering silver metal.
A death eater? Eve thought. Once again, the witch found herself in a rather bizarre position where unease shifted to palpable curiosity. Her posture whipped back into shape, and the hold on her wand loosened as she lifted her chin.
What did a death either want with her?
"You thought you could escape?"
Though the mask obscured the figure's face, the words' frigidness, coupled with a Queen's English pronunciation, seemed all too recognizable, if not unmistakable.
"Melisende?"
Silence.
"No."
"Yes," Eve asserted, choking down a scoff.
"How can you be so certain?"
"Your voice?"
"My voice?" Melisende spat out with a thick drip of incredulity.
"We lived together?" Eve's eyes narrowed. "For nearly seven years."
"Nearly," the other witch emphasized.
Eve's head tilted to the side, her observations investigative but glassy. The entire scenario was somewhat surreal— bordering on the unbelievable, something out of a dream. Or, maybe, a nightmare? But who would ever credit her story if she recounted that Melisende Gamp, of all people, known for her upstanding reputation, was seen wandering about Knockturn Alley, adorned in a silver mask, and on Boxing Day, no less? Beyond that, and even if one were to believe her, who would accept that her portkey had been tampered with, leading her, on her way to the noble House of Black, astray into the dark corners of Knockturn Alley?
Would anyone even fathom the notion of Eve ever setting foot in Knockturn Alley?
"Melisende…" Eve's words trailed off, her eyes skirting away and unable to meet Melisende's masked face without internally cringing. At the same time, the gleaming silver atrocity in her peripheral vision made it impossible to ignore the witch standing before her. Whether she wanted to or not, Eve was forced to confront the reality that she was talking to Melisende Gamp, her dormmate of six years— now turned death eater? Despite herself, Eve's nose wrinkled as if she had caught a whiff of something foul. "What on earth are you doing here, Gamp?"
"What do you think, Kavanagh!?" Melisende's questions were sharp as daggers. "Revenge, blood traitor! REVENGE!"
"Ah," Eve acknowledged, nodding once. Not for nothing, but she was doing Melisende a favor by not outright guffawing at her face. "I suppose… Sure, all right."
"You forgot?"
"No, no," she responded quickly, yet her tone was entirely lackluster. "It's been a while—"
"A WHILE!?" Melisende shrieked, her voice ringing through the alley. "It's not been two months."
"Right, but—"
"Save your breath, blood traitor!"
"Melisende," Eve said, attempting her best to ignore the Shakespearean histrionics, "I did what I had to do—"
"LIAR!"
Eve swore she felt spit fly from behind the silver mask and smack her face— if that was even possible.
"If you'd just list—"
"LISTEN!?"
Eve drew a deep breath, pursed her lips, and stared at Melisende's false face.
In a pressed but steady tone, she continued, "I can tell you everything. I can tell you why, and you'll reason. You'll understand." She paused, configuring some other form of explanation or excuse. But why? Why did she have to explain herself to Melisende Gamp? "You would've done the same."
"I'm no blood traitor!" Within two ticks, a wand was pointed directly between Eve's brows, convulsing every time Melisende spoke. "I would have never!"
"You would've gone to Azkaban for Selwyn and I?" Eve challenged. "Over that redhead, whatever her name is—"
"Azkaban?" Eve couldn't tell whether Melisende had just snorted or choked. "You truly believe we would've been sent to Azkaban?" She let out a cold, bitter chuckle. "No one would have found out if you hadn't opened your traitorous mouth and betrayed all of us. I would've never— I know where my loyalties lie, blood traitor."
"Mm, no, you would have," Eve countered, moving her head in a side-to-side rhythm. "It was the McKinnon witch, Melisende. McKinnons— they're Aurors. You wouldn't have gone to Azkaban for me or Selwyn."
A slight pause filled the air, marked by a subtle drop of the witch's wrist as she gradually lowered her wand from Eve's forehead. It was during this moment that Eve had the chance to absorb the image before her: her friend, peer, and acquaintance covered and masked in an image Eve had only heard of from whispers.
What happened?
"Aurors!?"
"Veritaserum, the highest court." Eve's tone was nearly laden with repentance. "I never intended—"
"LIAR!" Melisende parroted, again staging her wand at the ready.
"I swear—"
"They're not allowed to use Veritaserum on students, blood traitor!"
"We would've been tried as adults," she replied, but Melisende's rapidly harsher breaths and unrelenting release of the weapon pointed right at Eve's face made Eve's muscles begin to tense up. Hidden within the sleeves of her velvet cloak, she readied and strengthened the hold on her own wand.
"LIAR!"
"No, Gamp."
"STUPEFY!"
"PROTEGO!" Eve flung back, and a shimmering shield erupted before her, deflecting the spell just in time.
"Is that the best you can do? Protective spells?" Melisende jeered. "CONFRINGO!"
The blast narrowly missed Eve as it sent her stumbling backward, but the curse hit and shattered the cobblestones where she had stood moments before. It had been too close; the shards of stone bounced off, several chipped pieces slashing at the exposed parts of her hand and lower jaw. With enlarged eyes, it dawned upon her that there was no logic left in Melisende. No reasoning could be had. She was out for blood.
Inhale.
Exhale.
"IMPEDIMENTA!" Eve shouted.
Melisende sidestepped effortlessly, her movements swift and lethal, as if she had trained for this. Because she had, hadn't she? The image of a silent killer flashed through Eve's mind: an innocent cat strung up in the common room for all the house to see. Some onlookers had only just turned ten years of age. It was then, with the recollection of a long-lost memory, that she realized she had no chance to win this battle with magic.
Maybe, though, she could win it by game.
So, Eve ran.
Just as she had been taught and trained to do.
"You can't run forever, Eve!" Melisende shrilled with chilling certainty, but Eve did. Desperately weaving to avoid the curses shooting at her from behind.
And she had no intention of stopping. Even if her breaths arrived in ragged gasps, each one punctuating her frantic dash through the winding alleyway, she committed to zigzag and turn in every and any direction, desperately trying to outpace Melisende's relentless pursuit. When she could, she would cast the same protective charm over her shoulder again and again, its shimmering shield momentarily deflecting some of the curses that whipped through the air.
But, truthfully, she knew she couldn't maintain this forever— she was no fighter, merely a desperate runner trying to buy herself some time.
"DIFFINDO!"
Eve crashed forward, collapsing onto her knees as a sharp, searing pain sliced through her cloak and cut into her skin. Warm blood trickled down her leg, staining the delicate lilac dress that Dipsy had so carefully chosen and prepared for the occasion. But it wasn't the ruined dress that made her clench her eyes shut in distress— it was the sound of Melisende's taunting sneer closing in from behind her.
"There's nowhere to run, Kavanagh."
The fallen witch rose, facing the tip of Melisende's wand. It glowed ominously with a notorious red light, casting a haunting glow against the assailant's silver mask. In response, Eve did the only thing she could: muster her own wand despite trembling, bloodied hands.
"Protego," Eve gulped.
"CRUCIO!"
Agony surged through Eve, a relentless tide, crashing waves, each surge more devastating than the last and faster than she could draw a breath. As the curse slammed into her with brutal force, enveloping every corner of her being, it hurled her back to her knees. With a desperate grip, she clamped her hands against her temples, her knuckles white and quaking, the urge to slam her head against the wall raging within her.
The curse's ferocious onslaught and vicious torment echoed through her, dredging up memories of past drownings that wrapped her in an uncannily sinister familiarity. With the assault on her mind, psychosis loomed, blood-curdling shrieks and tortured screams reverberating with haunting intensity. The pain was not just physical but a nightmarish cacophony that consumed every corner of her consciousness, a relentless, harrowing invasion that threatened to drown any semblance of sanity she had left.
Drown any semblance of sanity she had left.
It was too familiar.
She had lived through this before.
It was the wrench in Melisende's grand scheme. Indeed, Melisende had every intention of inflicting torment upon her. But, little did she know that Eve possessed an unyielding resilience to such torment. Specifically, this torment. Amid unbearable anguish, Eve clenched her teeth and bit down on her tongue until it bled, refusing to concede the grip on her wand still grasped in her scraped palm. Against the relentless curse still pulsating through her veins, Eve, with one last effort, raised her wand to Melisende.
From behind her mask, Melisende's mouth fell open as her chin jutted inward. Watching, perplexed as Eve struggled to amass a counterattack. Alas, the bewilderment of seeing her victim rise against such agony disoriented her, having an unintended effect. Neither of the two would ever know if Eve would have been successful if Melisende's perplexity hadn't caused the intensity of the curse to wane, the cruel irony unfolding before both their very eyes.
"Confundo!" Eve rasped.
By exploiting the few seconds of disbelief that caused Melisende to freeze, the spell hit her squarely in the chest. Eve's eyes widened at her triumph, staring as her attacker staggered back, clutching at her head as if trying to hold her thoughts together. At that moment, Eve knew she had succeeded in unraveling Melisende's brain into a chaotic whirlwind of confusion and disarray.
It wouldn't last forever.
Seizing the fleeting opportunity, Eve sprinted through and around the bends of Knockturn Alley until she could make out the dim glow of The White Wyvern. Without hesitation, she veered up the narrow, winding staircase beside Markus Scarr's Indelible Tattoos, her breath ragged and sharp against the chill air.
But the dimly lit pub was no true refuge, even if it was a sanctuary of shadows and murmurs. Sure, its low hum of rough voices and clinking glasses provided a semblance of cover. At least, this would permit her to slip through the maze of cluttered tables in a place where patrons were too engrossed in their own affairs to bother with her. Yet, she wavered, frantically sweeping the room. The absence of a visible exit other than the one she had used made her pulse thud like drums in her ears.
Where the fuck was the door? She searched— there was no other wooden door, but she knew there had to be another way out. But where? What could it be? Her eyes ping-ponged about the room. There! A metal block in the far back, its handle worn from use, the only indication that it truly was the other exit. She dashed toward it, wrenched it open, and hurried down rusty, creaky stairs to descend into another back alley.
The sounds of the magical world faded behind her as the door slammed shut.
She looked once to the left and then to the right.
Yes, this was muggle London.
One part of her hoped to find respite in that dark alleyway, but sheer panic drove her forward. She briefly shut her eyes and continued onwards, the alleyway's shadows eventually giving way to bustling streets, pushed through and between indifferent people, her breath drawing shorter and shorter with every step. Despite it, she pressed on, her legs heavy and aching, each step more labored than the last. But she couldn't stop — paranoia as power — relentlessly looking over her shoulder every second, convinced she had spotted a cloaked, silver-masked figure chasing her.
As she happened upon Leicester Square, the bright lights and throngs of people dizzied her entire vision. Every which way she looked seemed the same. This was not her home. This was not her city. Eve had no idea where she was, not really, not at all. But what could she do? She continued her frenetic flight, turning onto Wardour Street and moving northward. She had no plan, no destination— just an overwhelming urge to keep going.
BEEEEEEEEEEP!
A blaring horn from a large, red double-decker bus yanked Eve from her trance as she hectically attempted to cross the street without checking for traffic. The bus roared past, and she was jolted to a halt, stranded on an unfamiliar corner in London, forced to pause and acknowledge just how lost she truly was.
How far had she run? Where had she gone?
Her eyes darted around, seeking something— anything — familiar, but the streets offered nothing in return.
Where the fuck was she? Where in Merlin's London was she? What was she supposed to do now?
Despair tightened around her as she pressed her fingers to cover her mouth, struggling to hold back tears. Leaning against a lamppost for support, she tried to steady herself. As her fingers slipped, her focus lifted to an obnoxiously bright yellow sign, illuminating the city's evening light. Her hands slowly fell to the sides as her brows knit deeply together. Eve took one step forward onto the gravel paved street.
O'Neill's?
AUTHOR'S NOTE:
I apologize for the long hiatus. Life got in the way—I finished my master's, got married, and moved countries. I also struggled with the story's direction. I know many of you may think it was abandoned. This lives in my head, so it will never be abandoned. As many of you know, a part of this story is worldbuilding- requires careful research to ensure I'm not offending no one.
Regular updates will resume, you can expect a chapter every 2 weeks. Hopefully, if I am able to flesh out a lot of writing at once, I'll be able to resume weekly updates.
Thank you for your loyalty, and welcome to new readers. I hope you enjoy the story!
Also, I may have to go back and edit some bits of the older chapters- although it should not change the plot so much.
-MM xx