Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

there is enough
treachery, hatred, violence, absurdity
in the average human being
to supply any given army on any given day

and the best at murder are those who preach against it
and the best at hate are those who preach love
and the best at war finally are those who preach peace

(Beyond These Walls - Scott Buckley)

Cold.

The dying grass, brittle and withered, stood in defiance of its inevitable demise, adorned with crystalline frost that acted as wicked talons — and the thick fabric of a worn cloak offered little respite from the relentless assault. A few cracks within the battling gear revealed a lonely thread of blood thickened over time, remnants of a blade's final duty brightly flashing viridian before being stilled.

The gravestone pressed against her elbow with haunting familiarity. Its sentient coldness whispered to her — carved characters sought her attention with an almost desperate insistence. They demanded to meet the gaze of hooded, unnaturally green eyes. ALBEN BLACKWOOD the letters sighed alongside the melancholic numbers that marked the passage of years. It remained unclear which sought shelter in this presence — whether it be the gravestone, an embodiment of her poor second half, or her own weary and exhausted self, seeking solace amidst the memories.

A rasp escaped chapped lips, torn between query and plea.

"Are you still there?"

The needles of unease lodged within her throat, a prickling sensation that she swallowed, each gulp a painful reminder of the one who lay beneath.

The blades coiled in anticipation like serpents inside her chest, writhed and squirmed, their hunger insatiable as they feasted upon the heart beneath the blood-stained gear. Invisible stings hooked onto her pale throat from within, their tendrils constricting and clutching. This kind of pain tightened the larynx with sourness, ending its journey upon the tip of one's tongue with a bitter aftertaste.

She clung desperately to a memory where all felt at least somehow stable, and the abyss was but a nascent seed, waiting patiently to be sown. The blood in her veins vibrated demandingly, sentiently – reminding of what was hungrily swirling beneath her skin and keeping the good memories at bay. The thing she freed from the Repository — the manifestation of others' mental anguish that now pulsed with sentience, its very essence coursing through a weak body and commanding that its owner now carried it as her own burden.

It had become a relentless companion that whispered incessantly within the recesses of her damaged mind, slowly unraveling fragile sanity thread by tenuous thread. The voices metastasized, multiplying like insidious tendrils of an invasive vine. They whispered their symphony of pain — a symphony she was condemned to conduct, no matter how much she begged them to stop.

Whispers carried names like prayers too vivid to forget. The kaleidoscope of eyes that once held her world in place were scattered now to the wilderness.

"Ominis..." a quiet sob was stifled against tattered sleeves, eyes like cut jade squeezing shut against the name.

It was futile to convey the need clawing within — the need to lose herself just once more in blind eyes profound as crystal pools, finding solace where sight could glimpse none. Eyes that perceived what lay beyond all shrouds and saw only with patience she couldn't understand.

The drops of scarlet – the color she despised – were calling to a beaming face, a merry riot of brown curls and chocolate eyes eternally lit with support. Its owner's grinning visage alone had banished loneliness more times than could be recounted, anchoring an unstable foundation with stubborn optimism. Natty.

And hazel, flecked with living gold – impulsive yet sheltering, both reassuring and mercilessly tormenting. Even now their memory stirred things better left undisturbed, needles pricking the heart preserved solely for blades.

A wet, hacking cough tore from her raw throat, flecks of blackened blood covering parched lips. A moment passed as hacking gave way to shallow gasps before cracking open once more with violent spasms and pulling her faintly glowing eyes down toward the emptiness below.

Perched above a sheer plunge, beneath trailing fronds of weeping willow, her blurred gaze tried to pierce the gathering shadows. There through the dark, at the base of the cliff upon which Alben's marker stood vigil, flames still licked hungry tongues from the shattered lantern room high atop the lighthouse's spine. Plumes of smoke streaked the night sky, a grim banner proclaiming her handiwork and the lives extinguished within fiery bowels of stone.

All had unfolded just as her dreams foretold. Even as blood and memory dulled her senses, some vestige of awareness noted the first faint flashes far out upon the churning waves – responding signals from the unknown guest her act had summoned to these shores.

There in the waters stretching bleak and restless, she saw them – the hands that had haunted her every waking thought and plagued darker corners of nightmares with their terrible strength. Hands she had watched wrap brutally around the slender throat whose owner shared her cursed verdant gaze, quenching the life from her poor strangled half as his eyes bulged and skin purpled in the choking clutch.

As the lights inched closer through the veil of rain, a strange calmness settled upon trembling limbs. Years of anguish and struggle had granted strength as well as scars, yet the bitter truth remained – the forbidden magic born of agony was a poison chalice that should never have passed to lips as parched as hers, never meant for one who nourished their own pains as if life's only sustenance.

She who had been dubbed the Chosen One, as tales often glorify in gilded pages, knew now the horrible irony of such a title. To be singled out for a destiny beyond understanding or consent was nothing but a pretty name for a curse.

In those flashing eyes steeling themselves to face the nightmare, such false crowns meant less than the dust upon the lonely grave next to her.

The Chosen One is not always meant to be.

Chapter Text

Undertow - Scott Buckley

The cacophony of voices echoing within stone walls felt overwhelming after a life spent silent and solitary. They threatened to drown her in a vortex of panic and confusion as she stepped into the Slytherin common room, snatches of words swirled as leaves caught upon swift currents, scattering her focus. She had barely slept the night prior, anxiety swirling at the prospect of being so exposed after keeping mostly to herself for so long.

Even the harrowing dragon attack on her journey to Hogwarts had seemed preferable, as had the string of dangerous tasks completed earlier on route. At least then the danger was clear and she knew what to expect. This chaotic social realm was entirely foreign, and she found herself feeling utterly lost.

If only the Sorting Hat knew the depths of bravery it took just to face this crowd, Merlin knew she'd likely belong in Gryffindor by now.

It seemed a small eternity passed as she twisted slender fingers raw, skin grating skin, before hazily taking stock of her surroundings. That is when she spotted him across the chamber, leaning solitary against the stone. Unfocused eyes stared emptily ahead, betraying nothing within yet also drinking in all around in uncanny perception. Curious, she spared him a guarded glance, taking in his look of calm detachment amidst the swirling chaos all around.

By the towering windows peering into the depths of the Black Lake, a blind boy smirked knowingly, pale features serene yet intent as younger students pointed and whispered excitedly at some fancied shape in the murky waters.

Drawn by his air of calm solitude, she cautiously drifted to stand beside him, taking secret solace in his nearness as the storm raged on in all its colour and noise around them. The rhythmic words coursed through her being like fish slipping through weeds, soothing fears awakened by the sudden change in surroundings.

"Based on all the chatter when you entered the common room, I'm guessing you're the new fifth-year. I'm Ominis. Ominis Gaunt."

Though milky eyes gazed unseeingly above her right shoulder, she felt utterly seen — which felt both threatening and soothing at the same time. His question, though seemingly a simple greeting, sank deeper with uncanny intuition.

She hesitated, fingers twisting as eyes darted, seeking refuge from such perceptive insight within a name no other had received in full.

"Blackwood. Apocrypha," she offered at last, tasting the words as if she had never spoken them before. Their strangeness felt fitting somehow.

"An interesting name you have, Apocrypha," he observed in measured tones, tasting the letters with care. "Suits your truly memorable arrival."

Though unable to see, those sightless eyes seemed to meet her own, their pull mesmerizing in equal measure to his calm voice. A flicker crossed his noble features — and in that assessing quiet moment, a small shard of her guard began to crack, curiosity compelling her to know this stranger who brought such unfamiliar calm.

As well as a boy who possessed both charm and energy that cut through her composure like a meteor through the dark.

With hair the color of fallen chestnuts and eyes alight with restless mischief — he was just a figure pacing near the crackling hearth, lost in muttered frustrations; spellbook clutched tight as restless feet retraced worn paths.

Fire had ever been an unsettled fear, yet from afar she observed in secret — until swift hazel eyes lifted, catching hers. The book snapped shut with practiced finality.

"Can I help you?" The question, though polite, held an edge that confirmed his earlier vexation. Apocrypha twisted fingers once more, mind racing for means to slip back into invisibility's shelter. Her eyes traced the faint dusting of freckles sprinkled across his skin, little flecks of color amongst pale tones. A faint whisper stirred within — one, five, nine freckles along his left cheekbone.

"Ah, you're the new fifth-year," taken aback by an unfamiliar face, he let curiosity soften stern brows. "I'm Sebastian Sallow — welcome to Slytherin."

A seed of habit she didn't know of by then took root, and she barely registered Sebastian's question or introduction. Four, five by the corner of his mouth.

A welcoming palm extended between them, catching her off guard and intruding silent counting. Composure steadied frayed ends, hiding bits of guilt that threatened to betray her stoic mask so unfamiliar with physical touch.

"Not the tactile type, hm?" he noted casually without judgment when she made no move in return. "Didn't mean to press." Offer rescinded but spirit of welcome left unbent.

She broke the silence with a question of her own, seeking to divert from a lingering unease. Sebastian paused, interest piqued by this quiet creature's inquisitive ways. Her calm demeanor revealed little, but keen eyes did not miss the ghost of interest in her expression.

"What book were you reading?"

How strange it felt — finding companions. Two voices wound gently around her frayed nerves, soothed raw edges, begginning knitting tethers that soon grew strong as chains.

Her nature rebelled against all notions of connection, against these two presences that slipped into a crack between her ribs without any known effort or her consent.

Their natures could not differ more — one alight with charm and vivacity, restless as the hearth's flames beside which first they spoke, while another was tranquil and mysterious like the cold waters she met him next to.

Sebastian's enthusiasm startled — a contradiction to her own quiet ways. His magnetic force drew all nearby into orbit, from housemates buzzing around to professors charmed by his guile. Ominis kept much shrouded beneath watchful observation, perceiving her guarded ways by simply offering shelter within his presence.

The days passed quickly in this new place, as such moments often do. Mealtimes found them at her end of table, as if following some trace she left unconsciously. Study sessions in the library's nooks would find Ominis arrived without any summon, understanding her need for silence before engaging into a conversation.

Sebastian proved as persistent. Charm and vitality refused a subtle surrender, teasing pebbles from piled doubts through jokes and unobtrusive presence. Apocrypha sensed bonds forming against her will yet not unfelt wishes, each meeting a reminder such connections outmatched transient hours alone.

A month passed before realization took hold.

She sought them, too.

Chapter Text

Ólafur Arnalds - Gleypa okkur

It began as all things do – one moment blending into the next in steady progression.

Though silence remained her natural state, patience both classmates and professors provided gave space to adjust at her own pace, easing isolation's grip. Yet while others filled the castle grounds with cheery chatter and companionable mischief between classes, she watched apart, learning through their subtle interactions. Friendly sparring and easy touches that required no permission intrigued her – ever she watched yet never participated in such intimacies, believing to harbor no desire for this kind of contact herself.

Did normal indeed appear this carefree and full of trust?

As two different natures complemented one another, seeming to balance her own, old habits still proved slow to fall. Distant and quiet as she was, closeness brought her conflict alongside comfort that she navigated cautiously. And while allegiance remained with her housemates first, time made another presence catch her attention – an earnest caring nature too sincere to ignore, all despite being clothed in color which brought her discomfort. Natsai seemed to draw even the most passive into her orbit and cheerful air that asked nothing in turn.

Three of them proved as eager as ever to involve her in the torrent of life, whether by breaking the rules in the library, setting friendly contests outdoors or filling the silences with sarcastic remarks that coaxed the faintest quirks of smile from her.

No matter how her nature rebelled – their bond survived. Apocrypha felt it deeply, though showing gratitude went against solitary instincts. In her own subtle ways she expressed care – through rare joking remarks towards Natsai, listening intently to Sebastian's fervent debates on magical theory late into the night, assisting Ominis with potions with an uncommon initiative.

Here was solace, as they had taught her well. Freedom - to simply be.

Yet closeness proved a natural catalyst, forcefully dragging her from discovering new friendships and splitting fragile stability of quiet existence in two – right before it was within her grasp.

Questions slipped from her in quiet moments, and Ominis' bleaker past came wrapped in cynicism coating his words like armor forged through suffering beyond his years. Still pain reflected within crystal pools, revealing sadness fighting both stubbornness and pessimism which refused to bend just like his dignity. And while his past held more darkness than any child should know, Sebastian's future was only starting to darken, unveileding aching secrets below charming smiles.

His desperate race against the clock drove him to paths one walked only as final hope. Though efforts proved fruitless, that same hope remained in hazel eyes that lit up at each new possibility – all despite the growing disapproval Ominis expressed while sensing another loss of someone dear hanging in the balance.

Of Anne herself, little remained but kindness and acceptance. Despite stolen health, her faint smiles came easily as morning rays, persisting through time and reason for inevitable dimming. Silent understanding drove Apocrypha to aid Sebastian where able without judgment – for who was she to condemn when she'd do the same? Still she voiced no such sentiments, especially to Ominis whose trust seemed most unstable of the three.

Days passed as arguments grew, replacing once calm discussions ruptured by conviction each held their path as righteous. Ominis gestured wildly now, voice rising past reason as he begged Sebastian to cease "foolish endeavors".

"You don't know when to stop, do you?!"

An echo of his shout – both bitter and desperate – snaked around the simple truth laid bare: dark magic demanded heavy costs, while the only price family should require is loyalty. This was what Ominis believed he knew well, despite the conviction Sebastian's desperation lacked malice, being born purely of love.

She felt sick at heart while her insides twisted into knots – torn between familiar ache and reason. Their once tight bond now seemed a chain stretched taut, close to snapping under the strain as the arguments became more frequent and heated. Even Sebastian's usually amicable nature started showing cracks under the stress – his eyes grew hollow with exhaustion, only lighting when discovering plans that darkened Ominis' scowl further.

Dark circles deepened all around. Ominis pulled away when Sebastian entered rooms, vice versa, until not a word passed between old friends for days. Lessons became battles of bitter looks and biting remarks, earning stern talks that did nothing to resolve the root conflict.

And in the end – time drained them all.

When rebellion's fires sparked amid growing unrest, it found them three strained and divided. Apocrypha was forced apart from them the last – grappled with newfound powers and struggling under responsibilities she never asked for. Their friendship crumbled without her between to temper each side, leaving her torn in three where before was one.

She hoped in vain they could withstand outside forces, yet watched helpless as ties gave way against pressures both within and without. Catacomb's yawning mouth consumed what little hope remained as disaster loomed – right before the chains ripped violently apart in front of the poison-green flash that shut its jaws around Solomon's life.

And she was alone – again, distancing herself within the loss she never spoke a word of. Apocrypha didn't protest, welcoming the safety isolation granted once more – its mouth opened wide and hungry, carelessly shoving silent form deep into the dark maw without any resistance.

Familiar blades coiled somewhere between her ribs, stirring the guard's grip anew – threatening its return twofold.

Chapter Text

Scott Buckley - Beautiful Oblivion.

The sea's restless energies mirrored those within as autumn's chill closed in around brittle shores. Waves crashed violent against jagged obelisks of basalt jutting from the foam, an echo of turmoil gripping the form curled upon their peaks.

The figure sat small and pale as the tide's jaws chewed on the stones, onyx hair lashed wild by gale winds around the wan face. Barely fifteen summers had passed, yet eyes the hue of viridescent poison already held wrath penetrating to core. Dark circles like bruises stained the space beneath eyes too vividly green, set against skin drained almost grey as rapid breaths drew between clenched teeth.

She sat coiled tight as winding serpents, knees drawn sharp against the chest as fingers curled viciously into clothed forearms hard enough to brand blue bruises into flesh. Anger was seeking escape, flaying her raw and pulling tight lips thin as blade's edge.

Helplessness consumed as much as fury, an impotent hatred left no targets but self. She'd wound tighter as a coil through the hours, until knuckles stood bloodless where fists clenched upon folded сloth. Tension wound her frame stretched to snapping, coiled arms wrapped fast around drawn knees. Pressure escalated until shoved past endurance - finally knifing outward to split the stone beneath like splintering bone. Fingers dug in merciless with each new surge of feeling too immense to hold, cracking stone further as pressures rose with no escape.

"Damn it..." exhaled air left her lips, forced between gritted teeth like shattered glass, jaw set rigid while eyes flashed sparks beneath taut brows drawn low.

Steadying ragged breaths, her wild gaze caught a solitary silhouette standing eerily still. An aged man watched from a distance, strange robes rippling gentle as the fading grasses. Wrinkled features observed her with a calm free of judgment or pity as grey eyes locked intently on cracked stone. At last thin lips parted, and a gentle voice cut clear through the din.

"Strong emotion, the stone."

With that, he smiled - a small, private curving lacking malice. No fear stained his weathered face, only some cryptic knowing that seemed to both soothe and worry.

She said nothing, jaw clenched stubborn. Hands withdrew slow from bruised flesh, curling protectively as she eyed this stranger who was regarding her with a calm she didn't know how to withstand. But violence leeched from rigid muscles at his presence, wrath cooling to taught wires of anxiety in the sudden company.

Rapid breaths slowed as emerald gaze rose dull yet questioning to his wrinkled own. Remaining curled, she watched from beneath a furrowed brow, leg shaking nerves away unconsciously.

"Does this happen often?" he asked calmly, nodding to the spiderweb of cracks beneath.

The old man gazed expectant, yet without demand. When she offered no reply to his query on fractured stone, he hummed soft understanding and stepped nearer still. Kneeling through the black sand, he scooped up an aged stone fragment smoothed by waves' work.

"You like insects, don't you?" he tried again, voice light yet probing within an unexpected question.

This time her instincts proved weaker, curiosity compelling guarded words against best efforts. Green eyes darted aside before resolve finally cracked.

"How do you know?"

His reply came effortlessly, grey eyes rising towards the cliffs and village rooftops lining the peaks in the distance. "Your mother told me."

She watched him warily still, leg shaking some calming rhythm as guarded gaze tracked each miniscule movement. No ease showed, yet interest could not help but peek through this cryptic man who watched her without flinching - unlike others.

Silence held no surprise for one aware of her ways of stoic non-response. He used the pause to near subtly, soft smile crinkling his skin as fingers turned the smoothed rock.

"What about the spiders then?" came his prompt, eyes lifted to trace her features for any crack in stoic armor. Offhand yet probing, his tone invited reply. He knew the bait would hook some answer, however slight.

"Spiders aren't insects." she refuted automatically through narrowed eyes, curiosity overcoming clenched jaws once again, if only for a moment.

His lips twitched, fighting a soft huff of hidden laughter - he was warned she couldn't abstain corrections. Patience held his form firm and nonthreatening as he stepped just within arm's reach.

Her twitching tightened as distance shrank, leg shacking violent as words came out forced, edged with unease.

"How do you know my mother?"

"I had the honor of meeting her a few weeks past," he answered lightly, careful not to reveal the true worries leading him this far from homeland. "You're lucky to have a mother so devoted."

Troubling rumors reached Ministry's ears - of magic witnessed by Muggles, along with tales surrounding conception under the influence that didn't belong to this side of the world. Further reports of other children in the village being harmed by some unknown force heightened worries of the mere possibility to expose Wizarding secrecy.

Solution required to shield a child away from its proper place, lost between two worlds not meant intertwining. Rarely magic showed so late, but it did happen sometimes to some young, still deserving direction to harness potentials safely.

Thin form curled tighter, green eyes pierced his kind gaze with unyielding mistrust as if searching for cracks in professing good intentions. "Who are you?"

Always quick to challenge, no sign she took comfort in his words thus far. Grey eyes flicked to the smoothed pebble nestled between calloused fingers, buying precious seconds.

"A professor," he began, returning her gaze steady yet warm. "Eleazar Fig."

Fresh doubts swirled within the viridian hues yet somewhere, gears turned processing this answer. Before another questionable frown emerged, his hand opened slow - where rock had rested lifeless now nestled a fluttering butterfly, struggling against the wind.

Instinct sparked her into action, thin hands stretching forth to offer refuge from the strengthening gales. Questions fled her guard dropping momentarily, absorbed by watching wings kiss tentative fingers.

His lips parted faint, careworn face creasing further at managed progress. For a brief moment he simply watched, observing her face free of masking. A wry humor crept into his tone to break the stillness.

"Don't tell anyone at Hogwarts about this."

Brows arched high in query as piercing eyes rose from cupped hands sheltering trembling wings.

"Hogwarts?"

Chapter Text

Daniel.mp3 – 3 Am Walk

The anger came back – worse than she could remember in two years since first encountering a mysterious old man wrapped in odd clothes.

The night watched chill and haunting, near accusing in its calm stillness. It blamed her for the hard-won progress now lost, the death she could not undo no matter how tightly squeezed her eyes against the truth carved before her.

All around, memories were etched likewise upon the exhausted face – flashes from this haunted year that seemed refuse to release their hold even in fitful moments of rest. Their faces emerged phantom-like from the mist: Fig's kind smile now forever stilled, rebels cut down in a flash of murderous red, the harrowing screams echoing from the abyss which had yawned open at her unconscious command.

All around murmured useless nothings about this not being her fault – yet she remained mute, drowning in their hollow placations and pointless comforts. As if they could provide any escape from the torturous swirl of blades tossing between her ribs and clawing the insides.

Curled upon the damp grass, she found no shelter next to the gravestone looming before her. Its plain etching branded itself behind vivid eyes: ELEAZAR FIG, a name that stirred memories both fond and painful. Nails raked pale forearms as one thin leg jerked out of control, the only release found. She had tried to seek guidance from him, only to lead him to this early grave by prying where she had no right. And for what?

His marker now stood lone over the sprawling field of the dead, as he had in life – a stalwart protector even in passing.

Was this power worth the cost? Would he still stand by her side, planning their next lesson together, if not for her recklessness? Or lay crushed and lifeless among the Repository's ruins, swallowed by its collapse with none to pull him out of its merciless maw?

At Fig's side she found no answers, only the endless questions harbored since that fateful night playing on repeat. Eyes traced his name over and over, still hardly believing their veracity – a child clinging to the edges of a nightmare which refused to end. Jaws clenched stubbornly at the feel of a pinching sensation slowly tightening the throat.

Control. Control. Control.

Lips shaped soundless pleas taught long ago – a useless chant to hold back fingers digging rigid.

Only seven days had passed since that night in the Repository, yet Ministry's officials arrived almost in an instant – swarming the ruins and asking questions without pause. With Fig gone no one stood left to shield her from the Ministry's hands that were lacking softness even with minors, but she knew personal pressures all too well. Authorities pushed and prodded from dawn till dusk, pressing her for details on what horrors had occurred beneath the school.

Fragmented images and muffled sounds were all that surfaced no matter how forceful the questionings became. She told them only what was necessary to satisfy their inquiries, giving no more than vague responses to shield the full truth. Even as the long, grueling sessions wore on her thinning body and frayed nerves, Apocrypha remained a closed book, offering up nothing more than the bare minimum required to end each interrogation. In the suffocating silence afterward she was left alone again, weighed down by the crushing guilt – but still staying silent as the tomb.

Expressing anguish proved near impossible, all energy fled – leaving only numb despair. She remained impenetrable to all, clinging to solitary misery as punishment for mistakes that came at too high a price to ever forgive herself for.

Natsai visited frequently yet never demanded speech, displaying quiet empathy through rare words of comfort that asked nothing in return.

Ominis grew distant – the loss of dear friendship lingered on his expression with vivid betrayal he couldn't mask, yet despite that he too attempted comfort above his own suffering, approaching soundlessly as if knowing any plea for answer would be denied.

Sebastian fared the worst, overcome with grief and uselessness in the wake of his sister's disappearance and the consequences of his own actions now sealed in a painful secret that was agreed upon in the Undercroft. Heavy footfalls betrayed how the weight of murder and disappointment within his friends' eyes still pressed upon him physically even with Azkaban now seeming distant. His usually light step grew dark, almost haunted – as if the blood on his hands now weighed all of his movements.

The steadfast tread of boots upon flat stones dragged her out of torturous thoughts, footfalls harsh yet tentative somewhere behind her back. Apocrypha stirred from place upon the cold grass, gulping back the tightness in her throat and slowing unsteady breaths. She knew without seeing – this sound could only belong to Sebastian.

The footsteps halted, yet still she did not turn viridian eyes to look upon the intruder.

"Thought I'd find you here," he stated plainly, voice measured yet carrying its own sadness as hands slipped into pockets. Grief marked them all it seemed, old bonds twisting under its strain yet somehow, none breaking apart entirely just yet.

No acknowledgment of his arrival followed, and she sensed without glancing over that his brows had knitted in a frown – a gesture that now came all too naturally to his once friendly countenance.

"What, you're not even going to look at me?" he prompted, frustration now creeping into his tone. His impulsive nature had returned in full, fueled by obvious loneliness borne of loss and own betrayal.

She bowed her head lower onto folded arms, curling tighter in on herself in a defensive gesture. Where Sebastian's heated nature once drew her forth from the shell, now only stirred some unfamiliar hostility she didn't know she could experience towards him.

After a long moment of tension, he pressed on. "I understand that you're grieving, but that's no reason to push everybody away," his brows knit deeper, concern vying with hurt within hazel eyes.

"Natty, Ominis, me – you never spoke a word to anyone of us since that last battle with Ranrok."

Still, as ever, no reply came from the shrouded figure, holding fast to her silent vigil over the grave. Some small, still rational part knew that Sebastian was right – but isolating provided a stable refuge, and right now sorrow consumed too fully. After all, had she not always handled pain alone this way?

Sighing, he kicked at the earth, form sagging slightly under unseen burdens. He studied the engraved stone for a moment before tearing hazel eyes back to her curled form, tone softening briefly as if acknowledging care came with effort, fighting with his own loneliness and frustration. "There are other people who care about you, okay?"

Slender fingers clutched thin arms painfully through the cloth of the uniform shirt as viridian eyes darted aside to escape his regard.

"And who are those?" she asked quietly, unable to curb her own voice that startled in its harshness. "You?"

For a brief moment he stood frozen, and in the resounding silence she heard him swallow back hurt.

"You should apologize, Kryph." he managed at last from behind her back, lips pressing tautly together.

Squeezing shut eyes against his care and her own unworthiness, she dug nails anew into skin, refusing comfort. The name Sebastian used still reminded her of the harbor he and Ominis once were – the nickname only they were allowed to use bound them three close earlier, and now its familiarity brought tortured disquiet.

Some part knew pushing him away like this was wrong, yet she couldn't stop the impulse. "Leave me be," she managed hoarsely. "And don't call me like that again."

Another painfully silent moment followed as Sebastian bored hazel eyes into her back before frustration finally won. He felt like knocking on the sealed door with no one behind it.

"Okay, I can't do this," he muttered gruffly, turning away and walking back the way he came.

Heavy footsteps distanced as her restraint began cracking upon hearing his retreat. Fear kept its jaws clenched firmly, masquerading as pride – she'd never let vulnerability show, especially now. The same fear forbade admitting how desperately she didn't want Sebastian to leave her there alone.

Cold fingers dug into inky locks, squeezing handfuls of hair. She curled tighter against the rising absence, chest constricting under lack of air. Breaths grew rapid and shallow between clenched jaws as a few muffled sobs escaped, tears streaming unnoticed until body shook with cathartic whines. All the while some small, trapped part of her denied the desperation to call him back, to stay, but lips stayed sealed. Fear smothered pleas where none could hear, leaving her drowning in the ruins of another friendship seeming to crumble to dust.

Sebastian kicked at the earth once more as he strode away rapidly, anger spurring him onward and hastening his footsteps.

Damn her temper and those bloody walls. Damn that cocoon she so desperately hid within – frustration deepened his scowl at the coiling knot of volatile emotion leaving him conflicted and unpredictable even for himself.

Conflict tugged him this way and that, a whirlpool of emotion threatening to drag him under. Impulse had him glance back, selfishness rearing its head upon seeing their fragile bond threaten to splinter completely without interference.

One of them had to breach before they fully cracked apart.

"Fuck it," he sighed through clenched teeth as his feet turned sharply, retracing quickening steps back down the familiar path.

Closing the distance at a clipped pace, he called out harshly, "Your pride will kill you, Blackwood!" His tone betrayed an aggression borne of undisplayed care, fear twisting tender urging into a razor's edge.

Apocrypha tore her eyes wide upon Sebastian's voice, tone unsettling nerves already raw.

"Leave me alone," came out small and anxious, panic rendering her breaths shallow once more as his voice drew near.

"We both know you won't be coming back if I do," he spat back roughly, a cryptic comment they both understood all too well.

Closing the remaining distance with a sharp exhale, he knelt before her, cutting off the sight of the engraved stone as if shielding a wound.

"Look at me," he demanded, though anger had fled his tone, leaving behind a weary plea at the sight of her tears for the very first time.

But she wrapped in arms like armor, defensive against his impulses as eyes averted his intense stare through damp lashes.

"Kryph," he pressed in a softer tone yet no less insistent, hoping to draw her back from misery's edge with what little intimacy remained between them. He knew using this nickname was already pushing taut boundaries, yet her name – their name for her – was but the last desperate attempt to shove her back into reality, a reminder of who she was and where she belonged. With them – with him.

Hazel eyes watched her non-responsive form, considering actions strictly forbidden since the day they met – physical touch. Her skittishness on this matter was a law, not a preference, and going against it now may shatter what little trust they had. But she had to be reached, even at cost of bruised intimacy.

Sebastian's hand twitched toward her arm, slowly sliding into place with intention.

"Don't," she gritted through panic and anger, lifting viridian eyes sharply as pupils narrowed upon his larger form.

But his fingers already found her bare forearm, his first touch since they met setting her skin to prickling with goosebumps. She was cold to the touch.

Unflinching hazel eyes held hers fast, insistent – without fear.

"It's not your fault, Kryph," he said calmly as if sensing the very words most needed to crack the wall, however slightly.

Frozen within his words, her breath hitched under mounting pressure as he dragged her against his chest forcefully, nestling chin atop black locks.

She didn't react in time to be able to resist, only stiffened painfully in his embrace, muscles tensed agonizingly tight as rapid, shallow breaths escaped her maw. Fingers grasped helplessly at Sebastian's back through the fabric, twisting uselessly at the shock of foreign warmth enveloping in a trap of care. Still longing lingered just out of sight, cruelly guarded from all despite their closeness that had grown throughout the past year.

The heat Sebastian was radiating was overwhelming, as if he unconsciously sought to scorch away the burdening chill. He knew in this moment of weakness that his need for closeness far outweighed her own – selfish stubborn refusal to lose another bond to distance held him fast, despite violating the deepest taboo to claim this fleeting solace. Apocrypha's jaws clenched till it hurt at the feel of his furious heartbeat threatening to tear the rib cage apart – the sound borne of the risk he was taking.

Burying his face within inky locks, Sebastian swallowed against the tightness rising in his throat. She smelled of cold winter nights and lemongrass – nothing sweet or flowery as others of her age, but rather the scent of something inconsolably distant. The scent of a memory.

"You can let that wall down," he managed hoarsely against her hair, thickly swallowing back tremors wracking them both.

Apocrypha gulped, throat parched as restraint fractured further each passing moment. Suppressed grief and anger blurred with helplessness, descending through fingertips to claw bruisingly at Sebastian's back in response.

He hissed through clenched teeth at the sting yet held her tighter, stubbornness outweighing discomfort.

"I will not abandon you," he breathed into the silence, eyes screwed shut as if shutting out all but this tattered thing they shared.

The final words tipped control over the precipice. Air fled her lungs in a sharp inhale, only to return in sobbing hysterics too strong to hold back the torrent.

Chapter Text

Balmorhea - Remembrance

The grand halls echoed with departing students bustling in a sea of colors no longer divided by house. Summer holidays approached, and most fled gladly to beloved families.

Displeasure tugged at Ominis' lips as thoughts turned to the manor house whose shades he called anything but home. Another endless barrage of biting mockery and silent suppers bearing contemptible gazes and sneering reproaches for defying the legacy of blood purity his so-called kin held most dear. Anywhere seemed preferable to three months under that roof but escape remained elusive as always.

Hauling his trunk from the dormitory, fingertips twitched at detecting Apocrypha's featherlight steps mingling with Sebastian's more nervous tread in the common room ahead. Blind eyes turned to meet their approach, stubbornly clinging to the only family treating him more than a disappointment.

"Send an owl when you've arrived," he stated plainly on an exhale, a reminder of their imminent departure as much as his own reluctant return. Betrayal lingered behind unseeing eyes, yet his care still remained - shattered but somehow present.

Hands tight on his trunk, Ominis bade them a farewell nod, secretly trusting that though the months would see them parted to different parts of the continent, their reunion would ease up the grown tension. None of them was ready for it - and none of them wanted it to stay.

Guilt clawed inside as viridian eyes tracked Ominis dragging his trunk into the distance. Biting tight bottom lip, Apocrypha twisted fingers raw, struggling against the helplessness gripping the insides.

Sebastian glanced aside, sensing the silent worry permeating the air between them.

"You know they'd never allow him to come," he stated grimly, arms crossed while a regretful gaze traced their friend's retreating shadow. "He will be alright."

Managing a slight nod, she dragged her attention from the trunk now cornered out of view. Of course the Gaunts would never tolerate their offspring being friends with a half-breed.

"Are you still sure you want to do it?" came his question, bitterness twisting normally smirking lips. "You don't have to."

Days of persistence had borne fruit in winning permission for Sebastian to depart with her rather than facing the summer alone. Now that the Ministry held custody until his maturity, extracting consent from the Headmistress' kind soul to influence officials had demanded a solid week of appeals. He couldn't return to Feldcroft - not when one misstep into that hollow, grief-drenched house would have him drowned. She could sense its walls swallowing him and tearing his heart apart while still alive - no matter how Sebastian pretended to hold on.

The hard-won permission granting her request was the only thing that gave hope - the rest came easily as her guardian has already sent a written consent upon taking the responsibility. For this small mercy after a torturous year, Apocrypha was grateful.

"I know," she breathed an exhale through tightening chest, nodding towards the exit in a signal of readiness to depart for the final matter before fleeing this place at last.

The road stretched silent as the distance closed between them and Feldcroft. Sebastian's forced calm cracked bit by bit with each step bringing them closer to the place of his upbringing, bottom lip twitching at neighbors' lingering looks of sorrow - if only they knew what he had done.

Before the door his feet froze, hazel eyes locked on weather beaten wood as a shaking hand grasped vainly for the handle. Fingers seized tight around cold metal yet didn't dare to push, muscles locking rigid in place like steel bands. A swallow, and -

"Do you want me to..." Apocrypha's voice drifted from behind, cutting through mounting paralysis and eliciting another uncontrolled twitch rippling through rigid form in a faint nod.

"Just... grab whatever you think I'll need." He forced from tightening throat, shoulders squaring yet feet remaining firmly planted.

She wasted no motion, shadow slipping past Sebastian and pushing the door to let her through the narrow opening soon quickly shut again. The stench of lingering grief flooded her senses yet she pressed on swiftly - viridian eyes darting hastily over a bowl of moldering apples rotting in the kitchen nook to the right, the table where she had first met Anne now dust-covered up front.

Swift legs carried her behind heavy curtains partitioning the sitting area from a humble bedroom alcove. A small wardrobe between two beds was packed with cloth yet bore a lone shelf guarding a few of Sebastian's wool sweaters. Stuffing them into her shoulder bag, Apocrypha's hands closed around a faded jacket also - Merlin knew the weather where they were about to depart was far from the summers Sebastian was used to.

With nothing left to take she withdrew, shutting the bedroom curtain as found. Viridian glanced over the room as her feet briefly hesitated upon noticing a crumpled paper on the table. Silent steps conveyed her closer, fingers unfolding the wrinkled note to reveal words amid stain traces of dried droplets.

Stained words glared back, grease-blurred yet readable. Whose tears marked the paper - Anne's or Sebastian's - she couldn't say.

Clearing her tightened throat with a quiet grunt, she shook her head to dismiss the discomfort. The note was left in its place as she hurried through the door into cool evening air, lips pressed tight in an attempt to focus, redirect the unease, rationalize the torrent. Not now. Not when the responsibility to keep the ground solid was now hers.

Opening the door, she found Sebastian leaned rigid against the stone wall beside, arm outstretched for the bag's strap wordlessly as hazel eyes bored towards Solomon's grave peeking from the corner.

"Don't look," she uttered lowly, sliding between his sight and a ghost of a memory. "We must get out of here."

He swallowed against lips twitching over a clenched jaw.

"What if she returns and I'm not here?"

Viridian darted aside before returning to bore into hazel with more confidence than she actually felt.

"She will return," she exhaled bitterly, gesturing to the engraved stone sharply to drag him back into reason. "But you can't wait here."

Pain twisted Sebastian's brow at truth's sting - an hour inside these walls risked unraveling all threads holding him, and neither wished to think of the consequences.

While Hogwarts Express bore the students South - their course ran North, to the shores beyond deeper Scottish highlands.

Silence and brief restless dozes held company during the lengthy ride, fatigue clinging heavy. Each kilometer drifted them from obligations and memory's maelstrom, tension melting gradually as distance from the castle gates yawned wider.

Ullapool's dockside roused an ill ease in Apocrypha's ears, too welcoming after a year amid turmoil. Strangers' looks lingered at the two youths boarding the steamer unescorted, confusion etched in furrowed brows at the sight of children far from guardians to brave the trip at sea's mercy. But passage was secured if uneasy, steamer promising safe journey over four day's sailing under the guidance of willing waves. Four days and they'd reach the exile, for good or ill.

As days passed, northern waters grew colder as did the winds, yet distance from Hogwarts eased the tension gripping them both, however slight. Memories slackened their hold, replaced by unrelenting seasickness Sebastian struggled against too vividly. Thankfully, pretty soon this journeying was nearly done.

Apocrypha leaned against the icy rail as foggy dawn broke, narrowing viridian eyes upon the shadows emerging from the mist - a coastline at last. Sebastian showed up pale and drawn from belowdecks, still half-awake after the torturous need to empty his stomach. Brief coughs racked his frame before he leaned beside her, grimace softening some as her silent hand offered a paper bag filled with strangely-shaped shards of greenish sour candies to soothe the aftermath.

Weary fingers dug into offerings kept always close these past four days, grasping a few translucent shards and shoving them into his mouth.

"Merlin knows how you stomach these things," Sebastian scoffed hoarsely through a grimace and a wrinkled nose, flinching from the sharp sour taste assaulting tissues with scorching citrus. Still, this small discomfort was preferable to retching over rail once more as open water rocked them endlessly on.

For another glimpse of normalcy in their circumstances, however subtle, each found reassurance in the familiar banter despite all afflicting body and mind since their departure. A kindness as much as distraction.

"So," Sebastian's hoarse voice broke the hush, "you never mentioned living this far in Muggle lands."

The green stone clicked rhythmically against her teeth as Apocrypha rolled it pensively over her tongue in a simple reply.

"You never asked."

Guilt twisted Sebastian's lips into a bitter smirk at the realization. In his blind obsession over saving Anne, he'd never truly try to know her beyond shared months at Hogwarts. Only now did he see how little intimacy they possessed, for all spent in closest company.

He rolled his own shard to one cheek, thinking.

"Did Ominis?" came the hesitant prompt, eyes fixed outward to the waves sluicing past prow.

She nodded curt reply, seemingly unwounded by his neglect - but Sebastian knew the shades of her silence better than most.

For long moments they stood in quiet company, exchanging the crinkling paper bag and brief glimpses into one another's tired eyes as mist-muted peaks rose higher into view. When dark mountains breached shrouded air, Sebastian shook out chill with hand-rubbing efforts to stir warmth back into his limbs. Green hills and jagged crowns of shadowed rock eyed them, welcoming.

"Thought you said ice land," he muttered, leaning bodily over chafed wood for clearer view before questioning glance turned her way. "Where's the bloody ice then?"

Apocrypha's snort crackled muted laughter past tight lips, bemusement glowing brief in viridian eyes turning toward the nearing coast.

Olafur Arnalds - Undone

Jagged ridges stretched flanking the the shoreline, granite teeth biting the heaving swells as surf spilled white-lipped upon obsidian sands. The closer the coast loomed, the louder seagulls cried presaging arrival - waves urged the steamer ever landward under beating wings and churning sea.

Apocrypha gripped chilled rail, keen eyes taking measure of cliffs jet against the horizon's passing hues. Sturdy as they stood, those towering slabs possessed their own bleak beauty - a stark contrast to green valleys left distantly dreaming behind the mist and the sea. This hardscrabble rim crowning the north would offer shelter harsh but honest, lacking false comforts.

As prow bit final breakers, she glimpsed familiar formations rising stark and shadow-crowned beyond shivering grasses. Sebastian joined her rail-side, eyes flooding chill lands ahead with the same searching she knew well.

Home.

Wood struck pier as flocks fled cries, and at last two sets of feet met steady land. Tired sighs of relief left parted lips into damp sea air, eyes rolling skyward.

Trunks doubled in weight as owls offered hoarse protests above packed belongings trailing behind. Strangers' curious eyes tracked their departure from harbor once more, unaccustomed to such possessions - but weariness drowned out prying looks.

Half-hearted complaints left Sebastian's lips as the pair dragged luggage up steep paths toward the village perched high above the jetty and the shore below where waves still licked the obsidian sands greedily.

"Apparition next, splinching be damned,"his hoarse scoff echoed from behind as wooden homes came into view.

"Agreed," Apocrypha's breathless agreement ghosted, finding welcome in her companion's familiar antics.

The village's narrow lanes carried their steps with fleetness belying heavy-booted feet, Sebastian following close behind past humble dwellings toward a lone house apart from neighbors. Barking greeted them upon approach, the wooden door swinging inward to release a black-and-tan bounds of fur and flapping tongue, yellow eyes wide and coat thick and hirsute as the lands.

The hound sniffed Sebastian's curious touch, a widening grin erasing fatigue momentarily at the dog's tail slapping the wooden floor in welcome.

"Cetus won't bite," came a murmured assurance as Apocrypha led the way into warmth and clamor within. "Mom?"

Her call echoed down the hall, stirring hurried footsteps and gasp of gladness from the tall figure silhouetted within kitchen's glow with outstretched arms.

Sebastian moved to bow his head respectfully.

"Miss Blackw-" but was interrupted swiftly, words falling mute as arms encircled them both, drawing weary frames against maternal softness with murmured greetings meant for those most cherished.

It seemed that no difference held in woman's eyes which child she embraced, loving lips pressing gentle blessings upon tousled locks. Mingled sighs and murmurs brushed her cheek against both crowns for the safe homecoming - as if he too belonged here, as if family returned, as if lending grace to a stranger alongside beloved daughter required nothing in return.

"Mom," a hoarse sigh escaped Apocrypha in mock complaint as she tried freeing herself from the embrace, imitating scarcely restored breath hinting wry amusement beneath. "I can't...breathe."

Sebastian's eyes flickered aside, unused to such open affection both foreign and desperately craved since... He couldn't remember. Dry lips twitched at the sensation untasted for so long, only now realizing the depths of his touch starvation these past years cultivated. His frame absorbed the warmth, recalling simpler days when his own family lived and loved without restraint. How unfamiliar now, this easy closeness.

"You'll survive, grumpy," came the woman's low chuckle as one arm withdrew yet pulled Sebastian nearer still.

Warmth surrounded, scents from the kitchen drifting close on currents of welcome, kindness spreading upon the lips in a soft smile - how long had it been since he tasted joys as simple as these?

"Thank you for having me." Sebastian murmured politely as the embrace loosened, hazel eyes meeting gentle greens that invited without need for words despite looking nothing like saturated viridian he was used to.

A soothing brush swept tousled locks as smiling eyes regarded him fondly.

"Breakfast," came the soft statement, chin tilting toward inviting scents.

Behind the woman's back, clattering paws heralded the dog's approach as a quiet form leaned intent over a paper at the table, quill scratching out phrases in haste across the page. Finishing, Apocrypha snorted back a muted laugh into her fist before adding more, then carefully folded parchment to rouse the waiting owl from its cage at long last, stretching feathers after long confinement.

Divided by churning seas, the owl found its journey's end as dusk pulled veils around the Gaunt manor. Fluttering accompanied the claws scraping persistent at the high window until latch finally stirred. An ash-grey beak stretched towards awaiting palm as Ominis tilted his head upon a quiet sigh of relief.

Tentative fingers unfolded the letter as ever-present wand pressed against the scratched words.

A quiet huff escaped him, amused despite all attempts to hold on to restraint.

Wand traced fondly once more to experience each of her dry scrawls anew, private smile softening hardened features as re-reading summoned back tender recollections of their company that could lighten any burden, no matter the past.

Intrusion came all too soon.

"Supper," a gruff voice summoned low from beyond the locked room.

Expression schooled the guard once more as Ominis rose with steadied breath.

"Coming, Father."

Chapter Text

Lovett – Mates

It felt almost surreal – having an adult nearby.

An adult who didn't greet every word or action with hostility, who did not immediately meet every glance with cold anger or scorn, but listened without prejudice or demand. No daggers flying each time eyes met, no shouts following each utterance, no punishments through prolonged silence and isolation over meals. She listened kindly, without a cost to one's peace of mind.

Sebastian toyed absently with his fork, lost amid the swirling feelings stirred by foreign food and a new presence. What turmoil must dwell in the past of this house for hospitality to be this freely given, without price or obligation?

"Quite the eventful year at Hogwarts," the woman spoke, drawing his wandering thoughts gently back as her tall form leaned arms upon the wooden table where they all sat during the meal. "I'm glad to see you both far from troubles there."

Her soft voice held wisdom beyond mere words, and eyes shone with depths his own could not fathom.

Darting hazel met viridian briefly, unease greeting unspoken question hovering as to how much the woman truly knew. Apocrypha's mother held no inkling, or pretended ignorance – this Muggle wasn't allowed to know much about their world.

"How fares Professor Fig?" woman's voice drifted gently across table as evaluating eyes traced hollows beneath lately arrived faces.

A twitch ghosted dark brows as Apocrypha stilled at the question, viridian gaze retaining its shell of calm – not without an effort. Beneath the table, Cetus's soft panting and a faint noise of the upcoming summer rain provided a steady backdrop, the dog's warmth pressed companionably at Sebastian's side .

"Well," came the plain lie, yet truth flashed behind the lids tightening against the memory's sting.

Her mother intercepted the heaviness poisoning the air, perceptive, tucking a stray lock of black and grey hair behind her ear. "Learnt aught of use?"

Saturated eyes emerged from behind the lifted mug, shoulders shrugging simply in reply.

"A charm or two, some dueling," she muttered as trailing gaze found Sebastian's form leaned wearied upon his fist.

He snorted in dry recollection, chin propped tiredly. Introducing his friend to fiery spells had proven amusing, despite her apt avoidance of all flames – ever content watching from the distance but never wielding the fire herself. They differed greatly where battling spells were concerned.

A ghost of a smirk curled his lips in reply to Apocrypha's glance.

"And your friend – the blind boy?" the woman inquired gently, eyes keenly interpreting their shared look. She knew much from letters concerning their trio.

"Ominis keeps well, too," came the quiet reply as Apocrypha's mouth pressed a moment, thoughtful of their missing companion – ever the rare balanced head. "Reckon he'd like it here."

"Doubtless," her mother breathed, rising smoothly with a nod to the back rooms before returning wrinkled lids to the hazel-eyed boy. "Your room's ready when you are, lad. Must be worn out from travel."

Blinking tired lids, Apocrypha pushed the seat out first. A nod and rustle of garments followed as Sebastian rose to bow his curt yet polite manners through restraining a jaw cracking yawn.

"Thank you kindly for the meal, Mis-"

"Nadine, dear," the woman waved off a dismissing hand with a faint smile. "Now off to bed you both."

They passed several doors in silence down the cramped hall, Sebastian glancing around curiously – strange how small the house seemed while hinting at hosting more people at some point, judging from the clustered rooms along the way. Too tired for questions, he kept such thoughts to himself for now.

Reaching their destination, Apocrypha grasped the handle and led the way within – only to stop with a puzzled expression upon finding the space bare, few furnishings remaining and two guest beds stripped down to mattress when her mother mentioned preparations.

Brow creased, she glanced askance at Sebastian as if to speak her confusion, yet swallowed the words in a brief moment of silent hesitance as viridian orbs bore into nothingness for a few thoughtful seconds. A few blinks followed before her thin form disappeared from the doorway only to strode purposefully towards the next clustered entrance. Sebastian noted her puzzled look but said nothing, opting instead to follow along.

softsync – Fourth Of July

Twisting the next knob revealed a chamber whose stillness whispered of long solitude.

Shelves and surfaces overflowed with curios gatherings over the years – shells, stones, foliage pressed flat between parchment. A bed snug in the corner beside a window heavily curtained against the day's faint glow, glass casings lining the walls with insects and arthropods of myriad hues frozen in eternal repose beneath enclosures someone had crafted by hand: beetles spread wing and leg, dragonflies and grasshoppers pinned with precision. Frames held moths and butterflies in dizzying arrays of color and pattern now fixed forever. A lone centipede boasted proud length where lesser insects were displayed, and a mahogany stand hosted a choir of cicadas singing muted songs with stiff legs akimbo.

Sebastian smiled wearily, certain now whose chamber this was.

"Found your menagerie, I see – collecting your little pets, Kryph?"

She paid his jesting no mind, intent on her hunt for spare linens. Clambering atop the rickety chair to reach the tall wardrobe took her some effort as Sebastian observed contently.

Eyeing her nimble motions now, he remembered solitary hours spying her wandering gardens, often squatted alone to examine Merlin-knew-what curled oh-so-gently around pale fingers. He'd passed her thus countless times in thought and had never paused to ask what it was she was looking at, only now seeing how her idle interests spoke to greater loneliness beneath. No surprise she sought solace in humble companions not judging her strangeness or questioning why she seemed to dwell forever on periphery's edge.

Weariness dragging his steps, Sebastian paced the perimeter of Apocrypha's quarters as she rummaged above. Glinting frames caught his eye where they stood arrayed upon the table, wrinkled strangers frozen in time unlike portraits at home endowed with fluid motion.

One frame lay apart facedown, gathering more dust than its fellows.

Curiosity claimed him, drawn to lift it and peer beneath. Amid graying pigments stared two faces both familiar and foreign – they gave pause, hazel vision clinging to details not meant for him. Younger Apocrypha buried content in another's embrace, a boy smiling soft against her hair's crown. Slightly brighter locks framed the stranger's freckled features at peace as lips tilted soft and fond while he pressed his cheek to her dark locks in wordless solace beyond mere friendship's bounds.

A tender moment captured Sebastian felt he'd intruded, not used to seeing his friend allowing touch so freely – without a flinch.

Before wonder could take deeper root, a heavy thump from the rattling chair wrenched him back, rapid footfalls announcing Apocrypha's fast, almost malicious approach. She slammed the photograph down with more force than needed as he glanced up to see her pale features hardened into a wall, lips drawn thin as wind-whipped branches. He knew that strained, defensive mien too well. He had already seen it – on the graveyard.

"Don't," came a sharp, familiar warning through tight mouth, tone hardening impossibly despite the lightness they were only starting to share a brief moment ago.

Raising hands in a weary gesture of peace, Sebastian met her guarded discomfort unflinching, sensing the distance creeping back between.

He cleared his throat softly, arms accepting a piled bundle of worn fabrics and linens as a blanket got tossed unceremoniously over his shoulder. Apocrypha withdrew a moment more to seize lone pillow before nodding curt at the shut doorway to get back to the guest quarters.

Working in a wordless tandem as usual, they made up one of the beds situated in different corners of the cramped room. Sebastian lingered as she tended the final corner, biting back an intrusive question begging answer. He swallowed around lingering tensions, seeing her look back and pause as if words hovered behind compressed lips.

"Stay awhile, will you?" rushed the prompt before he could still it, scratching self-conscious at brown locks falling tousled over eyes downcast. "Just until I drift off, is all."

He awaited her refusal, but knew for sure neither of them fancied an empty room right now.

Apocrypha eyed him close yet distant, seeking something in his eyes he could not place. She turned away silent, pulling drapes tighter against the gloom outside whilst rain tapped steady at the glass. Without a word she dropped onto the bare mattress, staring up at the ceiling beams in content stillness. A sigh left Sebastian too when he crashed on the bed, arms stretching out tired-like before going limp at last.

They laid there a long while as dusk crept in, each lost in their own heads. Sebastian peeked an eye open later, gaze straying the figure lying statue-still across the dim room. She never seemed touched by past hurts and neglect, or throw them in his face like Ominis often would. But she never felt truly forgiving either, always keeping people at arm's length no matter how much time they spent together – all while withholding no reprieve yet offering no denial either.

Her quiet held no sweet mystery begging unravel – it wasn't the cute, sweet sort that made you want to get to know someone better. It was a thing desperate to reach out, to connect – yet fearing contact's cost with each tentative motion, vivid in its conflict. The struggle showed plain as day when she pushed others away while also wanting them close.

An invisible wall that seemed to separate her from this world. And from him.

Summer rain hammered harder, fat drops pummeling glass insistently. Apocrypha's gaze drifted sideways to Sebastian's face, shadows casting it gloomy and preventing her to see if his eyes were still open or not. But as always, hurt lingered etched upon his features since Anne disappeared without trace or word sent since. His suffering showed plain – afraid of being alone, eaten up by regret, anxious the ground might fall out at any moment after what he'd done.

In that moment, Isidora's choices seemed mad yet logical, almost understandable – the wish of ridding someone you cared for their pain by any means was relatable to most people. Care and grief proved to shape love into the strongest of all obsessions – perhaps that's why such magic was sealed away from unready hands.

For half a heartbeat an ugly thought rose and fell like bile: could she take up that cursed role now that this abhorrent gift was hers? Do this right?

"Kryph?"

Sebastian interrupted her musing with care, as if sensing where thoughts drifted that neither wished dwelling overlong in private.

"You sleeping yet?" he whispered carefully across the dividing gloom and blankets.

"No," she whispered back across the quiet, "still awake."

"Want to talk about what happened in the Repository?" he asked suddenly, voice low and face half-turned her direction through the gloom. He'd tried to hint before about that night, but never came out and asked so blunt like this, not in all the weeks gone by. "You never did say."

Apocrypha's vivid stare blinked slow at his query, reserved and evasive as ever in responses. Long moments stretched thin before a dry swallow broke her calm.

"Not much to tell," came her practiced words, avoidance plain as breathing.

His whisper pressed mild yet intent, cunning glint entering hazel eyes knowing well her penchant for secrecy. He knew she confided deeper in Ominis's patience than his own fiery temper, but couldn't accept it still. "Told Ominis sure enough, but not me. Why's that?"

A sigh broke ragged – he'd spun her well, her friend. Silence stretched before faint whisper admitted what long nights alone revealed plain even without speaking.

"I don't remember."

Her voice drifted, vision plunged back to that night's bedlam. Exhaustion, Ranrok's magic crushing resistance in a losing battle; strength waning against the dragon's onslaught as adrenaline drained. Death seemed rational and logical then – before all disintegrated into meaningless flashes of blood red, noise clamoring senseless, earth convulsing wild and scents bombarding sense.

Next was waking underground in dirt and dark, an aftermath beyond grasping. The stench struck first – copper tang saturating air so thick the tongue almost tasted blood on every labored inhalation. Vision focused upon Ranrok's unmoving corpse, limp and splayed unnaturally, shattered armor stained inside and out.

Yet the harshest sight seized her still – beneath a massive stone pressed jagged from cracked earth spread a thick pool of blood, licking the piled stones exactly where Fig stood speaking what seemed minutes past. His crushed remains were unrecognizable – only grey eyes now blank seemed untouched, reflecting back her wavering form as magic pulsed a fevered cacophony in her skull ever since.

That's all she retained – a blur of ruin and viscera scents clinging to her nostrils still, refusing release even now.

Her tone seemed to carry truth – no practiced evasion twisted its brevity this time, a sure sign Sebastian believed to know well from months beside her. Another sigh leaving him, he rolled atop blankets towards her shadowed form. No further demands were made, exhaustion pulling prompt at weary bones aching for respite.

Rain lashed harder still against the glass, the storm drawing out its fury through the coming night still bright as day. Sleep crept swift as a thief, stealing into Apocrypha's limbs sprawled lax atop bare mattress and carrying her mind to the merciful release as well.

A rare calm had settled over Sebastian within the next few weeks, granting a respite he found unfamiliar yet welcome after seasons of strife. Warm meals filled his belly and the house held only sleepy stillness amidst summer's downpours drenching the surrounding countryside endlessly in murky greys. While rain always dampened his spirits, these laden skies birthed some weird, comforting melancholy he had never experienced before.

Somehow an unspoken routine bloomed between them without either realizing. Evenings found them together whether in guest chamber or her own room conversing idle or writing another letter to Ominis as the hound snored lumbering nearby. Others Sebastian amused himself tugging ears and tossing sticks for the hulking Shepherd that favored him above all else for some unknown reason. But most often, they'd occupy themselves sorting through Apocrypha's curious collection of preserved insects, vivid eyes alight while discussing each specimen to him with unfamiliar enthusiasm.

"Some moths feed on blood, did you know?" she asked one such twilight, pointing out tiny wings blurred behind the glass.

Sebastian snorted softly. "Never a dull moment with your odd facts, is there?"

Yet still he listened pleased, complaints coming muffled where her interest showed itself so rarely from behind haunted eyes. Her smiles were few and far between hard-earned, yet during these moments she seemed almost... at peace.

Their daily letters to Ominis had become as much a ritual as evenings spent in each other's company. Apocrypha initiated each one with earnest promptness that drew Sebastian's teasing of her intense attachment to their blind friend – she seemed to scarcely follow his implications and therefore offered no denial.

Ominis's infrequent replies bore gentle patience as always, inquiring after minutiae rather than telling of his own circumstances – weather patterns, landscapes, details of neighboring Muggle villages, even peculiarities like the rolling pastures and the feel of Cetus's shaggy pelt as if to commit every described sensation to strict memory. It became evident his probing sought escape, if only in thought, from the suffocating presence of lineage ties that rejected his gentler spirit. He tried to inhabit his friends' humble space instead – through all of these vivid descriptions and gentle questions to paint imaginary surroundings even in absence.

It was one day when an insistent tapping against the glass dragged Sebastian from dreams as dawnlight filtered dim through hazy windows. He struggled adjusting to eternal twilight of this strange land despite weeks, and after both he and Apocrypha parted for sleep mere hours past his lids felt stuffed with lead at such an ungodly early rousing.

Reluctantly he swung legs over the side and trudged to the window where Ominis's owl waited impatiently. Shooing the bird haphazardly, he yawned widely while fumbling with the parchment still sluggish and half-seeing through clouded vision. But soon enough, Ominis's neat scribbles sharpened into focus, causing his eyes to snap open and pulse to jump to gallop against the ribs near cracking.

Scrambling from rumpled sheets still clinging warm, he dashed from the room, bare feet flying frictionless across the cold floorboards towards Apocrypha's chamber, calling her name with increasing fervor down hollow corridors, hazel eyes blown wide. "Kryph, you won't believe –"

Her door stood empty – must have risen with dawn as usual or never falling asleep at all as was her habit.

He tore back to dress hastily, yanking a woolen sweater over sleep-rumpled clothes before plowing from the room once more, this time toward outside, calling her name between yawns splitting his face.

Soon enough Sebastian burst onto the porch, narrowly avoiding collision with Nadine.

"Oi! Goodness child, why the rush at this hour?" she inquired bemusedly with raised brows, observing his wild eyes and flyaway hair. A puff clouded fragrant from her pipe she enjoyed peacefully at dawn's pale light. "Where's the fire?"

"Have you seen Kryph?" he panted, pulse still racing.

Nadine frowned thoughtfully at the name, "Kryph?"

Sebastian nodded distractedly, bobbing impatient on the balls of his feet, "That is what I call her."

Another thoughtful drag met her lips as wrinkled eyes considered him shrewdly. "Best not let her hear that, son."

But Sebastian had already spied his friend's lean form down the cliffside limned by mist-kissed horizons, dark hair whipping wild upon ocean winds. He tossed a careless grin over his shoulder while already pelting away. "No promises!"

Antent – i'll be your reason

Muttering curt gratitude, he dashed down the worn stone steps thick with dewy grass.

"Kryph!" he called eagerly across the field, breath pluming white as morning mist as he ducked and weaved the knee-high green stalks swaying gentle on the ocean's breeze. Strands of hair fled her loose disheveled braid as verdant eyes lifted curiously towards him.

Finally he burst upon her, breath stolen by altitude and anticipation alike as he waved the crumpled paper madly. "You'll never believe - it's news from Anne!"

Apocrypha's face pinched confused a moment before eager hands snatched the letter from Sebastian's grasp. Her eyes danced frenzied across pages, struggling to make sense of scrawled words in her haste.

Ominis had forwarded on Anne's own letter along with his message – she'd sent a word to him alone that she was safe in Scotland with distant family from their uncle's side, not yet prepared to speak with Sebastian directly. But she warned Ominis to tell her brother not to worry, that she'd return home when ready to face what'd past between them. And Anne asked their friend to watch over Sebastian till then, showing that her care persisted despite all pains.

Slate stare lifted sharply to pin Sebastian in place, pale finger jabbing teasingly his puffing chest a hairbreadth from touching. "Told you so!" she accused in triumph, no real heat behind those endless green eyes he knew so well.

Relief battled joy upon his freckled face, hands running through tousled locks as bright laugh bubbled up. "You did, you did!"

Sebastian could only stand grinning foolish and breathless, relief crashing through him fierce as he collapsed heavily onto the tall cliffside grass, tension seeping from stretched nerves. Nearby, Cetus burst panting and foolish among swaying stalks upon realizing their presence, huge paws brimming with puppyish delight at finding company to mind his endless energy.

The dog flopped to their joined sides, shaggy fur sprawling across both their laps in invitation to play. Sebastian's chest rose steady once more, hands busy tussling the hound's velvet ears to match the his boundless enthusiasm.

His amber eyes traced inevitably toward Apocrypha's tranquil silhouette, back straight and slender fingers plucking blades of grass in turn as the breeze tousled her raven hair. She remained as ever beside him yet separate in her way, observing their antics with that still, searching stare always watching each subtle action and reaction.

How she managed such separateness mystified him to no end – somehow his friend was always where needed before he knew her lacking, filling spaces left barren. She seemed always so present despite an outward distance, difficult to know yet feeling known all the same in her own peculiar ways. Never faltering yet never forcing herself where unwelcome - she simply was.

"What now?" she asked, deft fingers plucking blades one by one.

"However Anne likes, I suppose. All that matters is she's near me again," his smile held care, hopeful yet wary. "When she returns, we'll make things right. The rest... we'll see."

Apocrypha's eyes drifted to papers on her lap as wind sighed through rippling grass. Her mouth twitched at the sight of Ominis's swirling scrawl, knowing he too found solace in Anne's safety. But it wasn't just Anne whose bond needed fixing.

"Do you think Ominis will ever forgive us?" she muttered contemplatively, safely tucking pages under her hooded cape, unbothered by the offshore chill.

Her question held no accusation, yet still it needled some dormant pain in Sebastian's chest. He sighed, scratching idly at the hound's snout. "I hope in time. Ominis understands more than most, you know him."

A familiar frustration rippled hazel eyes, and was gone just as quickly, unvoiced – always she seemed closer to Ominis than him, despite all they'd endured. Maybe he deserved her distance for his past mistakes and neglect, but she seemed unaware her aloofness stung. He could not blame her nature, only wished at times she sensed what words left unsaid and looks lingered too long to shrug off casually.

Sebastian forced a chuckle, pulling distracted eyes from the wet nose nuzzling his palm. "Ominis means a great deal to you. Why is that?"

Her brows drew together then, head tilting in that curious way she had when social niceties evaded her understanding.

She was still learning to navigate relationships, visibly figuring things out as she went along living among others for the first time after so much isolation. To her, relationships seemed basic – she offered honesty without artifice, following instincts before thoughts. Her ways were ever peculiar, but her loyalty remained unquestioned. Still, her closeness with Ominis tugged at something inside when they spent most of their hours focused solely on one another.

"Nevermid. Doesn't even sound right," he teased, dropping the subject upon seeing her puzzlement. Whatever attachment they shared left no room for romance in her eyes, still unfamiliar as a feral thing with anything regarding intimacy after years locked away from proper human contact. But that was their Kryph – constant, if distant.

Apocrypha curled in on herself, hugging bent knees protectively as was her habit. Her chin ducked, throat bobbing as viridian eyes fell hesitant before whispering, "He reminds me of someone."

Sebastian fell silent as thoughts drifted to weeks past, when he discovered a photograph upsetting her. Such familiar closeness to the strange boy within, yet he didn't dare to pry further, fearful her walls may rise higher at touching what wasn't meant for him. So many questions lingered – of her differing looks, her mother's pure Scottish accent unfamiliar to these lands, an empty homestead, missing family.

His lips parted to imply asking, but she interjected suddenly, eyes fixated elsewhere upon the tall grass.

"You know...all my life, until I met you..." Her speech slowed, words strange on her tongue, so unused to initiating anything vulnerable.

Brows knitted briefly on Sebastian's forehead in rare confusion at her uncharacteristic phrasing that caught him off guard.

"I never had a friend," she finished as wind toyed with raven locks.

The words fell bare from her lips, ringing with a wounded honesty Sebastian had never heard from her before. This confession struck him silent, eyes widening at words so raw and vulnerable.

Why she entrusted him with such naked openness elicited only more questions, and prodding further seemed foolish – but no matter her attachment to Ominis, it was him who had introduced her to the novelty of friendship, to so many hours spent together, to banter, to mutual trouble.

Unsure how to accept this vulnerability, he followed her way – responding as she seemed most comfortable, in quiet. His silent grin emerged crooked and light, eyes dancing with mirth as he cocked his head, gazing at her curled form inquisitively. Hesitance shone back as viridian eyes peeked from safe shadows of folded arms to squint tentatively up at him. Sebastian knew that expression well – the ghost of a smile flickering there, however unsure.

In that brief, endless instant, he felt truly seen by this wild, unpredictable, lonely creature in return.

Finally, he too felt present. For the first time.

Chapter Text

The steady hum of chatter swelled within Hogwarts' Great Hall once more as students filed in, uniforms splashed with House colors filling the castle with renewed energy after a quiet summer. For most, anticipation hung thick for terms of magic and exciting studies to come - but among the Slytherin's ranks sat two with minds occupied elsewhere.

Apocrypha shifted lazily beside Sebastian at their table, gaze passing disinterested over goblets and floating candles to search instead for a pair of blind eyes missing from their trio. Neither had spotted Ominis upon return to their common room or dorm, his things notably absent - Sebastian peered nervously over, an odd mix of relief and nerves twinging in his chest at the thought of facing his best friend again. He was unsure how to mend the rift of previous year's events just yet, despite Ominis's letters received throughout the summer lacking malice towards him. Waiting felt like a torture.

"Not like him to be late," he remarked lowly, following persistent green eyes towards the entrance.

Apocrypha continued scanning the assembling crowd, brows knitting in question. Sebastian drew her attention to the opposite end of the table with a frown of his own, nodding to where an unfamiliar sight greeted them both - a new face of their age, all freckles and a wild mane of crimson curls brushed aside. Eyes of startling blue scanned the crowd nervously yet the girl smiled hopefully, tracing every student with curious stare.

"Have you seen her before?" Sebastian asked in an undertone.

Apocrypha shook her head slowly, brow furrowed further at the mystery. Before she could question any further, a warm voice interjected.

"Well if it isn't my favorite Slytherins! Enjoyed your summer, Kryph?" Natsai grinned down at them, rich brown eyes dancing beneath lush curls above her red and yellow tie.

"She did, thanks to my sparkling company for a few months," Sebastian smirked despite his hidden dislike towards the nickname he liked to think was reserved for him and Ominis only.

Apocrypha sighed, knowing that look meant an onslaught of questioning.

"It was quiet as always, Natty," she allowed vaguely, but the slightest twitch hinted at a smile as her eyes drifted back to the new face.

Noticing her gaze, Natsai followed it. "Who's the new ginger?"

Sebastian shrugged. "No idea. Never seen her before just now."

Stubborn mossy stare studied the girl, taking in her Slytherin robes and nervous smile. A transfer maybe, but so late? She seemed lost, alone in this crowd - just like her a year prior.

"We have a new sixth year too, can you believe it?" Natsai said, waving to the Gryffindor table. "Bloke's been made a prefect already, replacing Alan. Osborn, I think his name is. No warnings, just plopped him in the position."

She pointed out the raven-haired boy, a careless lock falling across azure eyes crinkled in a warm smirk as he conversed easily with new housemates.

"Blimey, him?" Sebastian peered over once more, eyeing the new boy idly. "Transfers happen, but a prefect without notice? Bonkers if you ask me."

"Who knows with Black, that one. Mad as a hatter, our headmaster," Natsai threw hands up. "Professor Weasley would've never stood for such disruption of order."

"Such honors," Apocrypha remarked slowly, staring at the easy interest Osborn gained from his housemates without any visible effort. "Bet the other prefects loved that."

Sighing, she returned curious eyes back to their new housemate, watching as the girl gave up conversations to instead occupy herself with jam-laden toast. A spark of recognition kindled within - she recalled those days facing this sea of strangers alone, before claiming her place with Ominis and Sebastian by her side. Apocrypha's lips twitched faintly in bemusement at the memory.

"Hopefully they'll find their way around, like I did," she murmured thoughtfully. "I came late too after all."

"But you, at least, didn't waltz in taking someone's rank," Natsai shrugged.

Beside them, Sebastian's attention remained fixed on Osborn across the hall. Their eyes met for a moment, blue irises holding his hazel ones as a playful smile tugged at the boy's lips. Something gleamed in that azure stare beyond simple introduction, a challenge or intrigue that lingered before Osborn glanced away from their group once more.

"Well whatever's brewing, best enjoy the feast before Black's speech!" Natsai's cheery voice cut through the curious undercurrents as she hurried back to her table.

As last students filed into seats, and Deputy Headmistress Weasley had risen to commence the Sorting, first years trailing behind like lost ducklings beneath the charmed ceiling twinkling with night skies.

Though the Sorting proceeded as ever, Apocrypha found her mind wandering in Ominis's continued absence rather than focusing on the ceremony. Her gaze continued drifting to the entrance occasionally, hoping for any sign of Ominis to no avail. It was unlike him to miss such events, let alone without word of his delay. Sebastian too seemed distracted, thoughts of their absent friend drowning out the Headmaster's address and news of Quidditch's return.

As the Welcoming Feast ended and they rose to exit with their House, Apocrypha turned to him.

"Where do you think he's gotten to?" she asked as they leaned against the wall to avoid the passing crowd of students.

"I'm sure he's alright, Kryph," Sebastian muttered in thought, masking his own questions with confident tone. The mass passed them quickly as the curfew neared. "Come, let's see if there are any news in the common room before we worry further."

The walk to the dungeon common room passed in quiet concern, questions swirling as their footsteps slowed at the base of the stairs. Across the room's bustling hearth, a familiar sight caught Apocrypha's eye - Ominis stood beside the windows peering out into the Black Lake's cold depths just as when they'd first spoken. Relief flooded her to see him well, a fleeting smile emerging on her lips before that usual guarded mask slipped back into place upon registering his companion - the new Slytherin girl from before, face lit by candle's warm glow as they conversed privately.

Something twisted unpleasantly in her stomach at the sight that sparked an unknown irritation within. They spoke easily as the girl smiled, freckled cheeks dimpled. Apocrypha stared longer than intended before reluctantly dropping her eyes to study her feet and kick the carpet slightly.

"Don't like her," she muttered under her breath, a rare edge creeping into usually quiet tones.

Sebastian snorted softly beside her.

"Now now, I'm the temperamental one, remember? What's this?" he teased, sensing the subtle change in her mood and the discomfort swirling in bottle-green eyes. He knew her fondness for routine and few close friends, and how this intruder disrupted the patterns shielding her guarded nature. But banter remained his favorite tonic for erasing the unease. "Possessive over our Ominis, are we?"

Apocrypha frowned, scowl deepening at his teasing.

"Don't know her. Don't trust her either," was all dry lips murmured in return.

"Come now, don't be sour. Let's join them," he sighed, keeping his tone light. It was rare for envy to cloud her features so. "Surely you're not going feral over our friend being friendly?"

Adi Goldstein - Back To You

Steeling his nerves, he led them both towards the pair by the window with a nod. Casual words brushed his tongue.

"Making friends so quickly that we're forgotten already, eh Ominis?" he quipped lightly.

Ominis turned, blind eyes softening - to Sebastian's surprise - as their hands met in gentle shake. Perhaps time had softened some wounds after all.

"You know I could never replace you two," he said simply, soft smile lingering.

Apocrypha remained mute beside them, scowling daggers at some poor vase as if it has personally offended her. Her usual affinity for Ominis seemed cooled by this newcomer's presence, but ever attuned even without sight, he turned milky eyes to her, a playful smirk tugging at paler lips.

"And how fares my favorite bundle of contradictions?" he asked knowingly as fingers found her head to turn her face towards him insistently. "Now where are your manners, greeting our guest properly?"

Apocrypha grunted at this subtle physical contact but didn't withdraw, features relaxing despite her foul mood.

Chuckling at the sound, Ominis returned his attention to the new ginger.

"This is Eliza Kochanowska. She's just transferred from Poland - her English takes some getting used to," he stated simply, gesturing to the girl. "She's been keeping me company as I waited for you both."

"And her purpose here?" came a quiet yet stiff question from Apocrypha's side.

"Family matter," Eliza answered in broken English hastily, blue eyes roaming a bit nervous as she smiled shyly. "Is opportunity."

"Be nice, Kryph. She's far from home," Sebastian muttered before clearing his throat and bowing his head politely. "A pleasure. I'm Sebastian, and this grim bundle is Apocrypha."

Eliza grinned happily, bowing her head in response hesitantly as these small gestures still felt foreign under her skin.

"It is pleasure meeting friends of Ominis."

Sebastian studied Eliza curiously, unable to help an easy smile as well.

"Hope Hogwarts treats you well so far," he probed carefully, shoving hands into his pockets as was his old habit.

"Tak, it is different here, very nerve to be knowing no friends. But Ominis is kind for talking with me," Eliza nodded firmly, English highly accented as Polish origins bleed through.

In the silent moment that followed, Ominis inclined his head thoughtfully.

"Now I seem to recall a certain promise made over summer," he began, a smirk still playing at the edges of his mouth. "Something about the gatherings from your travels?"

The tense line of Apocrypha's shoulders eased at his reminder - his words had the intended effect. She knew at once what he referred to - the box of finds they'd spent hours tracking down just for him, which was Ominis's request in a letter from July.

"Wait here," she muttered, slinking off toward the dormitory at speed and ascending the stairs two at a time in her haste.

"Always has a way of pulling her from a sour mood, that one," Sebastian chuckled, jerking his chin towards Ominis fondly. It felt almost delusional to sense no needling in his friend's voice as he'd expected.

Moments later their friend dashed back, hair slightly more tousled than before as she returned breathless, fumbling a small box from within her robes.

"Here," she said with a slight puff, pressing it into Ominis's waiting palms.

He reached slowly into the box, fingers exploring the gatherings nestled inside with careful precision as expressions of wonder and thoughtfulness played out across his aristocratic features. His hands found the smooth stones first - rounded and polished by the cold shores. Next, dried blooms relinquished brittle petals at his touch. Their scents awakened the images of open fields - grasslands and wildflowers swaying on the breeze, just like his friends described in their letters.

"How curious," Ominis mused softly, raising one bloom nearer still for its aroma. "Nothing like our lakes and forests."

Underlying tones betrayed some boyish wonder at sensations beyond his insular world, when the seaspray surfaced to his senses, etched along small spiral shells. He lifted one to his nose, breathing in the salty signatures of waves rolling endlessly against the sand and rock. He'd never stood beside the sea before, but here it was - speaking to him through textures and scents.

Apocrypha leaned close, watching clouded eyes examine each find with care.

"Seaweed is there too," she noted, observing fondly as wonders from their travels enraptured Ominis's exploration. His sheer zest for new sensations never failed to move her.

Just then his fingers brushed a leathery texture, ridged and bumpy unlike the other finds.

"Seaweed, is it?" he asked, bringing it close to examine with touch and smell alike.

"Took us ages to get that, let me tell you," Sebastian interjected with a chuckle. "The sea was dead restless all summer - waves crashing against the cliffs like a drunken troll."

Eliza's curious gaze shifted between them, noting the bond in this group that welcomed her into their circle - at least most.

"Wanted a sample, this one," Sebastian went on, finger pointed in mock accusation towards Apocrypha. "The cliffs were a death trap, but try telling her that."

"Details," she stated clinically in return, eyes narrowing. "I returned victorious."

"Only because I pulled your scrawny arse back from the edge before you tumbled to your doom," he teased with an eye roll before huffing contently at the memory. "But the view was worth a bruised tailbone or two, can't lie."

"You'll both end up crippled before you're twenty," Ominis tutted in amusement as his fingers closed the box to trace its ornate carvings fondly. "Thank you".

Apocrypha's mouth quirked briefly, satisfaction blooming quietly in emerald eyes.

"Have we surpassed your birthday wishes?" she asked, receiving a content sigh in reply.

Eliza observed their familiar banter with shy interest from nearby. Never having lasting bonds herself, she found such close friendships admirable. She peered closer to Ominis, taken by the carved shells on the box in his hands.

"So pretty shells," she said, tracing their designs. "Box also very beautiful. Is magic?"

"Just woodworking, I'd wager," Sebastian chuckled kindly at her thick accent.

Eliza beamed at this lightness of small connection she discovered, but stilled upon registering that same frown above viridian hues that seemed to want to stab her.

"I am sorry, is it not for looking?" she asked carefully, smile wavering.

One inky brow twitched irritably as Apocrypha clicked her tongue. Reaching into her pockets, she withdrew a spare seashell snatched from the trunk mere moments ago, spirals gleaming with remembrances of crashing waves and windswept shores. She circled Sebastian wordlessly and, with a stubborn jerk of her chin, offered the conch to Eliza, barely sparing her a glance before withdrawing once more.

"Here," she muttered, reluctance in every line as she avoided the intruder's owlish eyes. Her hostility was clear, but not unkind.

Eliza grasped the shell delicately, turning it this way and that to watch light dance upon its pearly surface. Her gift held to breast, she twirled in place, red curls flying.

"Will keep with me always! You all so kind."

The boys stifled amused snorts at this childlike exchange. While friendship came easily to some, light closeness seemed impossible to her.

The weeks melted together in a blur of schoolwork and spells as the term began anew. Eliza's presence grew ubiquitous, whether in the bustling corridors between classes or seated near by the fireplace in the common room each night. Even the library offered no solace, the girl's accented voice drifting over from neighboring aisles each time they gathered to study.

While Ominis and Sebastian seemed welcoming of the newcomer in their inclusive ways, for Apocrypha each encounter chipped away at the stability of her carefully maintained equilibrium - she clung to stability, to her tight-knit circle sheltered from unwanted change, when Eliza presented disruption to the controlled world she knew, always inserting herself to 'ooh' and 'ahh' over even the most mundane aspects of castle life. Still, she voiced nothing of her discomfort, keeping hostile words away from her friends' welcoming smiles - she couldn't stand being the source of complications.

On rarer occasion, a chance for quiet would arise amid studies and classes. Apocrypha relished these moments to simply observe without interruption, witnessing the changing dynamics between her peers in their advancing years. Jealous games over affection or prestige played out daily, petty squabbles marking territories real and imagined, competitions for fleeting affections as adolescence took hold in full.

She doubted her own appeal in such matters. Where others' beauty bloomed with each passing season, her appearance remained much the same - simple, washed out, underfed. While other girls' forms rounded out, hair flowing in silken waves, her frame remained stubbornly boyish despite the nearing womanhood. Average at best, beneath the uniform's robes her form remained slight to the point of worry, appetite ever fleeting and the damages of malnutrition visible to her only. Something about her seemed frozen, unable - or unwilling - to change.

Some part of her resented this stasis - to be perpetually stuck outside, being an outsider observing lives continue their natural flow while she stagnated. With no silken hair or smooth, glowing skin to draw attention her reflection stayed grey - only same pale wraith stared back whenever she stood before the mirror to take a closer look at her own sharp features and constantly tired, haunting orbs of viridian. The one distinct feature that set Apocrypha visibly apart from the rest were those eyes, so vibrant in hue as to seem otherworldly. Most students knew better than to draw attention to their strangeness, though quiet whispers and gossip swirled behind raised hands when her attention wandered.

Change came to her friends as well. Ominis had grown even taller over summer, Sebastian filled out muscularly, Adam's apples bobbed prominently - their jaws sharpened, voices lowering though still cracking sometimes at the show of maturation. Natsai's form filled out in its own way, hips and bust rounding to her flowing movements. A warmer glow lit her eyes too, laughing and smiling often with several Ravenclaw boys now walking her to classes. Apocrypha watched her classmates with a removed sort of curiosity and cautious eyes - would her close friends engage in this new dynamics too? Would they all drift from her in time, to find their places among new peers better reflecting their maturing frames and faces?

Lovett - Through The Trees

But some changes were more unsettling than the rest. She began noticing unfamiliar presences roaming Hogwarts halls among the uniform sea of students and staff - stern-faced men and women dressed not in school attire but officious Ministry robes as they roamed the staircases next to the Headmaster's tower with regularity. Glimpses through archways revealed clustered conclaves engaged in urgent talks, waving aged scrolls in their secretive discussions just beyond earshot.

Only once did Apocrypha manage to overhear some snippets drifting down from in the library rows, figures among which she recognized auror insignias amid billowing sleeves and embellished coats.

An atmosphere of tension followed in their wake, whispers springing up like weeds in fertile soil. Students shot furtive glances towards the newcomers, curiosity and unease plain on young faces. Some professors spoke in hushed tones too, eyes flicking down the corridors as if anticipating some unknown threat. The Ministry was circling like carrion birds, searching restlessly for something - or someone - within the school walls.

Apocrypha knew well enough what they sought - apprehension curled cold and tight in her gut at the memory of last year's interrogation at their hands. Questions to which she lied through her teeth, holding to the secrets despite their aggressive insistence. They knew, as all did, that she harbored something of import.

How long until someone came to drag her back to that cold room beneath the castle once more? She lived each day waiting for the dagger between her shoulder blades, yet the term continued as normal, and no call came.

"Still worrying the Ministry's eye tracks you?" Ominis's voice dragged her back to reality, pushing past anxious thoughts.

The autumn sun bathed the castle grounds as their group lay sprawled in the castle yard. Nearby, Sebastian and Eliza chatted lively, laughter drifting over on occasion among other students relaxing after classes.

Apocrypha's brows knitted, shoulders rising incrementally.

"They'd have snatched me by now if interested," she scoffed, plucking at the grass and shrugging noncommittally.

"You were the only one who got out of the Repository alive," Ominis replied in a hushed tone, blind eyes turned skyward. "The only witness to what truly happened. Makes sense they'd want another word."

"Doesn't matter," she scoffed. While her friends knew about the interrogations last year, she revealed nothing of authorities' aggressive methods. "I've told them nothing, and there's nothing to tell."

Ominis cleared his throat casually upon sensing a few Hufflepuffs passing by, lips parting again only when the potential witnesses to their conversation finally disappeared.

"Did you open it, Kryph?" he asked plainly, turning her way with worry written clearly on his expression.

She stiffened at his question, wincing at the feel of blood on her fingertips - dried blades of grass left a small cut between the tightening fingers when she squeezed too hard. Hooded eyes stared at the crimson on her skin, and she managed a silent gulp of discomfort.

Blood. Sting. Taste.

She recalled the feeling all too well, no matter how her conscious mind fought to suppress the horror. That sensation of wrongness permeating her tiny frame remained her most vivid memory.

She stood before the Repository that night, wand raised to seal it forever, to get rid of the weight of this responsibility, this burden she despised having.

She recalled a moment of doubt - hand trembling at the magic's store, heart cracked open just a sliver. Voices seeping through, some pleading, some coldly demanding. One rose above the cacophony, smooth and lulling but uncanny, ready to pick at that bleeding wound - as if it saw through every hidden crevice of her being and accepted her in a way none ever had.

A moment of hesitation, weakness - that was all it took.

Lungs filled with acrid red mist seeping from every crack, forcing its way down her rawening throat with each rattling gasp.

Magic coursed through the tissues like molten lead, tearing the molecular structure apart from within. Bones snapped and reknit repeatedly - inside and out she felt something writhe, tear, replace. It seemed to spread through her quicker than any virus, imbuing cells altered from the inside, every fiber lit ablaze as this thing integrated itself on a level beyond superficial.

Blood turned to oil beneath her skin, coursing through veins where something vile now slithered. Even now she felt it - something not-her lingering where it had forcibly instilled itself, twined roots around her core. A violation beyond any physical trauma.

Apocrypha glanced at Ominis as he waited. How could she tell him, tell any of them? None of them were there, in those ruins - her friends slept safely in their beds, unaware she was just below, pathetic and screaming, begging for hours. None came to help. Her nose pinched at the remembered fear of being left there alone, eyes wetting briefly before stern composure reasserted.

She swallowed harder, lips parting - but before she could find words to respond, a familiar voice cut sharply through the dusk air.

"I tell you, is possible!" Eliza insisted loudly to Sebastian, arguing cheerfully as ever.

"A Keeper? Don't think so," he chuckled, pointing then to his chest proudly. "You've got to be bulky to guard the hoops - take a bludger to the gut. I mean no offense, but you're, er..."

"Woman!" she huffed. "And small, maybe, but quick! I fitting in every hole."

As Eliza and Sebastian's lively spat continued down its predictable course, Ominis nearly succumbed to a snort before finding his wandering thoughts drawn back to their previous discussion. But focusing his senses once more, he noted an unconcealed absence - Apocrypha had slipped away from his side quietly as ever, evading questions whenever the truth became too much and withdrawing like a snail into her emotional shell.

Chapter Text

Max Richter – Dream 0

The Swamp Vivarium was always soothing in its isolating murk – an imitation of myriads of Muggle wetlands. Calls of bullfrogs rose amongst the incessant drone of mosquitoes as fireflies flickered to life along the banks. Thestrals ambled through the murk, picking slowly at their feed as the foals weaved between bony legs in their gangly curiosity.

Here she came to escape judgmental eyes to study, if only for an hour or two. It was no secret she struggled - while others mastered the material readily, she needed repetition, time spent absorbing lessons at her own, a much slower pace. No matter the patience of professors or evenings spent reviewing, information slipped from her grasp like water – concentrating fully for long proved impossible, focus scattered at the slightest distraction and stray sounds or fancies.

How she managed passing marks on her OWLs last year, she had no idea.

Evening after evening found her sitting here on the damp grass, reviewing passages by wandlight over and over. Her thoughts wandered as easily as the Thestrals, leaving new concepts murky and half-remembered.

At least she maintained her right to keep the Room of Requirement. Failing grades would surely see her expelled otherwise, unable to match her peers' pace.

A familiar nudge at her shoulder interrupted frazzled thoughts. A set of crooked horns peered down, awaiting affection – a Thestral mare. Like Apocrypha herself, the beast was solitary and cautious, but still desperately seeking connection.

She welcomed the distraction, setting her book aside to scratch the bony head and recalling finding the beast last year, abandoned high on the peak for her old age and blindness in one eye. While the herd remained grey and purple shades, this mare bore stubborn coal black coloring that isolated her, much like Apocrypha – yet another outcast by nature's laws.

While other rescues remained nameless, she'd named this one Andromeda – the only creature for whom physical touch came unnaturally easily, causing no discomfort.

She at least gained friends among humans – Andromeda had only solitude, yet every living being deserved another to stand at their side. This was what she believed in.

Thestrals held the most appeal for her – they didn't seek to attract like other beasts. They lacked flashy tricks and had no need for cute fluffiness or playful antics meant to draw people in, unlike Kneazles, Nifflers or Puffskeins and the like that some girls cooed over. Too often her fellow classmates matched those deceiving outward shells – smiling faces, laughter bubbling up to appear normal and friendly on the outside to hide the cores thirsting for more twisted things.

And it wasn't solely Slytherins who gave her pause. She found Hufflepuffs least trustworthy of all after her dealings with Poppy Sweeting – even that sickly-sweet name seemed deceitful.

Poppy's saccharine sweetness turned Apocrypha's stomach, from offers to introduce her to Highwing to assurances of her supposed "specialness". She refused to believe such shallow flattery, sensing it for the bait it was, the guise of trust – a ploy to worm her way in.

Lies, all of it – Apocrypha knew she possessed no such allure or worth.

Often her instinctive mistrust proved well-founded. In the beginning, Sebastian too resembled those cloyingly charming pets, revealing too much too fast, as if laying every card on the table in a show of empty trustfulness. His early praise felt exaggerated if not outright false, his eagerness to interact manipulative in intent.

If not for all they'd experienced together since, she never would have let him past her guard. When he boldly told lies to even Ominis's face, or snapped at her in frustration calling her ignorant, she finally had a chance to glimpse behind the mask to the more complex boy within. Only then she could accept his professed care beyond potential deception, against every instinct screaming out for self-protection.

For better or far worse, she knew exactly where she stood – and it was this plain realism that allowed trust to cautiously put down roots, however fragile, after all they had faced.

Thestrals had no need for masks, had nothing hidden. Their grim forms displayed everything, their nature worn plainly on bony coats for all to see, no guile involved – only simple, brutal honesty, no masking of intent with saccharine words or false affection. It was a simplicity she could understand and trust, where people proved far more complex riddles.

Apocrypha glanced up from her companion at the sound of shuffling nearby. Deek peered around the Vivarium door, large eyes gleaming in the dim light as he gazed expectantly.

"Deek is finished feeding the grassland beasts," he reported, tone warmly familiar as always. "Can Deek be helping with anything else?"

Her lips twitched in a ghost of a smile, ever grateful for the elf's devotion to their rescued charges.

"You've done plenty, Deek," she replied, shaking her head. "And thank you, for caring for Andromeda over summer too - her coat looks quite shiny now."

It was a testament to Deek's attentions that Andromeda appeared so hale, despite her aging form. Apocrypha trusted his work completely, knowing each creature benefited from his kindness the elf gave without expectation of reward. Such selfless care had long since won her deepest affection – he was simply invaluable.

On the opposite side of the castle, the crackling fire bathed the Slytherin common room in flickering shadows as Ominis and Sebastian sat near the hearth. Picking at flavored beans from their bag, Sebastian lounged back with a lazy stretch while talking, bringing a rare easy smile to Ominis's face.

"-and then Cetus practically dragged me into the water!" Sebastian chuckled. "Loved me more than even Kryph, I swear."

"And the locals there - what were they like? Friendly folk?" Ominis tilted his head, still curious.

Sebastian hesitated for a brief moment, tossing a bean into his mouth and chewing thoughtfully.

"Well... Kryph's mum was quite strict that we not wander far from the cliffs," he shrugged his shoulders casually. "Reminded us daily not to go down to the village, though Kryph never seemed tempted anyway."

"What reason did her mother give?" Ominis cocked his head questioningly, quirking a brow as he tongued flavored candies.

"That's just it – she reminded us daily not to go, but never said why," Sebastian shook his head slowly. "And asking more felt.. well, you know how Kryph gets when you ask uncomfortable questions. Best left be, I suppose."

Ominis nodded knowingly, yet still inclined his head thoughtfully.

"Odd that she discouraged exploring the neighbors at all," he noted.

Sebastian sighed, looking at the fire and toying with a bean rolled between his fingers.

"Odd, that. Like they weren't welcome nearby if you ask me," he stated casually, turning hazel eyes back to Ominis to change the subject. "You've been rather quiet on your own summer."

His friend shifted uncomfortably and cleared his throat, maintaining an even tone.

"Nothing of note occurred," he muttered. "Much the same as ever."

"Don't give me that," Sebastian pressed. "I know that look. Father again?"

Ominis exhaled softly – he knew better than to deny it with Sebastian. His father's increasing blood purism and demands were no secret between them.

"He maintains high ambitions, as you know," he sighed, nodding slowly to his own words.

The pressure his family applied was maddening – Sebastian saw that plainly under his friend's eyes, written in deepened shadows after restless summer nights. The insolence of befriending a "lesser", time spent from more noble pursuits – he could imagine Ominis's summer treatment all too easily. All to keep up appearances no doubt.

Famed for stringent blood purity views, the Gaunts scorned gentle souls like Ominis. His father found his tendency to companion half-bloods a disgrace, applying even more pressure and belittlement as his expectations mounted. Ominis knew each failed measure was relayed straight to their Headmaster, his father's fellow traditionalist. This acquaintance gave that man too much power over his son's life even at Hogwarts, ensuring he didn't escape scrutiny. More control each year, less letters from his family – only oppressive silences or scathing remarks of haunting disapproval.

But here, at least, Ominis could cling to pretense of normalcy with his friends – especially with Sebastian restored to his side after their friendship nearly fractured last year through betrayal he desperately tried to forgive. He wanted nothing more than to forget, to hide in this thin shelter and pretend the outside didn't exist and last year never happened, if only for moments. Small wonder he clung so tightly to what stability remained – his place in this secret bubble where blood meant little, and loyalty to friends meant all.

"You brooding boys look so serious over here," a voice interfered loudly. Imelda draped her arms over the couch back between the boys, smirking at Sebastian. "Hope I'm not interrupting anything important."

"You seem to have news, Imelda," Ominis said coolly.

She cocked a brow.

"Word is some hot-headed Gryffindor wants a go with our best at Crossed Wands. Think your ego's still up for a trouncing tomorrow, Sallow?" Her tone insinuated much without naming the challenger, but Sebastian knew exactly who it was – that one student he was eager to observe yet never managed to stumble across even during classes.

He raised a brow, leaning back out of Imelda's space.

"I'll be there, alone or with Kryph," he nodded curtly, rising to the bait with a a competitive grin. "Doesn't matter which - result will be the same."

"Oooh, getting cocky now are we?" Imelda teased. "Just make sure you wipe that smug grin off his pathetic lion face and clean up the floor with it. Merlin knows we could use some proper entertainment aside Quidditch!"

She cackled and swept off, mission accomplished. Sebastian stretched with theatrical nonchalance, but nerves buzzed in waiting for the clash.

"I'm sure Kryph will be thrilled you've signed her up without consulting first," Ominis cut in dryly, knowing that look meant trouble brewing. "Again."

The morning dragged endlessly for Sebastian in his anticipation. He found himself completely unable to focus – anticipation for the duel clung like a burr and classes melting away in an impatient haze. When the studies finally ended for the day, he hurried with his friends towards the club – only to be intercepted by an overenthusiastic Eliza who bounced alongside chatting animatedly.

"Oh, so exciting, yes?" she gushed in her accented English. "My first duel seeing! Tell me again how it works, Ominis?"

Ominis huffed softly, surprisingly feeling no urge to resist as the girl clung persistently to his arm. Eliza's tactile advances felt different from what he used to observe among their peers, pure in their intentions and childish curiosity. She seemed harmless.

"Generally duelists will take their marks in the arena -" he started calmly as they walked.

Meanwhile, Apocrypha rubbed at her red-rimmed eyes wearily from behind the pair.

"Remind me again how I got dragged into this?" she asked Sebastian.

"Only a friendly match if this Osborn shows – just a bit of healthy competition between Houses, nothing more," he reassured with a wink. "And we've no guarantee he will even show with a partner, so you're my backup just in case."

Apocrypha sighed, though a flicker of amusement tugged at her lips – being Sebastian's constant partner in dueling proved amusing sometimes, but perhaps it was because they were rarely defeated.

"Suppose someone has to ensure you don't get in over your head," she muttered, twisting the wrist of her wand hand in a warm up.

"Have I ever gone too far?" Sebastian grinned, buzzing with the thrill of the match to come.

She cocked a brow at him, though a glint of eager competition shone in viridian eyes as they entered the dueling chamber.

Lucan spotted them entry, waving excitedly to cross the room. Following his gesture, they found two others waiting opposite. Osborn standing as predicted, idly posing with hands in pockets while strands of onyx hair swept carelessly over chillingly sharp features – and Leander at his side, arms crossed.

Azure eyes landed upon their arrival, lips quirking.

"There she is," he muttered too low to hear, earning a questioning look from Leander that went unanswered. Unperturbed, he began rolling up his sleeves to bare pale forearms, turning to his housemate. "Anything else I should know?"

Leander jumped at the chance to be acknowledged, personal hatred for Sebastian fueling his loose tongue.

"Well Sallow fights aggressively and dirty, as you'd expect from his house. Straight offense with no subtlety," he muttered with an attempt at nonchalance, though jealousy tainted his tone before he nodded towards the other figure. "But Blackwood..."

Here Leander interrupted himself, smirk twisting mockingly as arrogance seeped into every word. Not that he actually felt any hostility towards her – it was still the lesser status he felt dragging heavily behind him every time he saw the usual pair compete.

"Strictly defensive, never retaliates directly – just evasive maneuvers and environmental tricks, from what I've seen. Not a threat like her partner at all."

Osborn nodded thoughtfully, soaking in each detail. Clearly Leander provided well what he was looking for, obliging all too readily – ever eager to prove himself, he was an easy target for manipulation. Desperate for notice, this one seemed ready to sell his own family for a kind word from those he envied.

"So he's the muscle and she's the cunning mind, eh? Convenient division." Osborn mused with a smirk, appraising them keenly. "As for aggression...let's see how mine compares, shall we?"

Eyes met across the divide – Sebastian's smoldering with competitive spirit, Apocrypha's untelling yet steady.

"Well then, let's make it more entertaining," Osborn called across boldly as he slid smoothly from Leander's side and strode towards the center, club members and housemates gathering round in anticipation. "My partner against yours, what do you say?"

Sebastian only smirked, eyes flashing wickedly at the bravado – this one clearly shared his thrill for spectacle. Stretching languidly, he caught Apocrypha's weary yet somewhat alerted gaze.

"Ready when you are," he muttered, spinning his wand idly.

Her shrug betrayed some sudden tension.

"Let's do it."

Across the chamber, Eliza hopped and squealed next to Ominis's quiet amusement, oblivious to simmering tensions. Lucan observed the ritual bows and partner pairings – Sebastian squaring off against smirking Osborn eagerly, Apocrypha facing a familiar face gone strange. She knew Leander from occasional interactions during classes, and saw no threat there before. He seemed another creature entirely next to Osborn now – no trace of a competitive classmate who'd still offered her to copy his Herbology homework last year. His typical harmless air vanished, replaced by an unfamiliar and unsettling gleam in his eyes – an underlying darkness eager to erupt.

Never had they met this way, and his altered demeanor troubled her, that much was clear.

Olivier Derivière - Unwilling Violence

The tension thickened as their Housemates watched, excitement a tangible force awaiting the spark to ignite. As both pairs began to slowly circle, Apocrypha sent Leander a querying look.

"What happened to you?" She muttered under her breath.

He ignored her murmur, eyes fixed ahead with disturbing intensity. A chill whispered down her spine at this shift.

Her partner noticed, but tried to force casual confidence as he assessed Osborn.

"Come now, either strike or give up already," Sebastian chuckled. "Some of us grow bored with foreplay."

Osborn's answering grin turned predatorily. Leander's information had served its purpose well here, intentionally luring both birds into the perfect snare – he knew Sebastian would never refuse a duel, and wouldn't show up without his pair either.

"Patience, patience. All in good time," he smirked lazily in return, eyes flickering meaningfully to Apocrypha for the barest second. "After all, it was your lovely partner I truly hoped would accept my invitation today."

Sebastian's smile vanished as the implication landed like a well-aimed hex between the shoulders, confirming his suspicions – this duel was no chance meeting. Before he could retort, Lucan called for the duel to begin.

At that call, all hell broke loose within an instant.

With a synchronized coordination that could only come from advanced plotting, Osborn and Leander struck in a terrifying tandem – not at their marked opponents, but each other's partners instead. Osborn's jet of light shot straight for Apocrypha's unguarded flank as a spell leapt from Leander's wand towards Sebastian, movements woven into a deceitful cross that caught both opponents wholly off guard.

Apocrypha just managed Protego in time, the charm flaring desperately to shield her. She cast another, stronger shield before launching into a twisting series of spells, each meant more to confuse and delay than harm. Osborn threw up a hasty shield against her spells, spinning on his heel to face her fully – wand slashed, a Knockback Jinx screamed forth as she barely twisted aside. This had clearly been his intention from the start – to isolate her and test her apart from Sebastian's guard. Her style was meant for coordinated fighting beside him, not solo defense against such scheming opponents.

Meanwhile Sebastian flung himself into a roll, the spell searing the stone where he'd stood an instant before. He hissed Incendio in retaliation while still in a crouch, explosive orange jets blasting forth only to meet Leander's own flame-freezing charm. Sebastian engaged his opponent fully, sending Stinging Jinxes and Disarming Charms in rapid succession – but his mind was torn, body straining towards Osborn and the need to help his partner dancing a precarious defense.

Across the way came Leander's answering attack, bearing down upon Sebastian's exposed back as he pivoted to aim for Osborn. A brutal slash sent his legs buckling, but he rolled fluidly aside, popping back up in a modified dueling stance just in time to deflect the follow-up. He stormed forward aggressively on the offensive, slashing and spinning his wand to match his fluid movement. Hex after curse emerged in a blistering onslaught that drove Leander back step by step under the sheer velocity of attacks.

Osborn sized up Apocrypha shrewdly as their duel carried them across the chamber. Though beads of sweat dotted her inky brow with exertion, she stood defiant as ever in the storm of spells. He pressed forward relentlessly, goading her along as she struggled to maintain both shields and offense.

"You hold back, girl," he called mockingly, closing the distance between flashing spells. "You've more to give, don't you? Or am I not worthy of testing you fully?"

She did not rise to the bait, knowing what hid between those pointed teeth and refusing to give her opponent the satisfaction of a reaction. But provocation turned to threat as he backed her steadily towards the chamber's edge with alternating offensive curses and blows, successfully cornering her with Incendio which proved to work the best against her.

He saw a new tenseness emerge – at last.

"What's the matter, afraid of a little fire?" he sneered, guessing her deepest fear through Leander's implications prior.

Osborn pressed the advantage, barking Confringo and lunging forward with all his coiled strength behind the curse. The fiery blast slammed into his opponent's shield with a violence that shocked even Lucan into momentary stillness, his distant protests going unheard over the cackling flames. Apocrypha's Protego exploded outwards in a flash of blue sparkling fragments, and she tried to dodge a second too late, letting the flames lick mercilessly at her forearm and draw a sharp hiss of pain through clenched teeth.

Eyes blown wide with shock and building wrath, she instinctively summoned a practice barrel with Accio, hurtling it at Osborn with every ounce of strength left.

He dodged with inches to spare, eyes widening briefly in surprise before narrowing with renewed determination, clearly delighting in riling such a response. Casting entreating shields, he finally felt a real struggle under the onslaught.

"Now that's more like it."

She did not relent, flinging anything within reach – benches, dummies, all flew at her opponent with a force her underweight frame should not have been capable of. The pain and fear had unlocked something she kept caged – temper mingling with the instinct of self-preservation overriding reason in a white-hot blur.

Sebastian parried desperately against Leander's flurry, gut twisting upon glimpsing the fire from the corner of his eye. But his opponent struck without mercy.

"Focus, Sallow, or she's not the only one getting burned today!" Leander spat, unleashing a barrage of hexes on Sebastian the likes of which he'd never used in practice before. "Stand still, coward!"

Caught momentarily flat-footed, Sebastian was forced into an urgent defensive dance, rolling and dodging to evade the onslaught. His experience kicked in and soon counterspells flew from his wand in mirror of Leander's ferocity.

Dancing a frantic two-step, he parried each spell one-handed.

"Not today, mate! Expulso!" The Banishing Charm threw Leander back, buying space to scan the unfolding chaos.

The crowd bayed for more, students laughing and hollering as spells ricocheted deafeningly. Eliza cheered excitedly from the sidelines, though for whom none could say for certain. Ominis cursed, pushing from the wall to scream at Lucan.

"Call it off, you fool!"

But the referee waved his arms helplessly.

"I'll be singed to a crisp!" Lucan bellowed back. "I've no clear shot with hexes flying!"

Osborn smirked between parries of his opponent's barricade barrage, slithering ever closer. When the distance allowed, he finally struck.

"Sabulo!" A blinding cloud of fine sand burst forth, making Apocrypha blink furiously against the sting and stumble with a grunt. In her moment of disorientation he acted, hooking her legs and bearing her backwards to crash on the stone floor with with a choked cough of pain.

A wandpoint pressed against her throat as Osborn bent over.

"Give up yet?" he sneered, panting with adrenaline and the thrill of victory.

Fury blazed in watering jade eyes, jaw working to force out bitter words.

"Piss off!" She spat as her hands shot up, tearing Osborn's wand aside to buck him off with all stamina and venomous defiance that remained.

Across the chamber, Leander launched a particularly flamboyant series of spells in his bid to overwhelm Sebastian, too eager to mirror Osborn's triumph. But this reckless flourish left him vulnerable – and Sebastian acted swiftly. With pinpoint accuracy, his Disarming Charm struck home, wand flying free as a Leg-Locker Jinx dropped his opponent to the floor with an indignant yell.

At the distraction, Lucan spied an opportunity and dashed between the entangled pairs.

"Now back off!" he shouted over the din, hoping to diffuse tension before further escalation. "By my judgement, the duel is called – a draw for both sides."

Osborn spat petulantly upon Lucan's declaration, sensing the game lost for now. Apocrypha stumbled angrily to her feet, rubbing ferociously at eyes streaming stubborn, painful tears.

"Bloody shite-eating cheater," a string of muttered curses fell from her lips as sight was returning irritably slowly.

Sebastian ignored his own dismissed opponent, attention honing in on his partner in favor of examining her wound.

"You're hurt, let me see -"

"Don't touch me!" she snarled protectively, batting his hands away on instinct.

At his silence she exhaled shakily, acknowledgment of her friend returning fast enough even through adrenaline.

"Sorry," she muttered and jerked her head away stubbornly, burnt forearm throbbing viciously in tune with her pounding heart. "Leave it be, I'm fine."

Osborn stepped back, satisfied with the chaos he brought to this so-called dueling club. Eyeing Leander who got back on his feet, Osborn clapped his shoulder with a satisfied grin.

"Well fought, mate. I'd say our mission here is complete, no?" He gestured lazily towards the exit.

Leander remained silent but obediently nodded as they turned to depart. He lingered for a moment, eyes finding Sebastian and Apocrypha still exchanging heated words by the wall. A fleeting look passed over his face – not triumph, but something akin to remorse.

"I'm sorry," he muttered inaudibly, as much to himself as them.

With that last glance back, he schooled his features and strode after his friend.

"Good show putting that one in his place," Osborn sneered back at Sebastian. "Blackwood proved more formidable than I expected too – you've my thanks for the entertainment."

Leander followed in silence, eyes downcast. Hesitance flickered briefly – he'd lost to Sebastian yet again, but that meant little in light of what he'd helped set in motion here. Try as he might to please Osborn, some prices simply weren't worth the privilege. Or were they?

Sensing this subtle shift, Osborn patted his back approvingly.

"Don't dwell on your loss – this was art!"

Sebastian cursed the retreating figures fiercely, frustration mounting at the sight of Apocrypha's paling face.

"Blasted cowards!" He rounded on Lucan, gesturing at the burnt sleeve. "You should have intervened sooner – look at the state of her arm!"

In between Lucan's answering excuses, he saw her nerves beginning to reassert themselves – jaws clenched tightly and eyes fixed on the floor as anxiety flooded back in. Her leg began to shake, a sure sign she will ask for space pretty soon.

Jade eyes found Ominis and Eliza approaching, concern etched on their faces.

"Let me walk you to the hospital wing-" Sebastian started on an exhale, though he knew she would refuse any help, retreating inside her silent cocoon as always during such episodes.

"No," she muttered hastily, leg already propelling her away as the urge to withdraw grew ever harder to resist. "I must go – need air, you understand."

Without waiting for reply she hurried off, rushing from the chamber alone back towards the castle and squeezing her burnt forearm almost compulsively.

Along the path, hyperventilation overtook her in waves, rapid breaths betraying the rising panic attack at the half-remembered scenes flashing beneath her lids. She squinted her eyes, flashes intruding forcefully – mother's widened eyes, a hushed "wake up", muffled sounds of falling furniture from beyond the wall, the crackling shriek of splintering pillars engulfed in flames. She quickened her pace, gritting her teeth against the rush of blurred memories.

By the time the girl's dorm came into view, panic threatened to overwhelm all reason. With an unsteady hand, Apocrypha pushed the door and fled inside, slamming it hard behind her.

The crackling fire did little to lift Leander's brooding spirits that evening in the Gryffindor common room bustling with students and raucous laughter. Osborn lounged upon a plush sofa, regaling eager housemates with his version of events.

"You should've seen their faces!" he laughed to an enthralled crowd as his boisterous tones washed over them all. "But putting that swotty Blackwood in her place – priceless!"

Leander stared into the flames, listening silently from the couch, chin cradled pensively in his palm as he replayed his own fumble against Sebastian.

"Some victory," he muttered, half to himself.

Just then Garreth called from the portrait hole.

"Sinclair, you're wanted in the Headmaster's office straight away."

Good-natured boos and jeers rose from their housemates.

"Ooh, getting called to the carpet, are we?" They teased. "Guess starting fights wasn't on your prefect to-do list!"

Rising casually, Osborn stretched and rolled his eyes lazily.

"No matter – after the show we put on, a bit of trouble's a small cost," he grinned easily. "Don't wait up for me, lads."

With a wink and final smirk, he sauntered from the room whistling.

Brooke Blair – Missing

The stone corridors echoed with Osborn's footsteps as dusk steadily deepened to night, most students ensconced safely within their Houses by this hour. He strolled casually as if without a care, but remained vigilant – he knew better than to let his guard down within these walls.

Approaching the gargoyle, Osborn mounted its spiraling steps and got to the stone arch above. His trademark smirk faltered at the sight inside: a cloaked female figure he knew too well sat at the Headmaster's desk and drew slowly on a smoking pipe. This gave him a pause.

"You wished to see me?" he ventured cautiously.

At his words, the woman peered up – azure eyes mirrored his own as she fixed him with a cold stare through the smoke.

"An exciting day you've had, I hear," came the cool reply, a glint of annoyance palpable on her shadowed expression. "Care to enlighten me?"

Osborn cleared his throat nervously, stalling to sketch a careful half-truth.

"Mere schoolyard scuffles, nothing more-"

With a rustle of robes the figure rose – Auror garb shimmering in chill moonlight as she rounded the desk, advancing with intimidating silence.

The woman closed the distance, gloved hands clasped tight behind her back and chin held high in implacable judgement.

"A prefectship to the noblest of Houses grants privileges, Osborn – eyes and ears where we require them," her voice cracked like a whip. "And what have you provided?"

He stumbled over halting excuses, stomach sinking.

"I meant only a bit of rivalry, things got out of hand -"

A sharp crack cut him short as she backhanded him, sting exploding across the cheek and head snapping to the side from the force. Osborn staggered but stood rooted, anger and fear locking his jaw against any sound.

"Enough excuses," the woman's voice hissed cold as she gripped his chin roughly, forcing eye contact against his will.

Osborn suppressed a flinch at the disdain in her stare, biting back the urge to wipe blood from his newly split lip – he had long learned that showing fear only invited her cruelty.

"The Ministry wants the girl intact, you fool," she spat, the grip tightening threateningly. "One slip and you ruin months of planning. Is that what you want?"

Her nails dug into his skin, but he managed a muted shake of his head.

With that she shoved Osborn's face away in disgust, turning back to the Headmaster's desk with a swish of robes. Taking up her pipe, she fixed him with a steely glare through rising smoke.

"Black turns blind eyes to our work, but not I," she stated sharply. "Fix whatever mess you've made."

A few puffs issued in stern silence before she spoke again.

"And put that sister of yours to use – Eliza was placed in Slytherin for a purpose, remind her of that." She ordered, exhaling a cloud of smoke into the dark. "Do I make myself clear?"

Osborn bowed his head brusquely, breath shaking.

"Perfectly, mother."

Chapter Text

Olafur Arnalds - I Could Hear Water

The dungeon classroom bubbled with simmering energies, students bent over steaming cauldrons and intently focused on brewing their allotted potions within the hour, professor Sharp prowling between the tables slowly. Sebastian diligently tended to his own simmering cauldron, flicking quick glances over at his partner from where she dozed, forehead pressed to clenched fists.

With Sharp's inspection looming near, he nudged her shoulder gently.

"Kryph, stir or it'll curdle," he urged in a whisper.

She jerked upright with a tired groan, reflexively withdrawing from the contact and obediently grasping her ladle with a healed arm. Blinking blearily, she peered into the her cauldron with dismay - at this rate it would fail for certain.

As Sharp drifted past, Sebastian leaned in closer.

"Couldn't sleep again?" he muttered.

Ever since that duel a week past, deeper shadows had taken up residence beneath her eyes, dark circles now starker against waning skin. While he often assisted where possible, lately her weariness seemed deeper than normal. She struggled more to keep pace in class, often finding slight rest where she could. Sebastian knew well of her troubles sleeping at night – back home she refused slumber completely after dark, allowing herself to catch up on her rest only after dawn to sleep until noon.

Apocrypha merely shrugged, tossing in powdered herbs with slightly shaking hands.

"Insomnia, 'tis all."

Sebastian held his tongue, knowing that pressing her further would only meet rebuff, as ever. His nose wrinkled as he glanced to Ominis's table – his friend remained clueless before his own cauldron, guided by Eliza's assistance – or an attempt thereof, as Sharp noted her chopping skills left something to be desired.

"Miss Kochanowska, please slice, don't massacre," he chided as she butchered the ingredients for Ominis's cauldron.

Despite it all, Sebastian couldn't help but think how they still fared well together somehow. A small smile played at Ominis's lips now – a sight more frequent of late. It was the most at ease he'd seen his friend since Anne got cursed, prior to when their little trio was nothing but carefree children. How he wished to recapture those easier times, though not without the new presence suddenly filling their number during fifth year – a missing piece she involuntarily became to replace what was lost.

A stifled yawn escaped Sebastian's own mouth as weariness crept upon him too. Even he seemed drained these days, thoughts of Anne keeping sleep at bay more and more, making him wonder when – or if – she might return. Not a word had come from her since summer, yet still he waited every single day, ever loyal as any dog for the last of his family.

Where was she now? Were those distant relatives caring for her properly, or were they more like Solomon had been – distant and indifferent to her deteriorating health and suffering? He knew so little of the family she now dwelt with – of course, because it was Anne who was locked away within those dreary walls of their Feldcroft home, entirely at the whims of their guardian's neglect.

How many times had he considered abandoning all for just one chance to find her? How many nights had he lain awake, wondering if tracking her down was the right choice or merely a selfish one? Too many to recall.

If he hounded after Anne like a cur on a hopeless scent, would she lash out and shove him further away in resentment? Fear alone stayed his feet – fear that she now hated him for their guardian's death regardless of Solomon's callous treatment, fear that pushing himself upon her search would only drive her further into withdrawal, as he'd seen what proximity could do to one, thanks to befriending Apocrypha. Being around her this past year had shown him well enough how utterly a person might fold in when constantly under pressure.

While once he acted without care for consequence, now Sebastian hesitated to act at all, terrified any action may only make matters worse – the thought itself twisted his gut worse than any injury.

He remained paralyzed, hesitant – and feeling completely pathetic for his newfound cowardice.

All he had aside from this timidity was yet another plan to cure Anne, retrieve her from that place. No matter how tiring this constant planning was, more than anything he wished to forget, to pretend otherwise – that none of the tragedy happened, that his sister was still tucked away safely in Feldcroft, ignorant of all that he'd done. Imagining that Solomon still lived and his friends were and will remain unstained by his own manipulation – it was but a fleeting respite rarely granted. Facing the cold truth grew more difficult with each passing day he spent missing his twin's presence.

Pretense of cheer came with struggle now, smiles squeezed from a well of self-doubt and regret rather than any true mirth. But he clung to the act, believing its familiar charade might spare his friends some small respite from the memories of his shame and mistakes – or so he hoped.

This time, he kept his contemplations to himself, deciding to drop only the barest hints of a nascent plan taking shape. It was all that kept him going – the faint hope fueling his determination to see Anne well and whole once more, with help from those he held closest. Yet again.

A soft hiss nearby pulled Sebastian from his brooding. Beside him, Apocrypha was hurriedly stirring his neglected cauldron to prevent its contents from overflowing before Sharp could notice their wayward brew.

"Sebastian, stir – it's about to boil over," she warned under her breath as he jerked off from his thoughts and leaned in to frantically swirl his forgotten ladle through the thickening potion.

Once stabilized, Sebastian leaned in close.

"Thanks," he muttered low, glancing meaningfully at her. "Meet me after class. Undercroft?"

Apocrypha glanced up from under heavy lids, shadows painting faint half-moons beneath saturated eyes. She eyed him questioningly but nodded, green irises flickering past him and narrowing somewhere behind his shoulder.

"Look who decided to show his cocksure face on classes," she whispered, jerking her chin forward. "Wonder if the Headmaster used more than words after our duel."

Turning, Sebastian spotted Osborn across the room, finishing up his own potion calmly as if he hadn't missed weeks of lessons, jaw set in its usual stiff line. He felt Apocrypha tense beside him, hands gripping her ladle white-knuckled.

But before he could bite as well, Sharp's voice cut through the hazy fumes.

"Time's up, potions to the front! Miss Blackwood, a word after if you please."

Apocrypha grimaced. Just what she needed to top off this morning.

As the final potion bottles clinked onto Sharp's desk, she waited for the last students to file out, eyes downcast until the heavy door swung shut. When at last they were alone, she stepped slowly to the broad desk.

"Professor," she acknowledged lowly.

He regarded her with a calculating expression, one brow raised. Strict though he was as a Head of House, he showed her mercy that few others received since last year's ordeal. It was he, alongside other brave professors, who battled within the depths of Hogwarts to reach her in time mere months ago. No doubt he knew well the toll such darkness could take, just as the Ministry's nosy presence now took its own weight upon the school with their subsequent attempts to worm answers from students and staff. Still, only one person remained alive to know the truth.

"Your marks have suffered more since last year's difficulties, Miss Blackwood. Distracted in class, falling behind on assignments. This will not do," Sharp began sternly, though not without a hint of sympathy. "Additional remedial work should pull your grades back up to standard. I expect your best efforts this time, are we clear?"

She nodded mutely as Sharp pulled out a length of parchment listing additional assignments.

"Complete these by month's end and we'll correct those marks – you're free to work at your own pace. Can you manage them?" He probed, lowering the papers to his desk.

"Yes, sir," she muttered, accepting the list with another nod, unwilling to meet his eyes for long.

Aesop leaned forward, studying her drawn face.

"How fare you otherwise?" He asked after a long pause.

She stilled briefly, voice remaining carefully even.

"Well enough, sir."

Sharp cleared his throat, hesitant.

"You've endured immense hardship since fifth year. How do you find yourself faring in light of..." he trailed off delicately, seeing her immediately withdraw at the unspoken name. "Fig was a loss, to teacher and student alike."

At the name, familiar agony stabbed fresh once more. The memory alone threatened to crack her carefully rebuilt walls and drown her in sorrow. Eleazar had been the closest thing to a parent in this foreign place – his loss was a wound that would never fully mend, no matter how much magic existed in this world.

"I manage," she stated firmly, willing composure into her wavering tone.

Sharp's eyes said he saw straight through the lie.

"You've shown bravery few witness in a lifetime," his tone softened the barest amount. "My door is always open, as is Professor Weasley's. Don't hesitate to seek support, do you understand?"

Apocrypha dipped her head in thanks before escaping into the hall, barely holding herself together until the anonymity of the corridor's stones could muffle whatever sound escaped.

The corridors echoed her hurried footfalls as she strode towards the Undercroft, the list crumbled in her fist she hid in the pocket of her uniform trousers. Sharp's parting words echoed in her mind like an unwelcome mantra. Bravery. What bravery was there in clinging to another's hopes and forced responsibilities? No heroics in that. She didn't protect anyone – professors did. She'd only made a mess of it all in the end, feeling cursed with this... whatever it was coursing uncontrollably through her blood for no gain now.

It was easier convincing herself such disdain than accepting other viewpoints – safer burying beneath self-loathing than exposing vulnerability.

So lost in harsh self-condemnation, she almost missed the familiar door in her distracted haste. Checking twice for observers, as if the place itself wasn't secluded enough, she slipped within.

Inside, raised voices echoed – in dispute by the sound. Drawing nearer, she caught Ominis's warning tone.

"Sebastian, enough – you can't seriously suggest returning there after last year," he spat, annoyance coloring usually controlled tones. "You know she's been through enough."

Sebastian's reply was more heated, ringing out sharply against the high-slung ceiling.

"What if it helps her remember something, fill gaps? You saw how much worse she was after – like part of her was still missing down there. What if we could find some clue?" He argued, frustration mounting. "We need to get involved, she has only gotten-"

"And forcing her back there shall remedy that how exactly?" Ominis interrupted with his hissed reply.

The rattling noise of the opening gate distracted them both as their friend stepped inside. Ominis straightened at the sound, face creased in worry while Sebastian spun to face her, features alight with a caged, anxious energy. After a weighted moment, he broke the tense silence.

"Kryph, we were just..."

Ominis turned his head towards the entrance, blind eyes concerned.

"Kryph, tell him exploring beneath the castle again is a bad idea. You've nothing left to find down there."

She swallowed, hesitant, eyes lingering on Sebastian's restless face. Returning below risked facing the place where professors found her beneath the ruins barely alive last year – memories she'd rather keep buried.

Sebastian sensed her uncertainty.

"You said there was a chamber with the portraits," he pressed, glancing at Ominis as if gauging his reaction. "The Keepers didn't tell you much last time. Now that the bollocks with Ranrok is done, they have to give you the answers – perhaps even help you to fix your memories. You finished all their bloody trials too – they know you proved yourself worthy."

She sensed Sebastian pushing for other reasons – his intent beyond clear, but she said nothing of it. His advance wasn't shallow, though Apocrypha doubted the chamber could help her retrieve any memories – and in truth she hoped it wouldn't.

She bit the inside of her cheek, considering. Going against Ominis's disapproval again felt bitter, but Sebastian's argument held truth. The Keepers could offer... something. If anyone knew what now ran in her blood, what she'd become, it was them – perhaps it was worth the risk.

"Sebastian..." she began hesitantly, meeting Ominis's sightless gaze as if for reassurance.

"They will want to help you, I'm sure of it," Sebastian added impatiently.

Ominis sighed resignedly, pinching the bridge of his nose – he was growing weary of this back-and-forth. Last time he wasn't there for them – that mistake still haunted him.

"Much as I dislike the risk, perhaps Sebastian raises a fair point for once. Worth a try, given our lack of alternatives," he muttered, crossing his arms over the chest and motioning his wrist to Sebastian annoyingly. Better to face such events with friends – safety in numbers too, with Ministry eyes still scouring the school. "But we must go after curfew – better Aurors don't see us sneaking about."

Sebastian nodded agreement, subtle surprise and clear relief flickering in hazel eyes as the plan took shape. A chance, however faint.

"Just a look, no risks – any sign of trouble, we get out quick," he spoke more gently now. "You deserve to understand what's happened, hm?"

She glanced between her friends, conflicted. But Ominis's small nod of reassurance decided for her.

"After curfew then."

The stone walls of the girls dormitory echoed with an empty quiet as most had already departed for the evening meal in the Great Hall above. Apocrypha stared unseeing at her Transfiguration notes, lost in thought on her four-poster with appetite lacking as usual. The creak of hinges broke her trance – Imelda entered, stretching stiff arms after a long day in the Quidditch pitch. Her expression quickly wrinkled into a puzzled frown, however, as her eyes fell upon the bed to Apocrypha's left – their roommate Maria's quarters, conspicuously bare. No trunk, no canopy of scarves typically draped above.

"Where'd she bugger off to?" she questioned, turning to address her roommate directly and waving a hand at the lacking possessions. "You wouldn't know anything about it, would you Blackwood? Not another victim of your weird magic, I hope?"

Imelda's jesting smile took any edge off the comment, but Apocrypha sensed the question held grains of truth. Gossip spread fast as wildfire throughout the halls, and the Ministry's presence had done little to quiet dark rumors.

Before she could shrug in response, the door flew open once more with a crash, admitting an excitable bundle of foreign energy as Eliza stumbled through dragging an overstuffed trunk behind.

"Wonderful news!" She exclaimed in heavily accented tones, bright eyes shining behind neat glasses. "They move me to dis room with you all! How lucky, yes?"

Her arms strained under the heft of her luggage, toiling it towards the vacant bed. Imelda's brow rose at the implication as the exuberant girl dropped her trunk promptly upon the bare mattress that had until recently belonged to Maria.

Spinning to face the girls, Eliza broke into a toothy smile.

"This one mine now?" She asked while beaming wildly, seeming not to notice her roommates' identically raised eyebrows. "Is good, no? We be best of friends and gossip all secrets and chat all night, just you see!"

As Eliza set to unpacking, they listened the girl prattling on, informing them of the administrative changes with her usual flurry of half-formed English. Imelda snorted back laughter at Apocrypha's suffering expression before leaning over to shoot a teasing smile.

"My sympathies, mate."

Her answering scowl said plenty. It seemed the dorm's quiet was doomed – and Apocrypha's patience along with it.

Eventually the last of their dormmates, Nerida, returned from supper – only adding merriment to Eliza's ceaseless chatter much to Apocrypha's increasing irritation. True to form, Eliza bounced from bed to bed even in her nightgown, first pestering Imelda with questions about Quidditch tryouts and then commenting on each roommate's belongings. Their dormmate's face tensed visibly with the strain of maintaining calm indifference in the face of such persistent annoyance.

"Imelda, when can I try Quidditch?" Eliza asked eagerly, moving on to inspect Apocrypha's side of the room without any pause for reply and waving the gifted conch enthusiastically. "And this shell – you gived me months before! Is very pretty! I have it in my pillow for good dreams!"

"Fascinating," Apocrypha muttered drily, foot shaking beneath the blanket. She lay rigid in her four-poster, jaw clenched so tight her temples throbbed – little did she know that impulsive gift would come back to haunt her so.

Imelda sank onto her four-poster, shoulders shaking in silent laughter at their roommate's barely contained grimace as Eliza remained as oblivious as ever in her rambling monologue.

"She's going to blow," Nerida snickered behind her hand. "Wonder how long until she hexes her."

"I have funny story!" Eliza declared suddenly, launching into a long-winded tale involving her orphanage in Poland and a stray goat. "Chickens, they were everywhere! We thinked never to catch them-"

Meanwhile, both Imelda and Nerida were near tears, pointing quietly at Apocrypha's reddening face. By now her jaw looked fit to crack. The sight finally proved too much – Imelda lost it first, dissolving into wheezing giggles.

"Merlin, look at her face!"

At that, Apocrypha could bear it no more.

"I'm sleeping," she bit out sharply, yanking the hangings shut with far more force than strictly needed and scrambling beneath her blanket.

That did it – Nerida and Imelda collapsed into helpless cackles. Well accustomed to her night wanderings, they knew that sleep was furthest from her mind.

"Good job Eliza! She never sleeps," Imelda crowed between guffaws.

"She's cracked our insomniac!" Nerida gasped for breath, clutching her stomach.

Scowling fiercely into her pillow, Apocrypha resisted the urge to punch something. Or someone.

The hours dragged endlessly as she tossed and turned, laying awake beneath heavy hangings. At last, roughly two hours past midnight, the dormitory fell blessedly silent save for Eliza's occasional snores, lost in Quidditch dreams no doubt.

Lifting her head slowly, she peered through the dimness, listening intently for any change to confirm each girl's slow, steady breathing. Everyone seemed finally at rest.

Carefully slipping from her four-poster, as not to alert the new occupant next to her bed, she shed her nightclothes, donning layers of tactical black gear with swift, noiseless fingers. Each buckle and button fastened in near silence over her nearly plain chest, she straightened the high collar and hooked her boots from beneath the bed to make it to the door, cursing silently as familiar creaks whined its protest.

Relief flooded her as she slipped swiftly into the narrow corridor barefoot, now struggling to slip into her boots. Too focused on being discreet, she failed to notice the telltale pause in snores behind the door until another creak sounded in the thick quiet – someone listened, just as light-footed. She peered back, a glint of muted blue confirming her suspicion – one eye blinked back at her through the minuscule gap left by Eliza's own attempt at stealth.

"Where you go?" A heavily accented whisper demanded on the other side.

Apocrypha sighed through her nose, stare turning impatient once more at the intruder.

"That's none of your damned business. Go back to sleep." She muttered while turning away rapidly to descend down the stairs.

Reaching the common room, she found Ominis and Sebastian slumped against one another, barely clinging to wakefulness on the couch. Hearing her approach, Ominis stirred awake first with his usual perceptive senses, nudging his friend sharply as footsteps scuffed the flagstones.

"About bloody time," Sebastian grumbled sleepily, rubbing the blear from hazel eyes. "Was starting to think you'd change your mind."

Apocrypha threw her hands up in annoyance, whispering furiously.

"Kochanowska's in my bloody dorm!"

Ominis made a noise of acknowledgment. "She told me earlier she'd been transferred."

"You knew?" She stared at him incredulously. "Some warning would've been nice!"

He merely shrugged, blind eyes rolling. "I thought she could do with developing friends."

"More like she's developed quite the infatuation with you, haven't noticed?" She scoffed, gesturing wildly. As if she'd ever warm to the shrieking harpy ruining her routine. "Next you'll suggest showing her the Undercroft."

"Now you're just being absurd," Ominis replied coolly. "She's harmless enough. I was hoping you two might get along, in time."

"Can we skip the bickering and get on with this already?" Sebastian cut in with a sigh, rising to stretch cramped limbs. "You lot sort out your dorm troubles later."

Tobias Lilja – Cold Feet

Through the shadowy halls, they crept beneath Disillusionment, forms blending seamlessly into the castle's shadows and footsteps muffled as they descended towards the dungeons below. The journey into the castle's underbelly proved a tense affair, senses strained to detect any sign of the Aurors' patrols as the corridors twisted labyrinthine.

When the familiar sleeping dragon statue loomed ahead, prompting a sharp turn down a narrower passage, Apocrypha and Sebastian pressed flat against the wall as Ominis paused, head cocked in listening. Voices ahead halted their advance – a pair of Ministry officials patrolled the next open chamber ahead. Ominis's boot heel struck a stray pebble with an audible crack just then, making two sets of eyes snap towards their concealed position and narrow with suspicion. Each shared breath felt thunderous in the tense silence, muscles coiled to spring at the slightest provocation.

Apocrypha's fingers caught which turned out to be Ominis's sleeve, tugging him urgently back as Sebastian forged ahead. With a silent Summoning Charm, he sent a distant barrel clattering to the floor – the perfect distraction to slip past the distracted guards. The crash drew the Aurors' focus, and they darted to the now-unguarded stairs.

The old door at the top stood suspiciously unlatched. With a final cautious glance, Sebastian shouldered it open with barest resistance as the hinges creaked faintly, and ushered his friends quickly through just as the voices returned. Descending, they reached the lower level – and found another, supposedly locked staircase to the chamber yawning open and spiraling down, as if welcoming their arrival.

Sharing a tense look, they began to pick their way downwards, each motion taken with the utmost care to avoid any audible misstep.

Descending the expansive stairwell, they got rid of the charm and at last reached the ornate door below. Sebastian rushed ahead impatiently to grip and tug the handle, brow furrowing as it refused to yield.

"Damn it," he muttered in frustration, redoubling his efforts to rattle the door.

"Quiet, you idiot," Ominis hissed. "You'll bring the whole bloody castle down on us."

With a final aggravated jerk, Sebastian stepped back, glowering. "Kryph, your turn. Do your...magic thing."

She hesitated, mouth twisting with clear discomfort as her eyes lingered on the door apprehensively. This was where the true risks began – facing the very chamber she'd hoped to never revisit.

"We have to," Sebastian pressed, seeing her uncertainty. "We need their help, remember? You have to try."

After a moment of further reluctance, she steeled herself and stepped forward, fingers trailing the ornate emblem emblazoned on the door's surface. It pulsed with an otherworldly glow at her touch, and with a groan of stone, the door swung inward in response. With a steadying breath, she led the way inside.

Sebastian's eyes widened as he took in the cavernous chamber and four silent portraits lining the wall.

"Merlin, look at this place..." He whistled lowly as his eyes roamed the high ceilings and transparent floor. "Even bigger than I imagined."

Ominis stepped up beside Apocrypha, brow creased in concern. "Are you alright?"

She shook her head mutely, gaze darting between the frames as they approached the unoccupied portraits. No one showed up.

Sebastian scowled, striding to one side of the room. "Well where are the Keepers, then? Shouldn't they be here?"

Apocrypha felt the weight of their absence like an accusation. This had been the right thing to do after what she'd done – hadn't it? Chewing the inside of her lip nervously, she followed Sebastian silently, Ominis trailing at her back as they explored the chamber, looking for any sign of its elusive denizens.

Searching every corner turned up nothing – the chamber remained eerily silent and vacant.

As the minutes ticked by, Sebastian's frustration finally boiled over, his hushed tones giving way to an impatient outburst.

"This is useless!" he exploded. "Damn it, Kryph, you have to do something! Use that ancient magic of yours, summon them or – or anything!"

Apocrypha recoiled, eyes narrowing. "You know I don't want to use that. It's dangerous, I can't control it-"

"The hell you can't!" Sebastian pressed on. "This is your chance, don't you see it? We need their help – I need their he-" He trailed off, biting back the rest.

Scoffing, he rushed to change the subject hastily.

"Then what was the point of coming down here?" he asked, gesturing around. "I thought you wanted answers!"

"I never asked you to drag me down here, Sebastian!" she shot back. "This was your idea, not mine."

Ominis stepped between them, hands raised pacifyingly. "Calm down, both of you."

"Shut it, Ominis!" Sebastian snapped. "You're always taking her side!"

At that Ominis's jaw tightened.

"I'm not taking anyone's side!" he hissed, voice rising in the cavernous space. "I'm trying to keep us all alive and out of Azkaba-"

The ringing crack of stone interrupted him as a faint glow flared to life across the chamber. All eyes snapped to the space beneath the balcony to a new staircase unfolding with a creak of ancient walls as the ornate architecture rumbled and groaned while carving its way downwards. Colorful lights flickered and danced, weaving into ghostly figures that slowly drifted down to eye level.

Ominis raised his wand, tilting his head as if listening to the space around them.

"I sense...another space, below the stairs," he hesitated, turning blind eyes to the others. "Should we...?"

Sebastian was already moving, eagerness evident in his stride. "Let's go."

Apocrypha fell in behind them as they descended, the space growing smaller and more cramped with each step. Compared to the grand scale above, this chamber felt stifling, the low ceiling pressing down the narrow space. Four familiar chests lined the walls, alongside various curious trinkets and shelves bearing ancient tomes.

"Well, it's not much, but it's...cozy," Sebastian commented, clearing his throat awkwardly as some of the tension bled from his voice. Apologetic, perhaps.

Ominis shot him a warning huff. "Don't even think about touching anything."

But Sebastian was already crouching before one of the chests, running his hands over the ornate latch. "Help me get this open, will you?"

With a resigned sigh, Ominis stepped forward to assist, rolling the sleeves of his shirt on the move. As they worked, Apocrypha silently ghosted the perimeter, eyes darting from side to side cautiously. The chests seemed to be Keepers' belongings – she recognized the intricate embellishments and scrolls peeking out.

A dull thud drew her attention back to her companions. Sebastian had managed to pry the chest's lid ajar, peering inside with barely contained excitement at the revealed trove of journals, oddities and what looked to be an ancient dagger.

"Sebastian," Ominis cut him off sharply. "I said not to touch anything."

"Relax, will you?" Sebastian rolled his eyes, withdrawing a sharp object. "What harm could it do?"

Ominis frowned, gingerly lifting a tattered volume. "We shouldn't be disturbing their things. This was meant to be private."

"Exactly – their fault for disappearing," Sebastian retorted, already sifting through the chest's contents once more.

Apocrypha tuned out their bickering, moving to inspect the far corner. More chests, a few shelves containing what looked like rare tomes. Reaching out, she traced the carved symbols on their surfaces thoughtfully. A faint shimmer of magic hummed against her fingertips and she jerked her hand back with a sharp intake of breath, glancing over her shoulder and half-expecting a guardian to materialize. But the chamber remained still, save for the escalating argument between her two companions.

She felt a spark of unease. Something about this chamber – this whole endeavor – set her on edge. The Keepers' absence was deafening, and she couldn't shake the sense of being watched, even as her friends became absorbed in their discoveries.

Sebastian forged further, Ominis trailing behind with half-hearted protests.

"Honestly, must you rummage through everyone's things?" he muttered, helping his friend with another chest that stood visibly apart, perched atop a short dais.

"What else are we meant to do?" Sebastian shrugged, prying it open to rifle through the contents – more scrolls, empty viles, books. "Find answers, aren't we?"

"Careful, you git – those don't belong to us," Ominis chided, unable to help himself but to inspect a few of the smaller possessions as well.

"I'm just having a look." Sebastian murmured with a grunt, bending over and tossing aside weird belongings. His eyes fell on a small, leather-bound journal tucked amidst the clutter. "Hold on, what's this?"

Plucking it out, he turned it over, tracing the engraved name on the cover. "Percival Rackham...wonder who that is."

Ominis hovered at his shoulder, expression torn between disapproval and wary interest as he pressed the tip of his wand to the journal's surface. "Seems a bit...personal, doesn't it?"

"Diary, maybe?" Sebastian flipped it open, studying the cramped handwriting inside. "Oi, Kryph, come have a look at this!"

He glanced up, frowning as he realized their companion had vanished. Snapping the journal shut, he rose to join Ominis and peer around the cramped chamber. "Where's she got to?"

Olivier Derivière - The Past Never Dies

They moved cautiously towards the far end of the chamber, rounding the tight 90-degree corner to find her standing rigidly before an enormous painting that stretched from floor to ceiling. A desolate seaside scene – windswept cliffs draped in high grass, a weeping willow hanging over the edge, and in the distance, a lonely lighthouse standing watch over the foaming waves.

The hairs on the back of Ominis's neck prickled, an ominous weight settling over the chamber – he sensed a faint shimmer dancing across the canvas, unnatural and unsettling. He cleared his throat. "Found something interesting, Kryph?"

She stood transfixed, utterly motionless save for the faint rise and fall of her chest. She took her time to respond, features etched with a raw, horrified stillness.

"We're...not supposed to be here," she breathed, the words scarcely above a whisper.

"What do you mean?" Sebastian ventured, brow furrowing as he moved to stand beside her. "What's got you staring like that?"

In the stifling hush, he moved to take a closer look at the painting, gripping the ornate frame as he leaned in. The air felt stagnant, the chamber's stillness oppressive. Just as he angled the wood to peer behind the canvas, a flash of metal, stuck between the frame and art, caught the corner of his eye – a pair of rusted sewing shears slid across the painting's surface, the blades scoring a jagged line on the serene seaside scene as they got wedged again with a discordant scrape.

Before he could process the sight, Apocrypha recoiled with startling violence, wrenching him by the collar of his shirt and yanking him back. Her heart pounded, breath rapid and shallow as recognition flashed in saturated eyes at the sight of those blades.

"We're not supposed to be here," she muttered feverishly, the words a frantic mantra. "We have to get out."

Sebastian scowled, glaring at the painting and trying to straighten himself under the force of her dragging. "But we've barely scratched the surface! There has to be something here that can help-"

But she shoved him harder, already turning back towards the stairwell and nudging Ominis too. "Please, just trust me on this."

"What's gotten into you?" Ominis pressed, catching her urgency even if he couldn't fully grasp its source.

"Nothing," she shook her head frantically, eyes wild as expression bordered on panic. "I just know we have to go. "

Sebastian opened his mouth to protest further, but the raw terror in his friend's voice gave him pause. Twisting their mouths in question, the boys allowed themselves to be herded up the stairs and back to the higher level.

Back in the Map Chamber, Apocrypha paused only long enough to ensure they all cleared the threshold before nudging them further up to the balcony. Her hands shook slightly as the heavy door finally swung shut behind them, sealing off once again.

Panting, they fell into an oppressive silence. Sebastian shifted, eyes fixed upon his distressed friend with concern.

"You alright, Kryph?" he asked quietly, fingers drumming against the journal still clutched tightly in his hand.

She nodded mutely, eyes unfocused.

"I'll be fine," she murmured, the words unconvincing even to her own ears.

"Perhaps we should call it a night," Ominis sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose tiredly. "We've tested our luck quite enough, I think. Let's head back – best talk about it tomorrow."

With quiet compliance, the three spared one last glance towards the door and turned to make their way back through the silent corridors with previous care. They parted ways in the common room silently, Sebastian and Ominis heading off to their shared dormitory with weary yet still troubled goodnights, leaving Apocrypha to make the solitary trek to her own room. She moved with agonizing slowness, holding her breath in a desperate bid for silence.

Her roommates appeared dead asleep, Eliza's obnoxious snores punctuating the silence. Careful not to rouse anyone, she shed her gear and tucked it safely out of sight, sinking into the refuge of a cold four-poster after changing into her nightshirt.

Pulling curtains shut, her final glance was on the intruder's bed, the fabric rumbling faintly with each snore. In her own distress and gloom she failed to notice the odd stillness of Eliza's eyes, open and unblinking – her fake snoring continuing without a hitch.

Chapter Text

Adi Goldstein - The Unspeakable World

The crimson sun hung low in a burnished sky as evening fell over the grounds. Apocrypha sat upon the lush grass of the courtyard next to Natsai, watching brisk autumn breezes dance through fiery leaves still clinging stubbornly to branches. Other students milled about, taking refuge from the day's last lessons in cheerful clusters.

Beside her, the dark coils of Natsai's hair glinted mahogany where they spilled over her crimson and gold tie as the girl twittered with barely contained excitement. Viridian eyes observed their classmates from afar with customary detachment as Natsai's words fled past her ears – Apocrypha hummed noncommittally, eyes drawn to where a gaggle of Gryffindors laughed amongst themselves further down the wall.

After a moment, Natty's words caught up with her.

"Wait, what?" she blinked, jolted from her observations and forcing her attention back to the one-sided conversation. "You and Garreth? When did that happen?"

Natsai simply chuckled, used to her friend's prickly demeanor by now. Merlin, but it was pure luck they managed to become this close against all odds and differences.

"Last Hogsmeade visit!" she made a show of shuddering dramatically. "But he's a good kisser, I suppose."

Apocrypha considered the news silently, expression unreadable save for the barest glint of interest sparking on the wry curve of pale lips. Romance was an alien concept, better observed from a distance. But curiosity got the better of her as per usual.

"How does it even work, then? Do you just...hold hands and giggle a lot?" she asked, one thick brow arching.

Shrugging, Natsai leaned back on her hands.

"There's a bit more to it than that, silly," she teased, chocolate eyes dancing. "We talk loads, sneak off in between classes sometimes. And the occasional kiss is nice."

Apocrypha wrinkled her nose at the last words, bewildered yet fascinated by this dynamic still continuing to unfold before her. Staring thoughtfully, she failed to notice Natsai leaning in.

"You look like I've invented a new form of Dark Magic or something," she said in a stage whisper. "Don't act like you're not dying to know what snogging is like."

"Don't be daft," came the retort, though an undercurrent of fascination betrayed her cool tone. "Just seems strange is all."

Natsai watched her friend's somber gaze with care, eyes softening. She knew well of this clinical manner of seeing the world and tendency to linger on the fringes, rarely starting anything yet seeming to prefer the vantage.

"You'll catch on in your own time," she offered gently. "That solitary thing suits you well enough for now."

Apocrypha shook off the sentiment, unconcerned. A shriek of laughter pulled their eyes towards the giggles of young Hufflepuffs twining spells with flickering wands. Looking back, Natsai found Apocrypha already rising, brushing stray foliage from her robes boyishly.

Clearing her throat briefly, she reminded, "Promised Ominis to study in the library. Join us?"

But Natsai smiled apologetically, anticipating another. "Rain check – I've plans with a certain lion, as you might have guessed."

An understanding sigh escaped Apocrypha's lips. Their friendship flowed on its own accord, steady and sure without constant interaction or assurance. She huffed in mock annoyance, faint humor dancing in viridian eyes. "Well, don't let me keep you. Best of luck with that one."

Her words fell flat in attempt at jest, but Natsai chuckled all the same. With a nod, Apocrypha took her leave as her friend waved fondly after, heart lighter after another sleepless night and anxious swirling in bed. Moments like these allowed her to avoid the memory of the visit to the Map Chamber last night, however briefly.

As always, the castle's every creaking joint sang with life, its sprawling spirals echoing with industrious chatter. Though habituated to Hogwarts' halls after a year, crowds still induced a flicker of discomfort beneath her carefully blank facade.

Lost to introspection, she navigated the halls as if by instinct when a voice called out from the cluttered throng.

"Blackwood! Hang about a tick, would you?"

She paused, glancing over a shoulder to meet the face of Leander pushing through towards her. He offered a lopsided smile, palm rising awkwardly to rub at the nape of his neck below tousled red hair as his expression bore sheepishness ill-befitting a proud Gryffindor's usual mien.

"I, er - wanted to say, about that whole dueling mess before," he muttered, still rubbing his neck in a gesture uncomfortable. "Stupid thing of me, joining Osborn's lot. How's your arm?"

"Took you a while," she offered without a bite, shrugging dismissively and letting the matter slip from mind as most trifles did.

The lack of a direct response seemed to frustrate Leander more, bringing relief to war with confusion upon his features – but he was warned about this unforgiving indifference. Despite that, his classmate seemed to be in a much calmer mood than usual – an opening, perhaps.

"Well...good, then," he managed after a pause. Falling into step beside her, he coughed steadying nonchalance, grasping for stable footing in this conversation. "Heard Sharp's given you extra Potions work. Reckon I could lend a hand, if you'd... well, like the help."

Apocrypha considered for a moment. An extra hand could save time, and Leander seemed to know more than her when it was about lessons – he'd been quite helpful with Herbology last year.

"I'll take you up on that," she replied, continuing on her way at a slower pace.

Leander let out an awkward chuckle, rubbing his nape yet again as they got to the towering library doors. Her ready acceptance ran counter to most previous interactions – uncharacteristic, though he was not unwelcome for it. Rarely had she consented so easily to company beyond her close-knit circle.

"Brilliant," he sighed, helpless surprise softening its usual edge. "Say, Friday after Charms? Meet you back here."

Apocrypha merely raised her brows, waiting with customary impatience as he floundered briefly with timings. At her small agreeing nods, a smile broke across Leander's features – and it struck her oddly. Few recalled him capable of true mirth, yet in this moment he seemed years lighter, unguarded honesty smoothing worn edges of pretended confidence.

Inclining her head in assent once more, she turned away to push through the towering doors of her destination.

"Gaunt about, is he?" Leander called after her. At her confirming shrug, he raised a hand in parting. "Right, then. Later, Blackwood."

With a final half-smile and wave, he turned on his heel with a faint celebratory whoop, fists clenched tight in barely restrained joy.

Strange and complex boy, this Leander. But his pleased reaction roused the ghost of an awkward smile from Apocrypha before she slipped behind the door to scan the surroundings for Ominis.

There, a head of dark blond hair peeked out from the second floor, blind eyes turned towards the door below as if he could see through it. His unnatural perceptiveness never failed to give her a pause even after all this time, noting each minute shift and rustle as if ready to rival even the keenest of eyes.

Ominis sat reclined in an armchair, head cocked almost imperceptibly as her approach broke the layer of hushed focuses nearby.

"Was that Prewett I heard by the door?" came his murmured question before she'd spoken a word.

Selecting several volumes from creaking shelves, Apocrypha joined him with customary care for stacked parchments and quills strewn in neat array across the small table. Humming a noncommittal affirmation, she lowered the books, brows arching at the wry quirk of his lips.

"Seems you've decided socializing isn't the darkest of arts after all," he teased lightly. His gladness in her slow becoming accustomed to others – in small dozes, at least, – was evident. "It's good for you, Kryph."

She made a vague noise of denial, taking the opposite seat. "Sebastian joining us?"

At this, Ominis sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Haven't seen head nor tail of the fool all day. Shut away with that journal we found below."

Apocrypha's expression tightened slightly, a flicker of unease crossing tired features. The mention of their nocturnal venture last night stirred her gut, rigid walls sliding swiftly into place at the dreaded subject – and suddenly, the very idea of spending time with Leander felt alien and hostile once again.

"I see," her reply came clipped, voice tinged with caution. "Any idea what he's been doing with it?"

Ominis shook his head, lips pressed thin. "He's been poring over it, turning the pages and writing something down. I heard him mumbling to himself all night. Not sure what he's up to, but I have a feeling it's not something good."

She shrugged nonchalantly, pretending focus to turn to the books she had gathered for her Potions assignments. "It's not like we have much of a choice but to ask him."

Ominis let out a soft sigh, tongue clicking in faint annoyance at the prospect of confronting his best friend once more. It all slowly started to look just like last year – and the mere thought of it made him swallow back the type of hurt only a chance of crumbling friendship could bring.

Leaning back in his chair, Ominis folded his arms across his chest as they both fell into a tense silence. Faintly he heard her fumbling with a crumpled paper in an attempt to distract herself – a habit he knew well she used when nervous.

"Speaking of this... Map Chamber," he started carefully, voice tinged with concern. "Are you alright?"

Apocrypha's finger slipped from the list of assignments she struggled to fold into a form of a martlet, saturated eyes shooting up to meet her friend's concerned face. Her nose seemed to wrinkle on its own at the fact of being worried for – she hated to cause this to anyone close to her, let alone Ominis.

"I'm fine," she replied curtly. "Just got a lot of Potions assignments to do."

For some time, they sat in contemplative silence, each immersed in their own thoughts. Apocrypha sighed as she glanced down at Sharp's lengthy assignment list folded before her like a hopeless lump, frustration getting the better of her focus. In a weak attempt at distraction, she hastily refolded it into a crooked bird, wings bent at awkward angles. With a small huff, she gave it an experimental flap, watching as the ugly edges carried it only a short distance before it tumbled helplessly to the floor.

Unsurprised, she moved to retrieve the pathetic paper avian, when a sudden commotion erupted. A familiar barn owl came swooping in, clutching a sizable, but seemingly light package in its talons and a letter clenched in its beak. Students shifted as the bird alighted on their table, scattering papers and quils in its wake, and Ominis just barely saved his textbook from being battered by the bird's erratic flapping.

Recognizing the owl as one that occasionally delivered Muggle parcels, Apocrypha reached out to pluck the letter from the owl's beak, eyes drawn to a splash of familiar handwriting upon its surface – her parent's neat scrawl.

"It's from my mother," she murmured, quickly tearing into the packaging of the delivery.

Ominis inclined his head. "Ah, I see. Anything special?"

Apocrypha hummed in acknowledgment, carefully withdrawing a beautifully ornate book from the parcel. A collection of Scottish folklore – the unsettling kind that Sebastian got so interested in after finding it on the shelves in her house during their summer.

"Sebastian's birthday is in two weeks, isn't it?" She probed slowly, eyes squinting slightly at the attempt to remember the exact November day.

"Yes, the seventeenth," Ominis nodded, gesturing his wand to the book reverently. "This is sure to delight him."

Apocrypha huffed some hesitance – she'd never gifted anything to anyone before this school year, let alone think of preparations for someone's special day. But she had help. It warmed her, in a way, to have a parent who still made efforts to provide – not that Apocrypha had any means to purchase such thoughtful gifts herself. But her mother had always done what she could, even in the face of ceaseless hardship.

"Hopefully," she remarked, glancing to Ominis. "Have you gotten anything for him yet?"

"As a matter of fact, I have," he smiled faintly, tracing the glowing tip of his wand across the table. "Something small, but I think he'll appreciate it."

His brow arched slightly as Apocrypha swiftly gathered the remaining contents of the parcel, shielding them from his probing wand and hands.

"Something else in there you're not showing me, Kryph?" he asked, the corner of his mouth twitching in amusement.

Apocrypha shot him a mildly irritated look. "Nothing of consequence. Just...other things for later."

Shrugging, Ominis leaned back in his chair once more. "Well, someday you'll have to tell us when your birthday is, you know. Can't keep avoiding the topic forever."

Her response came with an unnecessarily gruff edge. "That's not happening."

Ominis merely chuckled, sensing her discomfort at the sore subject.

"Suppose we ought to wrap this properly before Sebastian gets too curious," he said lightly, reaching out to gently take the book from her hands. "I'll see to it, if you like."

Apocrypha inclined her head gratefully. "Appreciate it. I, ah...should probably open the letter as well."

She broke the familiar seal, eyes quickly scanning the flowing script of handwriting. For a fleeting moment, her expression softened as she noticed the faint smudge of lipstick in the corner – a habitual quirk of her mother's mouth. But as she scanned the text, her features slowly shifted, a flicker of confusion passing over stiffening face.

A small, perplexed sound escaped her lips, grip tightening on the paper. This was wrong – terribly, inexplicably wrong.

She blinked, pulse quickening imperceptibly as a subtle crease formed between her brows. Furrowing deeper with a slight shake of her head, she re-read the line, but the words remained the same, defying comprehension. Swallowing thickly, she forced herself to finish reading, features schooled into careful neutrality once more as she folded the letter to tuck it away.

Ominis tilted his head, sensing the shift in her heartbeat. "Everything alright?"

"Just the usual," she murmured in return, shooing the owl away and hastily rearranging their belongings on the table. "Checking in, as ever."

The hours trickled by as they pored over their studies in stifling silence, both acutely aware of the muted tensions hanging thick in the air — and both holding their tongues. As the library's lamps dimmed with the waning of day, they gathered their things and made the trek back to the dungeons.

Halfway there, Apocrypha rolled her shoulders, working out the kinks from long hours hunched over books — not that this study session would bring any progress to her performance.

"At least Sharp seems to have given us a bit of a reprieve this time," she remarked, keeping her tone even. "Though Merlin knows it won't last."

"When has that one ever shown us any mercy? I'd wager he's simply lulling us into a false sense of security before the next onslaught," Ominis chuckled dryly, pausing to stretch. "Potions final is going to be a beast this year, mark my words."

They had just reached the corridor when a disheveled Sebastian suddenly materialized before them, dark curls in disarray and robes askew. His eyes were wild, darting between them with a manic edge.

"You two – quick, I've found something in that blasted diary." He gripped their sleeves, tugging them insistently towards the Undercroft. "Can't be out in the open. Come on."

As he ushered them into the secret lair, Apocrypha cleared her throat at the uncomfortable pinch of intuition. Her eyes briefly flickered to the triptych adorning the distant wall, the Pensieve standing sentry beside it – a mute reminder that would never let her forget.

Shaking off the unsettled sensation, she turned her attention to Sebastian, who had begun pacing agitatedly before a small table, muttering under his breath. Glancing warily towards Ominis, she stepped closer, straining to make sense of his frenzied ramblings.

"...the diary, you see? I've been studying it for hours, and I think I've found something. Something that could help me find Anne." Sebastian's words tumbled forth in a rushed, breathless cadence, hands gesticulating feverishly.

Ominis's brows shot up. "Anne? What -"

"The Patronus Charm," Sebastian cut him off, eyes gleaming with manic intensity. "I know, I know – most think it's bloody useless beside warding off Dementors, right? But the Keepers, they used it to communicate, even to find one another."

Pausing, he leaned forward, bracing his palms on the tabletop. "If I can master the Patronus, I might be able to track down where Anne's gone. But three heads are better than one, right? So I need you – both of you."

Ominis angled sightless eyes towards his best friend, features etched with concern. "Sebastian, listen to yourself. What makes you think we can cast a Patronus that will be able to do any of that?"

"Because it's in the bloody diary, Ominis!" Sebastian exclaimed, frustration lacing his tone. "The Keepers used it, and if it worked for them, it can work for me too. I have to find her, can't you understand? I have to make things right."

Apocrypha remained silent between them, warring impulses tugging at her from all sides. Part of her recoiled at the idea – the Patronus Charm was notoriously difficult, and they had no evidence it might actually work. But the raw, desperate plea in Sebastian's eyes gnawed at her conscience. Again.

Exhaling a slow, measured breath, she clicked her tongue. "Alright. We'll give it a try."

Sebastian's face split into a weary, but grateful grin as the tension in his shoulders eased marginally. Reaching into his robes, he withdrew his wand, the polished wood glinting in the low light. "Brilliant. Right, well, I've been studying the theory, but we should start practicing the wand movements..."

Carefully rifling through the pages of the spellbook tome resting nearby, he sighed. "Alright, here it is – the instructions for the Patronus Charm." Hazel eyes flickered between his friends, a hint of erratic energy still pulsing beneath the surface. "The key is to focus on a really powerful, happy memory. The incantation is 'Expecto Patronum'."

Muttering incantations and notes to himself, Sebastian raised his wand, eyes narrowing in determination. "Alright, let me try this first."

Tucking the text away, he stationed himself before the table, squinting in fierce concentration.

"Expecto Patronum!"

Nothing. Frustration creased his brow as he tried again, grasping for some elusive joy from days that were long gone. His memories seemed to be clouded by shadowy layers of shame, failure and loss that clung like cobwebs to his psyche – Anne's smiling face was harder to summon, untainted by all that had happened since.

Apocrypha leaned her back against one of the stone columns to observe his efforts, withdrawing into contemplative silence as was her habit. Beside her, Ominis too fell into a thoughtful quiet as he sieved through memories for one infused with happiness – not many to choose from, if he was honest.

After what felt like an hour of fruitless casting of wispy silver flickers that dissipated as swiftly as they came, frustration began to show up plainly on Sebastian's face.

"Damn it," he swore, lowering his wand arm briefly for a short rest and rubbing his temple wearily. "Nearly had it that time."

Apocrypha watched pensively from the same spot where she sat squatted, observing as each failure was chipping away at Sebastian's fading nerves. "Perhaps don't force it. Calm down a bit."

"Yes, let the memory arise naturally." Ominis supported despite the clear concern audible in his tone – he knew too well Sebastian's penchant for obsession. And to what ends it could drive him.

Sebastian exhaled roughly, nodding. Grimacing slightly in thought, he shut his eyes and fell still once more, brow creasing in intense focus as he seemed to summon a memory. After a moment, he took a deep breath, arm swept in a wide arc as he incanted the spell for what felt like a hundred's time.

"Expecto Patronum."

A silvery mist burst forth from the tip of his wand this time, swirling and coalescing into a canine form before promptly dissipating. Encouraged, he persisted, drawing upon that joyous memory with renewed vigor.

Ears perked and fur thick, a shaggy Patronus bounded around the chamber, letting out a soft, rumbling bark as it circled its caster, radiating a palpable sense of protectiveness.

"Yes! It worked!" Sebastian let out a breathless laugh, beaming ear-to-ear before faltering slightly.

"Strange, though...it looks a bit like Cetus, doesn't it?"

Apocrypha tilted her head, pushing to her feet to take a closer look with poorly contained surprise on her face.

"Explains a lot if you ask me," she breathed, eyes observing the spectral hound cautiously before she shot them back up to Sebastian. "You're annoyingly talented, you know that?"

'What can I say," he chuckled proudly. "That I am."

Ominis frowned, listening intently as the animal prowled. "Interesting. And what memory did you choose?"

Sebastian's grin softened with reminiscence. "Third year, that prank we pulled on the Ravenclaws – dyeing their robes Hufflepuff yellow. Remember that?"

Ominis nodded slowly, a small chuckle escaping him as well. "How could I forget? You two were ever the troublemakers."

"Anne was laughing until she cried, healthier than I'd seen her in ages. Smiling. Merlin, I miss that." Sebastian's smirk turned rueful as reality set back in. "You too, Ominis – not so stern back then."

Ominis grimaced almost painfully at his best friend's observation and fell silent once more, tracing his fingertips along the creases of his palms. An uncomfortable moment passed before Sebastian clicked his tongue, hastily refocusing attention on his shimmering spectral animal as it padded about the chamber.

"Right, er—nearly forgot," he blurted, raking a hand through his hair. "Any ideas how I'm meant to send it to find Anne?"

Ominis remained pensively mute, blind eyes angled towards the hound. Apocrypha watched on cautiously, sensing an undercurrent she did not fully grasp – before her, Sebastian exuded a strained aura, desperate for some anchoring solution to cling to.

"Could you—that is, might you be able to try tracking her presence or something?" he addressed the Patronus.

As if in response, the hound tilted its silvery head, regarding its caster coolly for a suspended moment. Then it turned, loping towards the entryway with fluid, ghostly strides that caused no disturbance in the dense film of dust coating the flagstone. Seamlessly it passed through solid stone, the luminous form winking out of existence on the opposite side.

Ominis sighed softly. "Now we wait, I suppose."

Tobias Lilja – Teeth & Leaves

The shadowy halls of Hogwarts echoed with the scuffling footsteps of a lone female figure, the locks of flaming crimson jumping behind as the form glided past darkened alcoves. It was well past curfew, yet the patrolling Aurors paid her no mind – she seemed familiar to them, and therefore autonomous. Unfettered, she slipped between shifting pools of faded light and shadow, charting a winding path upwards.

At last her delicate footsteps carried her around a corner, towards a long corridor barely illuminated by faint moonlight. A lone door of the empty Charms classroom yawned open partway down, betraying a sole figure dwelling inside at this late hour.

Azure eyes flicked upwards to catch her approach, gleaming phosphorescent in the gloom. For a suspended moment their gazes locked, and the girl halted just out of reach, composure faltering momentarily under that keen, scrutinizing gaze.

Then, with deceptively light tread, Eliza slipped behind the door and drifted closer – her initial hesitation melting into a mask of cool composure as always in her brother's austere presence. But the uneasy shift still distorted her expression as her mangled speech started to flow in starts and fits while she reported her observations.

"She spend morning in classes. Talk with Natsai Onai after, seem close. Small talk with Leander Prewett outside library, then study with Ominis Gaunt inside for hours... Owl bring parcel, but no see inside." Eliza darted blue eyes aside as her sibling remained fixed ahead in stony silence, prompting her to hasten onward – all while English continued to leak thickly from Eastern lips. "Later see them with Sebastian Sallow, but lose track. Not know where they go."

Osborn's scowl turned venomous as he pondered this meager report, clearly displeased by its lack of revelatory substance.

"Is that all?" he hissed disdainfully.

Eliza flinched at his biting criticism, wringing her hands fretfully. Shame flared anew – always finding new ways to disappoint him, hopeless fool that she was in his eyes.

"Last night, see she leave the room late. But where not know," she added lamely, shoulders hunching under the weight of his displeasure.

Osborn's expression darkened ominously as he rounded on her. "And you mean to tell me that you did not follow?"

The force of his wrathful barrage caused Eliza to shrink back, accent trembling. "S-sorry! Try follow, but lose in corridors. Too dark..."

At this, Osborn's patience expired with an ugly snarl.

"Useless imbecile," he spat venomously. "I asked you to follow her everywhere, not lose track the moment things grew interesting."

"Please," she murmured plaintively, fingers twisting together. "I try, but she slip away. Next time, I watch close, promise."

But Osborn's face only twisted further at her promises. Advancing with predatory grace, he gripped her jaw bruisingly, azure eyes ablaze.

"Do you realize how pathetic it is, to be saddled with an idiot sibling like you?" his lip curled in pure, unadulterated disgust. "Worthless, just like everything else you touch. Can't believe we share blood. What imbecilic mistake led our father to believe siring you was a clever idea?"

A derisive snort escaped him, relishing Eliza's pained whimper. Before she could react, his palm cracked brutally across her face – the echo of his mother's signature. Eliza stumbled backward with a choked cry, tears pricking her eyes to meet Osborn's towering expression.

Cruel memories resurfaced – of his vile mother's beatings, rough attention she considered care, and the helpless fury such absolute domination invoked. All women reminded him of the one who had tormented his youth, warping his mind with brutal abuse – Eliza bore the brunt of his hatred now, but never resisted.

"You should've died in that Polish war-torn hellhole you crawled from, or rotted away in whatever flea-ridden orphanage they stuffed you into," he snapped, watching impassively as she clutched her burning cheek. "Or let those bombs finish the job, like they did with your mother."

Eliza sniffed, staring down in muted humiliation – she was used to such cruel barbs after a year by his side. Through watery eyes she managed a numb nod, conditioned to accept whatever punishments helped to sate Osborn's thirst for violence.

"Look at me when I'm speaking to you," he spat, grasping her jaw once more. But where before simmered wrath, now his tone turned cloyingly tender. Sickly sweet – just as his mother once did in the moments between belts.

"Now, now, don't cry – you know I'd never hurt you, not really," he cooed, thumbs tracing her skin with deceptive tenderness as his voice softened to a lethal caress. "You understand, don't you? Everything I do is to protect you. We're family, after all."

His silken tone twisted Eliza's insides, even as she shuddered and leaned helplessly into his touch – the only familiar affection in her hollow life, anything to feel wanted.

"You want us to be together, don't you? Well, this school hides a threat to that, and you know her name," Osborn continued with a mirthless smile. "Once this threat is eliminated, we'll be free to live as such. Wouldn't you like that, Eliza? To have a true home, and me to care for you always?"

His lies tasted of poisoned honey, and she drank deeply, simply wanting to believe and clinging to that dream like a lifeline. Family – that's all she ever wanted.

"Won't be long now," he murmured, gentle fingers swiping away her tears with false care. "Just find me what I need against that wretched bitch. Can you manage such a simple task?"

Too terrified to disobey, Eliza nodded mutely. Clinging to Osborn's twisted affection was her sole mean of finding purpose in a world that had forsaken her long ago.

Chapter Text

BAILE – We Feel Everything That We Suffer

Time wore on at the sprawling castle as autumn's chill deepened the air.

The weeks followed, and a palpable shift overcame Sebastian – his boundless energy had gradually diminished into a more pensive, hopeless silence. He still moved with purpose, but the effortless verve of before had dampened considerably – not a single Patronus he summoned had returned from its search.

Still he tried day after day, persisting in his training alongside friends and spending hours in rigorous practice after lessons.

While Ominis demonstrated steady progress mastering the complex charm they desperately required, Apocrypha could not summon even the faintest wisp from her wand. Gradually her attempts grew sparse and halfhearted, lasting only moments before she retreated to observe in silence. She resigned herself to merely watching Ominis's progressing mastery, offering the occasional word of encouragement and lingering by the pillars in hope none would notice her growing absence from these sessions.

Remaining quiet and offering occasional excuses proved a reliable way to help her avoid exposing the fact she was too ashamed to admit – she possessed no memories potent enough to summon even the most ephemeral guardian.

It was simply frustrating – to be a failure once again. The weight of being a failure – and the creeping dread over her own troubles concerning sleep – had smothered any trace of a sincere effort within her.

Sebastian watched her retreat with growing concern, but found his own spirits too laden to offer encouragement.

That was, until Ominis finally succeeded.

The air in the Undercroft grew thick that day, dissolving only when a shimmering form erupted from the tip of Ominis's wand – lengthening, coiling and slithering into a serpentine form of a python. It hovered for a moment, scales glimmering, before drifting higher to circle the vaulted ceiling to paint it in a warm, ethereal glow.

Ominis regarded the spectral guardian with an air of quiet satisfaction, betraying little surprise. "Hm, a snake."

The shift in Sebastian was immediate, hazel eyes widening with renewed energy.

"Blimey, Ominis - you've cracked it!" he exclaimed, all trace of despondency vanishing in an instant. "What memory did you use?"

"Aunt Noctua," Ominis replied simply, shrugging. "The night she read me a story before bed, when I was twelve."

A slight smile played at his lips, bearing a rare glimpse into the deeply personal significance of that memory. It was this simple – but evenings like those saved him from the weight of cruelty his other kin directed at him.

Sebastian's brows knit with understanding – they all knew of Ominis's deep attachment to the lone Gaunt family member who had not shared their fanatical blood purity views. "Brilliant. Send it out, mate – maybe wherever Anne is, she'll listen to you."

With a curt nod and a wide wave of his wand, Ominis directed the spectral python forward. It slithered through the air, undulating gracefully, before vanishing through the Undercroft's floor.

With renewed energy, Sebastian turned to their friend, familiar grin splitting his freckled face. "You're the only one left, Kryph. Keep trying – if Ominis can do it, I know you can too."

"I will," she muttered, though her tone lacked conviction. Lying to her friends like this felt wretched, but admitting her weakness seemed even worse.

Another passing week brought Sebastian's birthday – some success seemed the most preferable of presents, yet that didn't happen. Ominis's Patronus didn't return from its search either, and the special day passed just like any other save for small nothings of congratulations and gifts.

Despite the lack of results, they still persisted in their Undercroft training, focusing their efforts now on coaxing a Patronus from Apocrypha – though she grew increasingly withdrawn.

Where before she had simply watched, she now invented more and more excuses to leave early. "Tired today," she would murmur, or insist she had study sessions with Leander, who was eager to assist her – she offered a steady stream of justifications, her once-direct honesty giving way to practiced prevarication.

This puzzled Sebastian the most, and as time wore on, his confusion gave way to a slow-burning annoyance. He was usually the one helping her to keep pace with studies – why change this? What he did not realize, however, was that Apocrypha's reasons for abandoning their practice had little to do with Leander. In truth, she did not meet him even once.

For one who had always favored honesty, now she found herself employing lies with a deftness that unsettled her. It seemed observing the calculated lies and manipulations of those around had taught her their methods all too well.

But change never seemed to come easily to her.

Within the next few days, in the wake of heavy struggles, their focus began to splinter, attention more scattered than unified. And it was a perilous divide they had yet to recognize the gravity of – a mistake they could ill afford.

"You know, the Patronus Charm is dead tricky, Kryph," Sebastian sighed as they all made their usual trek towards the Undercroft after classes and trying to offer half-hearted reassurances. "Not everyone can just pick it up, right Ominis?"

Ominis nodded in agreement. "Indeed. It takes time and practice to summon it. Perhaps we could take a break today – play a game or practice something new, hm?"

Apocrypha considered this for a moment, then shook her head. "I thought we could go over the theory again. Maybe that will help."

The shift in her was abrupt, yet not entirely unpredictable. For all her complex layers, her devotion to trying to be a good friend remained one of her most steadfast traits.

Sebastian arched a brow, but silently cherished the resurfaced clarity in her voice. He should've expected this – she always returned to her usual self after some days in quiet, never demanding a chase.

"You sure?" he probed lightly, unable to restrain some faint relief in his tone. "Thought you'd be sick of looking at those books by now."

"If you insist," Ominis hummed with a small quirk of his lips, aiming to ease up the air. "Just as long as you don't disappear on us halfway through."

She offered a small shrug in response, eyes thoughtfully downcast as they approached the familiar door. Sebastian slid the tip of his wand across the clocks and swung the entrance open, ushering the others inside before sweeping a wary glance down the corridor to ensure they were unobserved.

As their voices drifted through the entryway, a pair of curious blue eyes peered out from around the corner. Eliza frowned, confused – this particular access point had not been mentioned in her instructions.

She crept closer, pressing a hand against the wood to search for any obvious mechanism or release. Finding none, she looked upon the carved figures adorning the door – five clocks of varying sizes, the celestial images of sun and moon – clearly a complex lock.

Eliza worried her lip, deep in thought. Frowning, she stepped back, considering her options. Perhaps there was another way in – or perhaps this was not a door she was meant to cross. Should she risk attempting to open it? Her directive was to follow, but disappointing Osborn by the news of being discovered or suspected seemed a cruel fate.

Ólafur Arnalds – Vigil

Eliza's duties as an observer had grown increasingly burdensome with time. Watching the closeness this tight-knit circle shared had become a painful exercise, awakening a deep, almost grieving envy within her. This emotional intimacy, this sense of belonging – it was something she desperately craved, yet found so tantalizingly out of reach.

The role thrust upon her by Osborn's directives felt more akin to stalking than simple observation. Her stealth skills had certainly improved through the constant practice, but the glimpses she caught of their complex, unwavering bond only served to amplify her own profound loneliness.

Sebastian, once a familiar and friendly face, had become increasingly distracted, his trademark exuberance dampened. Apocrypha still radiated only open hostility that kept Eliza at arm's length, and Ominis, with whom she had once seemed to have some easy rapport, now rarely spared her a moment's notice.

Eliza had been forced to reduce her interactions with them not to draw unwanted suspicion, yet still followed, cataloging their every move for the benefit of Osborn's insatiable demands.

She often wondered what it was that held those three together so tightly. She had puzzled over it endlessly, but the complexity of their relationship, their nuanced and layered dynamic remained so elusive she resisted any attempts to simply ask. They were rarely seen apart, and she had grown accustomed to trailing in their shadows – a stranger, allowed to catch fleeting whiffs of companionship yet denied the chance to truly partake. A mongrel, allowed only to catch the scent of a bone, but never to taste it.

In the yards, the corridors, the common room, the library – Eliza was everywhere they went, alone and hurting. Each report delivered to Osborn only seemed to frustrate him further, and she couldn't help but wonder if this was truly what she wanted.

Observing the others even for so little had given her the thought that maybe – just maybe – Osborn's methods were not borne of true love. His cold, sharp attentions reminded a parody of affection, cruel and domineering though it may be – but she clung to those scraps, that faint hope that if she simply did as he demanded, perhaps one day she too might earn the warmth and acceptance she craved.

Perhaps then, she might find a way to ingratiate herself – if not taste companionship, then at least become a family to her only sibling so that his affections would no longer feel so hollow. It was a foolish dream, she knew, but the alternative – perpetual isolation – was too bleak to bear.

As these bitter thoughts swirled, Eliza paused, rubbing at her nose against the chill of the encroached winter. December air bit at her exposed skin as she watched Apocrypha from a distance like always, her target crouched on the frosted grass of the courtyard as her attention fixed on something Eliza could not discern.

Blue eyes slid to the side to observe as Sebastian and Ominis stood conversing by a distant wall, the idle chatter of dozens of students carrying on all around them. It was one of the last pleasantly mild days before winter's chill would truly set in, and the Hogwarts courtyard was alive with the merry energy of young witches and wizards enjoying the crisp, fresh air.

A sudden burst of raucous laughter from behind caused Eliza to turn her head. There, striding with predatory air, was Osborn and a group of his Gryffindor housemates. Eliza felt a familiar unease settle over her as she watched them approach with the confident swagger of a pack – Osborn was steadily gaining more influence within his House, regarded by many as a strong, commanding leader.

She and her brother were never permitted to interact openly, their connection a closely guarded secret. But as the group drew nearer, the dark-haired boy caught Eliza's eye and smirked, offering her a surreptitious, knowing wink before turning his focus to zero in on his target.

"Oi, Blackwood!" Osborn's voice rang out, dripping with false joviality. "What's so fascinating down there, eh? Talking to the worms?"

Apocrypha blinked, drawn from the concentrated observation of her favorite ant colony prepared for the winter. Her brows furrowed in confusion as Osborn and his companions surrounded her, viridian darting from one face to another cautiously.

One of the other boys – a lanky thing with a pinched face that Eliza recognized as Jasper – let out a raucous guffaw, prompting snickering from the others. "Bet you're just thrilled to be down there in the dirt with the bugs, aren't you?"

"Probably the only things that'll talk to her, the way she never opens her mouth," Tina, a girl with a sweetly round face tutted, tone laced with mock sympathy. "Aw, poor little thing. Too thick to form proper sentences?"

Despite the barrage of mocking remarks, Apocrypha remained stubbornly silent. While her anger management was notoriously poor, she seemed to sense this was mere provocation rather than a true confrontation, and therefore refused to rise to the bait. Still, the tension in her shoulders was palpable as she pushed to her feet to make her way closer to the castle.

"What's the matter, Blackwood?" Osborn purred, a cruel spark glinting in azure eyes as he reached out to catch her elbow. "Cat got your tongue?"

Apocrypha reacted with a harsh jerk, recoiling violently from the contact and yanking her arm free.

"Don't touch me," she snapped, usual quiet cracking under the strain.

The other Gryffindors erupted into laughter, clearly enjoying obvious discomfort they elicited. Eliza watched the exchange with a mixture of fascination and apprehension, recognizing Osborn's tactics all too well. This was no mere idle taunting – there was a calculated intent behind his actions, though she could not fathom its purpose.

Undeterred, Osborn huffed, lips curling into his signature smirk.

"Ooh, feisty today, aren't we? Though I suppose we shouldn't expect much else from someone with such freakish eyes as yours," he chuckled, stepping closer to lean in and purposefully invade her personal space. He hummed, scrutinizing her face. "You a bloody vampire or something?"

Apocrypha made a few cautious steps back, but Osborn reached out again, successfully hooking her wrist this time.

"What, you think you're too good for the likes of us?" he asked with a dramatic twist of his lips, mimicking a grudge as she struggled to free her limb from his obviously stronger grip. "You and your little mates always act like you're better than everyone else. Maybe it's time someone cut you down to size, eh?"

Suddenly, a booming voice cut through the jeers.

"Back the hell off, Sinclair!" Sebastian spat while storming across the grass with purpose, expression thunderous. Reaching the group, he shoved Osborn back, placing himself squarely between the Gryffindors and his friend.

Drawn to the escalating confrontation, the surrounding students fell silent, save for Osborn's companions who fired back a fresh volley of mocking jeers.

"Looks like the little freak's got a knight in shining armor," one of the cronies sneered.

"Protecting your little girlfriend, Sallow?" another chuckled.

Osborn merely observed the spectacle, a sardonic smile playing about his lips as he allowed his minions to do the proverbial dirty work.

Ominis was quick to join the fray, his usually tranquil demeanor replaced by a rare flash of temper. Shoving the Gryffindors aside, he jabbed a finger into Osborn's chest, jaw set in a stern line.

"That's enough, don't you think?" he intoned, blind eyes narrowing. "The joke's worn thin – don't make an idiot of yourself, especially as a prefect."

Osborn raised his hands in a gesture of mock surrender, though the gleam in his eye betrayed clear amusement.

"Whoa, temper, temper. We're only teasing," he flashed a disarming grin, turning to his chuckling companions. "Isn't that right, mates?"

Ominis held a tense pause before finally withdrawing. Just as he bodily shoved Sebastian back to shepherd both him and Apocrypha away, Osborn's pack erupted in hushed laughter to titter amongst themselves.

"Look at them, all huddled together," Tina murmured in between suppressed giggles. "Reckon they're a right little throuple, hm?"

Reluctantly, Sebastian fell into step beside his friends, anger still simmering beneath the surface. But the jibe managed to reach his ears just in time, and he paused, jaw tightening.

Ominis was quick to intervene, gripping his shoulder to prevent his friend's temper from erupting. "Sebastian, let it go. They're not worth it."

"I've got this, Ominis," he said hastily, voice unsettlingly calm as he shrugged the hand off and squared his shoulders before turning back to approach the jeering group. "Got a problem with how we do things, do you?"

Osborn raised a hand, signaling his companions to hold their jeers as Sebastian neared. The Slytherin's expression was uncharacteristically still, laced with a veneer of friendliness.

"Alright, Sallow, let's hear it," Osborn drawled in a deceptively welcoming tone, that smirk never wavering. Stepping forward, he brought himself nose-to-nose with his opponent. "What's really bothering you, hmm?"

Sebastian seized the moment, fist lashing out in a sudden, sharp jab even as he continued speaking in a measured tone. "Well, you see, Sinclair, the thing is -" His words were cut off by the dull thud of his knuckles connecting with Osborn's jaw. "- you just really piss me the fuck off."

Staggering back, Osborn grunted, eyes widened in surprise, but his expression quickly twisted into one of fury.

"That's for being a slimy wanker!" Sebastian spat, each word dripping with cocky satisfaction at the sight of a Gryffindor being caught off guard by the sudden assault. "Stay the hell away from -"

He was cut off once more, but this time – by Osborn's pack that immediately surged forward, converging on Sebastian in a flurry of shoves and fists.

From behind, Ominis pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Damn it, Sebastian," he muttered under his breath, before plunging headlong into the fray too.

He shoved and grappled, trying in vain to pull the combatants apart, but his pacifying attempts were short-lived. Within moments, he too was trading blows after finding his struggles on the receiving end of a stray punch that snapped his head to the side.

Apocrypha paced anxiously at the edges, eyes wild as the brawl erupted.

"You all look like complete idiots, you know that? Stop it!" she yelled, falling on deaf ears.

As the combatants drew closer, Garreth reached out and grabbed the girl by the collar from behind to haul her back, much like an adult restraining a misbehaving child.

"Hold it," the boy admonished, Natsai looking on with a mixture of alarm and exasperation beside him. "Looks like the lot of them have gone mental."

Natsai frantically tugged at his sleeve. "What's happening? Why are they fighting?"

Garreth's grip on Apocrypha's collar slackened momentarily as he glanced back at his partner to answer. Seizing the opportunity in a moment of distraction, she wriggled free and launched herself into the brawl, disappearing amidst the tangle of flailing limbs – the sight of Ominis taking a harsh blow to the jaw had been her final straw.

Natsai's angry scream cut through the chaos. "No! Come back here!"

Garreth paused for a moment, assessing the situation – at this point it was simply embarrassing to stay left out, his aunt's morals be damned. Natsai's shrieks of protest went unheeded as he rolled up his sleeves and jumped in too, throwing a careless "Sod it, they're outnumbered" on his way.

The Hospital Wing was a bustling scene of activity in the aftermath of the brawl. Nurse Blainey hovered over Sebastian, tending to his bloodied nose.

"Really, Mr. Sallow, was all this necessary?" she chided, dabbing at the injury with a damp cloth, the boy wincing slightly at her firm touch. "Honestly, you boys and your constant squabbling."

From the adjacent bed, Ominis gingerly rubbed at his sore jawline, jerking his chin towards Sebastian half-heartedly.

"Thanks to your little stunt, we're all stuck in here," he grumbled. "Nice going, Sallow."

Apocrypha scowled from her own bed, idly wiping the blood from her split lip with the sleeve of her robes.

"Hmph. The wanker had it coming," she muttered gruffly, though the satisfaction in her expression was palpable.

Sebastian barely suppressed a snort, flashing her a crooked grin. "Nice work on him, by the way – I saw that punch you landed. Wicked."

Nurse Blainey clucked her tongue, finally stepping away from his bedside. "There, that should do it. Try not to go about breaking your nose again, Mr. Sallow."

On the opposite side of the room, Deputy Headmistress' stern voice carried across the ward as she scolded a sheepish-looking Garreth.

"I expected better from you, young man. Brawling in the yard like a common hooligan – honestly, what were you thinking?"

"Blimey, it sounds like Garreth's in for it. I almost feel bad for the bloke... almost." From the bed next to Ominis, Leander let out a weary chuckle while nursing a nasty bruise on his cheek. No one really seemed to know when exactly he found himself involved on their side, not until the whole fight was over. "To be fair, Professor, it was Sinclair who started it."

Matilda fixed him with a disapproving frown.

"That's no excuse, Mr. Prewett. You all will be serving detention for the next two weeks, and I will be informing your parents of this incident." Her eyes swept the infirmary, settling on each of the battered students in turn. "You should be ashamed of yourselves. Fighting like a pack of wild animals – I expect more from Hogwarts students."

Ominis shifted uncomfortably, lips twisting bitterly at the prospect of his father hearing about this. Nurse Blainey tutted sympathetically as she moved to examine his face.

"There, there, dear. You all got a bit carried away, that's all." She cast a stern look at the group. "But mark my words, any more nonsense like this, and you'll be spending the night in here, injuries or not."

Sebastian rolled his eyes, yet couldn't help but sneak a sidelong glance at Leander. In the aftermath of the chaotic brawl, he found his usual animosity towards the Gryffindor softening somewhat. Leander had, after all, jumped in to support, even if it was against his own House.

Ominis winced as the nurse examined the rapidly purpling bruise on his jaw, and let out a resigned sigh. "I can't believe I let myself get drawn into this mess. Utterly ridiculous."

Apocrypha dropped her back on the mattress, shooting him a barely restrained, unrepentant smirk. "You were giving as good as you got, don't even try to pretend otherwise."

Ominis grimaced, fingers tracing the unfamiliar contours of his wand – the one he'd lost in the fray, a crucial tool for a blind wizard like himself. "Easy for you to say. You didn't lose your bloody wand."

A brief moment of tense quiet was shattered by a mocking drawl from the far corner of the infirmary.

"Aw, poor Gaunt," the voice sneered, feigning sympathy. "Can't even keep track of his own wand. No wonder you lot got your arses handed to you."

Jasper had been the only member of their group left behind, the rest having quickly disappeared when the prefects and professors arrived to break up the fight.

Ominis bristled, lips thinning into a tight line. But before he could retort, Jasper's attention shifted to Leander.

"And you," he spat from his bedside, "bet you're really regretting jumping in to play the hero, aren't you, Prewett? Thought you were one of us, but I guess you thought you could impress your little snake friends by turning on Osborn. Pathetic."

Leander kept his head turned away from his housemate, expression tense – he knew Osborn wasn't going to be too pleased he betrayed him like this.

Jasper scoffed at the silence, opening his mouth to deliver another scathing taunt, but was swiftly cut off by Professor Weasley's stern voice.

"That's quite enough out of you, Mr. Wackfield," she reprimanded sharply. "All of you are to report to my office, individually, once you've been cleared by Madam Blainey. Is that understood?"

The students fell silent, suitably chastised as the Deputy Headmistress swept out of the ward. Jasper shot one last mocking glance at the rest before sulking back to his bed, grumbling under his breath.

As the nurse continued her rounds, Ominis turned his head in Leander's general direction, voice low and contemplative. "So, it would seem you've chosen a side in this mess, Prewett. I can't say I expected that."

Leander let out a short, humorless laugh.

"Honestly, neither did I," he shrugged, wincing slightly as the motion pulled at his injured knuckles. "It was the right thing to do, even if it wasn't the smartest. Though I'm not exactly looking forward to returning to my dorm."

Chapter Text

As the first flurries of winter began blanketing the castle grounds, the two weeks of detention seemed to pass in a blur. However, not everyone suffered the consequences in quite the same manner – while some found themselves burdened with endless lines or tedious cleaning tasks, others appeared to escape the consequences unscathed.

Osborn, for instance, had managed to avoid any real disciplinary action for his role in the fight at all, much to the consternation of his peers. His continued presence around the school remained a source of resentment, particularly as he grew increasingly absent from his classes once again.

Leander, on the other hand, seemed to draw the short straw, with the aftermath proving far more perilous for him. Just days after the confrontation, he found himself set upon by Osborn's 'loyalists' in his own dormitory, with a savage beating serving as retribution for his betrayal. Not that he didn't expect this – the rules within his House had changed drastically.

The growing divide between Gryffindor and Slytherin, once a common rivalry, had taken on a more unsettling tone in the wake of the incident. Slytherins, ever known for their cutthroat nature, maintained their expected hostility, but it was the Gryffindors, emboldened by Osborn's influence, who now displayed a newfound aggression and propensity for violence.

This shift in dynamics was nowhere more apparent than on the Quidditch pitch, where the first match of the season had been moved forward due to an increased Auror presence around the school. That game took on a new, unsettling edge, where Gryffindor's dominance and boldness spilled out onto the field, with players in crimson seeming intent on injuring their opponents rather than simply outscoring them. Bruises, broken bones, and bitter accusations filled the aftermath, as the two Houses seemed further entrenched in their growing animosity.

Among the other students, Osborn was regarded with a mix of trepidation and disgust. The Ravenclaws saw him as a divisive plague, intent on sowing discord, while the ever-loyal Hufflepuffs simply feared the power he seemed to wield over his own House, their expressions now apprehensive whenever the red-and-gold uniforms came into view.

Yet within Gryffindor itself, there remained a stubborn refusal to acknowledge the true nature of Osborn's presence. The prefect's power over most of his housemates, especially the male part, appeared to be absolute, brooking no dissent or questioning of his methods – it was a remarkable transformation, considering how quickly he had managed to amass such influence.

Yet, as the Christmas drew near, the tensions seemed, for a brief moment, to melt away. The imminent arrival of the holiday offered a much-needed distraction, a chance to shed the burdens of uniforms and House rivalries and to appear as ordinary young witches and wizards, eager to reunite with their families once more.

Eliza was among the first to depart, with goodbyes to her roommates loud and energetic as expected. Yet before she left, the foreigner had taken the time to leave small tokens for those she wanted to consider friends – a few friendly notes and tiny moonstone jewelry pieces, her silent gesture of affection.

Apocrypha, on the other hand, had chosen to forgo the trip home, much to the surprise of her roommates. In the midst of her own hurried preparations, she paused to quickly scribble a letter to her mother, expressing her preference to celebrate with friends. Coming from a family that placed little value in any kind of festivities, this was going to be her first true experience of Christmas, and the prospect seemed to fill her with a strange, almost wistful anticipation.

Her decision was in no small part influenced by Sebastian's visibly grim state. With no family to return to, he had grown increasingly pensive as the holiday drew near, his usual bravado giving way to a palpable sense of anxiety. And with Anne no longer by his side, this was going to be Sebastian's first Christmas alone – a thought that visibly weighed heavily upon him.

Despite her distaste for displays of pity, Apocrypha recognized that leaving him alone to face such a painful milestone was simply not an option.

Ominis, meanwhile, seemed to waffle on his own plans until the majority of the castle had already departed. It was not out of any fondness for the holiday or desire to celebrate, but rather a reluctance to face the cruel realities that waited him back in the manor. Yet thankfully, it changed all too soon.

On the day of Christmas Eve, Ominis stormed into the common room, a letter clutched tightly in his hand as he closed the distance between him and the voices next to the window.

"Come on, will you stop building up that defense and actually attack me for once?" Sebastian chided, leaning back in his chair and moving one of his chess pieces on the board. "You can't just sit there and turtle up!"

Apocrypha scoffed, eyes narrowed in concentration as she considered her move. "No, thank you. I'd rather not have my king toppled."

"You'll never guess what happened," Ominis announced, waved the paper triumphantly with poorly hidden excitement on his typically stoic expression. "I'm grounded. Apparently, my grades and that little incident with the fight were the final straw." A wry chuckle escaped him. "But the point is, I'm not going back home. I get to stay here for Christmas."

Apocrypha arched a brow, huffing upon seeing a rare grin spreading across Ominis's face. "Well, look at that. Seems your family's done you a favor for once."

Sebastian, drawn from his melancholy, managed a half-hearted chuckle. "Guess that means the three of us are stuck here together, then. Wouldn't have it any other way, really."

Ominis nodded, flopping down into the nearest armchair with a content exhale. "I couldn't be happier about it. Might enjoy Christmas for once."

"Brilliant," Sebastian sighed softly, gesturing towards his opponent. "Now you can help me knock some sense into this one."

"I'll have you know my strategy is perfectly sound," she retorted, finally moving one of the black pieces on the board. "You're just too impatient."

The Great Hall was alive with the festive spirit of the Christmas Feast, the long tables laden with an abundance of delectable treats. Despite the Ministry presence and the tensions that had gripped Hogwarts in recent weeks, everyone who had remained seemed determined to simply enjoy the holiday air, thick with the mingling scents of roasted meats, freshly baked breads, and decadent desserts.

Osborn, as had become the norm, was absent from the proceedings, but in his stead, the number of officials around the castle seemed to have increased dramatically, serving as a jarring reminder that all was not well. Headmaster Black made a rare appearance, delivering his customary celebratory address before swiftly departing, pulled away by the cloaked figures who hovered around him.

Despite their stern presence that cast an unsettling shadow over the otherwise jovial occasion, the students did their best to bask in the warm Christmas atmosphere, bolstered by the professors' efforts to foster a sense of security and normalcy. They laughed and chatted animatedly, savoring the rich flavors of the feast and reveling in the warm glow of the floating candles overhead.

As the meal drew to a close and the student body began to trickle out of the Great Hall, Sebastian leaned in towards his friends.

"You lot fancy another trip to the Undercroft after this? I've got a little something I think you'll enjoy."

Apocrypha glanced sideways, leaning her cheek on the fist above the empty plate. "Sounds like a plan."

Ominis nodded, wiping the remains of the dessert from his mouth. "I'll just need to nip back to the dorms for a moment, if you don't mind."

"No problem," Sebastian assured him, already rising from his seat. "I'll go on ahead and get things set up. Meet you two there?"

With murmured agreements, they parted ways, each with their own intentions in mind.

In the relative privacy of the Slytherin common room, Ominis tried to fit a few small wrappings into the pockets of his casual trousers. Hearing his friend's approach from the side of the girls' dormitory, he repositioned the package behind his back.

"What have you got there?" he asked, recognizing the faint rustle of paper that betrayed her own secret parcel.

Apocrypha quickly shifted the item behind her back, mimicking his movements and casting a furtive glance around the empty room.

"Ah-ah, patience," she retorted, fixing the collar of her old grayish sweater nonchalantly. "I do see you've got something up your sleeve as well."

Ominis chuckled, falling into step beside her as they made their way towards the exit. "Guilty as charged."

They exchanged a few more jabs of good-natured banter while traversing the decorated corridors, the sounds of their footsteps and the occasional crinkle of wrapping paper the only disruption to the relative quiet.

As they approached the familiar alcove, they found Sebastian already behind the carved door, waiting.

"Took you long enough," he teased, producing two concealed bottles from from behind a barrel. "I, uh, may have procured us a little holiday treat. Courtesy of some enterprising seventh years."

"Really, Sebastian?" Ominis let out a long-suffering sigh, though the corners of his mouth twitched in amusement at his own dramatic expression. "I'm shocked, I tell you – shocked."

Sebastian snorted, unscrewing the cap of one of the bottles. "Come on, it's Christmas – live a little, won't you?"

Apocrypha leaned in, eyeing the bottle in his hand skeptically. Taking a cautious sniff, she wrinkled her nose at the cloying sweetness that wafted up.

"Merlin's beard, where did you even get this?" she asked with a slight flinch. "It smells like pure sugar."

Sebastian puffed out his chest proudly.

"Ah, that's the result of a few weeks' worth of strategic trading with some Ravenclaws," he explained. "Apparently, even they needed a bit of help with their studies from time to time, and I was more than happy to oblige in this sort of exchange."

"Chocolate liquor by the smell of it," Ominis remarked dryly. "Charming."

Sebastian waggled his eyebrows, uncapping the second bottle with a satisfying pop. "And we've got another one here, just in case the first doesn't quite suit your refined palates."

Apocrypha left the wrappings on the small table and eyed the slightly larger bottle warily, leaning in to catch the rich, sour aroma of wine. "At least smells less like it'll rot my teeth. Let's start with this one."

Sebastian's mouth twisted hesitantly, but he obliged, taking a cautious, experimental lick. His face immediately contorted at the tart, dry flavor. "Blimey, this other one is sour as all hell. Here, you try it."

Apocrypha grimaced as he held the bottle out, droplets of the pungent wine clinging to the rim. "Absolutely not. I'm not drinking after your saliva's been all over it."

"Oi, I'll have you know my saliva adds to the bouquet, thank you very much," he let out an indignant squawk, wiggling the bottle teasingly. "Come off it, you big baby."

Being the one easy to provoke, she squared her shoulders and snatched the bottle from his hands to take a generous sip. The sharp, acidic liquid hit her tongue, and Apocrypha fought the urge to pull a face. Instead, she lowered the bottle, fixing her friends with a challenging stare.

Sebastian blinked, then let out a bark of laughter. "Bloody hell, Kryph, I'll never get it how you stand that," he plucked the bottle back, raising it in a mock toast. "Cheers, you crazy witch."

Ominis shook his head in amusement, reaching out to snatch the drink from his friend's hands. "Well, since you two have thoroughly sampled the wares, I suppose it's my turn."

He brought the wine to his lips for a measured sip, savoring the unfamiliar flavor. His expression scrunched up momentarily before relaxing into an almost surprised look.

"Well, I'll be. That's actually quite palatable." He flashed a wry grin in Apocrypha's direction. "Though I daresay it could use a bit more sugar to balance the acidity."

"Bloody hell, the both of you," Sebastian shook his head in dramatic disbelief. "Fine, let's get this over with. But I'm warning you, if this is as horrid as I think it is, I'm not sharing my chocolate with either of you."

Ominis couldn't resist a sardonic chuckle at his friend's theatrics, absently swirling the deep ruby liquid in the bottle.

"Scared of a little sourness, Sebastian?" He took another contemplative sip of the wine, the bitter notes dancing across his tongue. "Most wines I've sampled back home tend to have a bit more balance, but this isn't half bad. Of course, those have typically been at rather stuffy affairs, not quite the cozy little gathering we have here."

His family's pedigree as members of the prestigious House of Gaunt had afforded him a certain degree of exposure to more refined social circles, including the occasional official dinner party where he'd had the opportunity to sample some of alcoholic beverages. Yet, it didn't quite change the fact that none of them knew how to handle drinking.

Sebastian scoffed good-naturedly, rolling his eyes.

"Leave it to you to find the silver lining in something that tastes like it could strip the enamel right off your teeth." He paused, eyes widening as a look of realization dawned on his face. "Speaking of which..."

BAILE - I Really Missed You as a Friend

Shuffling around the pile of old books that littered their hideaway, Sebastian produced a few carefully wrapped packages, passing one to each of his friends. "I, uh, might have put together a few little holiday gifts for you two."

Ominis carefully unwrapped the small bundle from the crisp paper, revealing a slim journal grasping the smooth texture of the quill.

"I figured it might make note-taking a bit easier for you," Sebastian explained with a small hint of pride in his voice. "Just dictate what you need, and the quill will do the rest. I charmed it myself."

Ominis ran his fingers along the smooth surface of the journal, tilting his chin up with a faint smile. Rarely had he received presents this thoughtful to his disability.

"Clever, Sebastian", he mused, reaching out to firmly clasp his friend's forearm in a brotherly gesture of sincere gratitude. "Thank you, my friend."

Sebastian inclined his head in a small nod, grasping Ominis's forearm just as firmly. "Merry Christmas, mate. Least I could do for you."

Meanwhile, Apocrypha eyed her own package with a mixture of uncertainty and curiosity, unwrapping the delicate paper to reveal a small, intricately carved dragonfly hair pin and a cloth bag of what appeared to be some sort of confection of unusual green hue. She arched a brow, glancing up at Sebastian with a questioning look, her usual bravado momentarily shaken.

"The pin is to keep that mane of yours in check," he explained upon seeing her puzzlement, pointing towards the bag in her hand. "And the candies... Our 'Potions prodigy' lent me a hand with those – they're supposed to be absurdly sour, just the way you like it."

Apocrypha pressed dry lips tightly together in expression barely readable – gift-giving was not something she was accustomed to, and she had always been more comfortable with the idea of giving rather than receiving. Swallowing, she managed a rare, sheepish smile.

"I... Thank you. This is... really nice. I'll put it to good use, I'm sure." She cleared her throat awkwardly, holding the pin up to admire the intricate detailing before forcing her usual character on the outside all too soon. "And the candies better actually be as sour as you promised, or I'll have your head."

Sebastian let out a snort, clearly pleased with her reaction. "Wouldn't dream of disappointing you, Kryph. Merry Christmas."

The brief moment of silence that followed hung awkwardly between them, a palpable tension as Apocrypha struggled to find the appropriate words. She was painfully aware of the unspoken expectations around such gift-giving traditions – the customary gestures of gratitude, the physical displays of closeness. She wasn't certain if she had to simply endure this gesture for the sake of not ruining the moment, yet even the thought of it made her skin crawl.

Just as Sebastian opened his mouth, likely to offer some lighthearted quip to diffuse the situation, Apocrypha suddenly jerked upright, expression shifting as if she had remembered something important. Swiftly, she reached for the wrappings she had left on the table earlier, carefully handing one to each of her friends.

"Here," she said gruffly, eyes averted as her usual abrasiveness returned like a well-worn cloak. "Thought you might need them, with the weather and all."

As the boys unwrapped the packaging, their expressions shifted to ones of pleasant surprise. In Ominis's hands was a lush, mossy green hand-knitted scarf, the fabric smooth and delicate to the touch. Sebastian, on the other hand, found himself holding a scarf of a deeper, pine-tinged hue, the pattern a cozy, textured weave.

Sebastian immediately buried his face in the soft material, inhaling deeply. A relaxed grin spread across his face as the familiar scent enveloped him.

"Merlin's beard, Kryph, this smells just like your place," his words came out muffled against the fabric. "Your mum made these for us?"

Apocrypha shifted uncomfortably, worrying her lower lip.

"I, well, I couldn't really afford to buy anything, and I'm absolute rubbish at crafting, so she offered to help." She explained, twisting her fingers in a gesture of slight nervousness. "I hope they're alright."

Ominis, meanwhile, had already wrapped the scarf around the lower half of his face, blind eyes peering out from beneath the soft material.

"That's very thoughtful of you and your mother," he let out a content hum, running his fingers over the smooth, intricate pattern. "Thank you, truly."

Sebastian eagerly wound his present around his neck, nodding. "Kryph, these are brilliant. Haven't had anything like this in a while."

"Yeah, well, don't get all sappy on me," Apocrypha cleared her throat and nodded, suddenly finding the floor rather fascinating to look at. For all her tough exterior, the heartfelt appreciation from her friends was clearly touching. "You both deserve it. Merry Christmas, you two."

Ominis clicked his tongue, turning to his friends with a small, reserved smile.

"It seems I'm the last one with presents to share," he said simply, unclenching his forearm to free two neatly wrapped packages before handing them over. "Found a few things that made me think of you both."

Sebastian's eyes gleamed with curiosity as he hefted the weighty parcel in his hands. "Feels like a book."

"Well, you are quite the bookworm, aren't you? I figured something new to add to your collection might suit you nicely." Ominis chuckled lightly before gesturing towards the other parcel. "And I couldn't very well leave the, ah, maintenance of your 'mane' unaddressed, Kryph."

Apocrypha, carefully unwrapped her own gift, brows knitting together in a look of mild confusion as a delicately carved sandalwood comb looked back. She ran her fingers along the polished surface, glancing up at Ominis uncertainly.

"I, um...is my hair really that much of a problem?" she asked sheepishly, self-consciously tucking a wayward strand behind her ear.

Ominis shook his head quickly, offering a small reassuring smile. "Not at all. I simply thought you might enjoy having something to keep it managed, since it's grown so long."

Apocrypha twisted her mouth thoughtfully, but her expression visibly relaxed as she brought the comb to the length of her hair which was usually hastily pulled back from in a loose braid and always ended up being a messy knot. Slowly, she gave her present an experimental brush, dragging the polished teeth through the coal black strands. "Well, in that case, thank you. It's lovely."

But Sebastian had a tendency of being more straightforward.

"I have to admit, Kryph, sometimes I forget you're even a girl, with how little you seem to care about all that," he teased while fumbling with the papers with his busy hand, the free one gesturing to his own head meaningfully. "But that's just it, isn't it? You're our friend first of all, and I don't really care much about the rest."

Ominis nodded in agreement, exhaling a thoughtful hum. He knew well that the notion of being accepted so wholly, without regard for her gender, was a profound one. In their tight-knit circle, she simply existed as an equal – it was a rare comfort, allowing her to feel easy in her own skin, rather than constantly self-conscious.

In the meantime, Sebastian managed to unwrap his own box at last, revealing a hardbound book. His brows rose briefly at the title – 'Omens and Oracles.'

"Divination, eh? Thought you knew me better than that, mate," he snickered softly, glancing up. "Trying to turn me into a Seer, are you?"

Ominis shrugged, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards in a brief knowing smirk. "Oh, I do. But Eliza had recommended this particular tome, and I thought you could use something new, given how you've practically devoured the entire library by now."

"Ah, so the lady has you branching out, does she? Can't say I'm surprised – that one's positively obsessed with Divination." Sebastian rolled his eyes good-naturedly. "Suppose I can give this a read, see if I've got the makings of a true Seer. Who knows, maybe I'll surprise you all."

Apocrypha let out a sharp scoff, expression turning sour at the mere mention of Eliza's name.

"Oh, please, as if we needed that walking Divination textbook to give us more insight into the 'mysteries of the universe'." She muttered, making a show of curling her fingers in air quotes. "Merlin knows Kochanowska's head is so far up her own-"

"Alright, alright, easy there, Kryph," Sebastian interrupted with a chuckle. "Give the girl a break. Maybe she's trying to broaden Ominis's horizons a bit."

She rolled her eyes dramatically, muttering something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like "bloody harpy".

Ominis felt the tips of his ears grow warm at the insinuation, though he did his best to maintain an impassive expression. "She's nice, that's all."

"Uh-huh, sure," Sebastian drawled, turning towards the bottles still sitting on the table to pick one up and give it an experimental swirl. "Anyway, enough chit-chat. I think it's about time we try these properly, don't you?"

Omfeel – Trust

The hours passed in a haze of easy conversation and bouts of laughter, the air slowly loosening further under the combined effects of drinks. With their knowledge of proper drinking being quite limited, to say the least, they quickly realized that mixing the hearty red wine with the light liquor was not the best idea.

It didn't take long before the consequences of their amateur mixology began to set in. An hour or so passed in a pleasant haze with warmth suffusing their limbs, and the world quickly slipped into a delightfully carefree blur. At this point, nor the shared saliva from passing the bottles back and forth, nor the dizziness seemed to bother anymore.

Before long, they found themselves sprawled on the stone floor, backs pressed against one of the sturdy columns, movements languid and uncoordinated as they gestured lazily.

"I think..." Apocrypha slurred, scrubbing a hand down her face. "I think maybe...we overdid this, lads."

Sebastian hiccupped in agreement while peering at his reflection in the bottle and shaking a slow nod. Turning his head to the side, he took another long sip, narrowing his eyes in an attempt to focus on his friend's face.

"Your hair's so long now, Kryph. Looking dead smart all brushed out like that." He reached to teasingly tug on a lock, grinning as she batted him away with a grimace.

Ominis snorted from his side of the column, lazily stretching out his legs and exhaling a soft sigh.

"Not sure where he gets off giving fashion advice," he muttered, idly toying with the end of a dark strand that clung to his forearm. "But he does have a point – it suits you."

Apocrypha hooked the strand away from the contact, brows arching quizzically above the slightly unfocused stare. "All right then, how in bloody hell do you know anything about my hair when you can't see it?"

Ominis let out an amused hum, tapping the glowing tip of his wand lightly against his temple.

"Magic..." he whispered dramatically, chuckling to himself. "And Sebastian may have let slip some choice details earlier."

Sebastian promptly choked on his drink, spluttering indignantly.

"Oi, none of that now," he managed in between hacks, aiming a weak punch at Ominis's shoulder. "When'd I say something like that?"

Ominis threw his head back in unrestrained peals of drunken laughter, uncaring of how undignified he seemed or sounded.

"When we discussed how rarely she bothers with things like skirts or dresses, no?" he chimed, pulling the bottle from his friend's hand to take an idle sip.

Apocrypha's eyes rolled up reflexively as she waved a careless hand to Sebastian's grunt.

"Yeah, well, skirts are bloody uncomfortable. You'd know that if you ever tried wearing one, Ominis." She declared with a decisive nod, accepting the bottle. "So what else did he 'let slip'?"

Ominis sighed exaggeratedly, relaxing his shoulders against the stone casually.

"Just about your little summer escapades together, is all. Funny though, you don't sound much different than us, with you living so far north. Thought that was a bit odd." He cocked his head. "Makes me wonder where you're really from, Kryph."

Apocrypha's expression soured momentarily before smooth indifference slid back into place. "Aye, well. Born in Scotland, me."

"Told you, Ominis," Sebastian interjected slyly, reaching for the bottle his friend pulled protectively to her chest. "Pass that over, would you?"

"Only if you admit Divination's all bunk," she challenged gruffly, secretly grateful for the quick change of topic.

A resigned look crossed his features as he reluctantly conceded. "All right, all right, you vulture. Divination's a load of bollocks, now give it here!"

Apocrypha smirked in satisfaction, passing the drink over as Sebastian pushed himself to his feet, swaying unsteadily. He brushed aimlessly at the dust on his trousers, movements clumsy and exaggerated in his inebriated state.

"Right then, I'm off to the loo. Be back in a tick." He waved a vague hand over his shoulder as he lurched towards the exit, only catching himself on the doorframe once as he stumbled through the opening. His friends' teasing quips followed at his back until –

"Oof!"

A startled squawk and faint flapping met their ears, accompanied by Sebastian's noise of surprise. Then the heavy thud of the door swinging shut cut off further sounds from the corridor beyond, and a comfortable stillness settled over the hideout.

Ominis was the first to break the silence, tentatively voicing what they both knew to be true. "He seems...better, don't you think? Even just for a little while."

Apocrypha nodded slowly. "You did well, making sure of it."

He ducked his head, exhaling a content huff. "As did you."

Before they could say more, the door creaked open once more. But no laughter or clumsy footsteps followed this time.

Ominis chuckled. "Blimey, Sebastian's always been quick, but- "

He froze, head tipping slightly as if listening intently. Where moments before Sebastian's steps had been unsteady and shuffling, now they echoed with an unnatural, grim sobriety. An eerie stillness hung thick in the air as a figure passed silently into view.

Apocrypha froze with the bottle halfway to her mouth, eyes darting to where Sebastian stood stock-still, staring ahead with an expression like carven stone and sober as if the drink had never touched his lips at all.

He was motionless, shoulders rigid as the hand clutching the unfolded parchment trembled violently at his side in whitened knuckles.

Apocrypha rose unsteadily, glancing worriedly at Ominis.

"What is it?" she asked warily, unnerved by this drastic shift.

For a moment that seemed too long for comfort, there was no response.

Sebastian simply stared, lips parted around a shuddered exhale until he managed two words, barely more than a choked whisper.

"Anne's... dead."

Chapter Text

ICA – Circle of Monoliths

Death. It's a rough one, isn't it?

There are different stages of accepting it, but the human brain always struggles to acknowledge the ultimate finality, the horrifying realization of the other life being truly gone. No matter the order, this understanding only truly sinks in after the funeral, after laying eyes on the gravestone or the corpse – it is in those fleeting moments that one comprehends the meaning of loss in its entirety, and the brutal severity of it.

It was no different with Sebastian, despite him being far from acknowledging the loss on the Christmas night. The Undercroft felt colder than usual that day, and nor the presents, nor what they three shared seemed to matter anymore.

He had sat huddled against the stone wall, clutching the letter as though to squeeze the life from ink through sheer madness. For him, the standard stages played out in an altered sequence, hitting him with raw, visceral force through angry denial.

His friends looked on, helpless witnesses as he fell to pieces. It was an image that would remain seared into memory – the sight of their companion reduced to a state which was more a wounded dog than a boy, with pain spilling from every pore. Tears carved saltwater tracks down his contorted features as animalistic sounds were torn from his throat.

"Months!" Sebastian managed in fragmented speech, words choked with tears. "She's been dead for fucking months and no one told me!"

His red-rimmed eyes shot up, darting wildly between his friends.

"Did you know?" he demanded of Ominis through gritted teeth.

Ominis's reply was barely audible. "I received no letters from Anne since summer, same as you. If I had any idea – "

"Don't lie – you knew, didn't you?!" Sebastian spat without mercy, eyes flashing betrayal. "Was this some grand secret you thought I couldn't handle?"

"I know you're hurting, but don't say things you'll regret," Ominis held up his hands, jaw set tight. "I'm sorry for your loss, truly. Anne was my friend too. "

Sebastian snorted derisively, tearing his bloodshot eyes from that calm mask on his friend's face.

"Fuck your pity," he spat, joints cracking as he lurched up from the cold floor and took an aggressive step forward. "You held me back when I could've saved her last year. If you had actually helped when I asked, maybe Anne would still – "

Apocrypha interjected, stepping between them. "Stop this, it's not his fault –"

"Shut up!" he yelled, rounding on her. "Don't act the caring friend now."

She flinched, swallowing thickly in her haste while fumbling with the right words to refer to.

"Don't do this. Anne's death isn't Ominis's fault." She looked up intently at Sebastian, willing him to see reason just the way he once attempted with her. "You can't just accuse people who care about you."

Sebastian's brows twitched in brief acknowledgment, but his scowl returned twofold just a mere moment later. A hateful sneer twisted his features, lips curling back in a grimace. He was hurt – and he wanted to hurt.

He looked down at her, words crawling spitefully from his tongue.

"And who are those?" his throat worked violently as he mimicked her own tone, bitterness seeping from every word while he leaned in, nearly touching. He knew he should've stopped, but the temptation of payback was nearly impossible to resist. "Oh right – you?"

Apocrypha's face drained of what little color was present at the rejection. But it quickly twisted into indignant anger.

"Oh, this is my fault then?" she snarled back, taking an aggressive step towards him.

Her sudden venomous tone made Sebastian rear back reflexively.

"Watch yourself," he growled through clenched teeth, posture tensing.

"Or what?" she challenged. "Going to pin this on me too?"

"You're damned right I will!" Sebastian shouted, invading her space. "You barely lifted a wand to learn the charm! So fuck off with your double standards, Kryph. We both know you don't give a shi– "

"Enough, Sebastian!" Ominis thundered, forcing himself between the two and placing a firm hand on Sebastian's chest to push him back.

"Get off me!" he snarled, trying to circumvent Ominis's barrier.

"You need to calm down!" Ominis hissed, gripping his friend's shoulders painfully.

Panting, Sebastian wrestled briefly against the restraint before shoving Ominis back. He swept a burning glare between them both.

"The only thing I know is that she suffered alone while you lot lived in ignorant bliss. And now she's..." His voice cracked, anger dissolving into a sob as he stumbled from the room.

"Stay the hell away from me."

It was a painful memory – and it haunted them all. Even with Sebastian's departure to the other side of Scotland for the rest of the holidays, supposedly to be with those distant relatives who had cared for Anne, the pain of his absence remained. If anything, it seemed to intensify, leaving those left behind feeling even more isolated.

A week passed in a blur, and the rest of the students returned from the Christmas break, but Sebastian remained absent. His silence hung in the air, heavy and suffocating – it was a torment that neither Ominis nor Apocrypha were prepared for, but Ominis seemed determined to endure it.

Their lessons became quiet, time spent in the library or common room – hollow, lacking the usual atmosphere. They avoided bringing up the topic, afraid that it would only deepen the pain that they were already grappling with.

This silence bred exhaustion. While Apocrypha had long struggled with sleep-related issues, her fatigue now rapidly reached unprecedented levels. The weariness seeped into her bones, rendering her drained and vulnerable, unable to resist the occasional blackout in the middle of class. There was an unsettling calmness that accompanied these moments, as if something within her thrived on the agony, the constriction in her chest.

And it demanded more.

It navigated her anatomy with a horrifying familiarity, as if it had studied the inner workings of a human body and understood exactly where to exert pressure, where to invade, and where to inflict the most torment.

Alone, in her bed, she could almost perceive a presence slithering between her ribs, feel it swirling like a swarm of worms coiling in her intestines. She could almost envision the grotesque form, jaws chomping, chewing, and smacking with a sickening slickness. It devoured her emotions from the inside, somewhere from her abdomen, shifting and squirming through organs with disgusting satisfaction.

The sensation was so vivid Apocrypha had to fight the urge to retch – she felt violated.

Her state of being began to bear an uncanny resemblance to that of an infected, parasitic host. It didn't constantly make its presence known, but seemed to manifest in her moments of weakness – when doubt, shame or hurt left her vulnerable. She often found herself questioning her own sanity, but the idea of slowly losing grip on reality became a comforting explanation, a thought she found easier to entertain than reckon with the truth.

This exhaustion left her vulnerable, no longer unable to force herself to stay awake in order to avoid what her dreams usually had to offer. Naturally, her condition did not go unnoticed by others – professors expressed their concern, but her classmates remained silently disturbed by the visible rift between the once inseparable group of friends.

Rumors circulated swiftly, but even Ominis couldn't find the energy to engage in arguments. It was a difficult time for him as well, as he struggled to maintain the illusion of calm despite feeling his glass bubble of normalcy crumbling. But he felt a responsibility to at least try to keep the ground solid beneath them all, concealing his own pain and anxiety behind a newfound initiative that didn't quite suit him. He was rarely seen without Apocrypha by his side, getting used to remaining together and parting ways only after curfew just to reunite before classes – as if seeking safety in in each other's presence.

Sebastian's prolonged absence formed an opening – one that Eliza was quick to seize, worming her way into the gap and attaching herself to Ominis like a stubborn burr.

The girl clung to him like a burdock, however, unlike before, Apocrypha lacked the energy to chase the annoying presence away, allowing her to linger by Ominis's side. Her focus narrowed to simply enduring each day as it came.

"Look, look!" Eliza rang with her boundless energy as she bounced around the dormitory in her pajamas and brandished a vintage shirt with childlike enthusiasm. "My brother, he buy this for me! And a skirt too – all new clothes!"

Imelda rolled her eyes from her bed. "We know, Kochanowska. You've only told us a dozen times already."

Undeterred, the girl beamed.

"And he give me this cross for Christmas – so pretty!" She exclaimed, proudly displaying the golden religious pendant hanging from her neck. "My brother, he say I must wear it always to keep me safe."

Imelda arched a brow, leaning in with feigned interest. "Your brother, hm? Is he as...energetic as you?"

Eliza giggled, primping in front of the mirror. "Oh, he very handsome! Strong, like a man!"

From the other side of the room, Nerida interjected. "I thought you were an orphan from that place in Poland? You never mentioned having a brother before."

The smile faltered momentarily on Eliza's face.

"Ah, yes, is true. But last year, we find each other! Different mothers, you see." She waved a dismissive hand, laughter trailing off into a nervous chuckle. "He far away, not here."

Imelda hummed skeptically. "How convenient. An orphan who suddenly discovers a long-lost, wealthy brother."

"Imelda!" Nerida chided, frowning. "Don't be rude."

Eliza shot them a hurt look, clutching the cross protectively.

"We family, yes? Is normal he give me things." She paused, looking for a convincingly wistful expression to put on her face. "Is sad he not here with me at Hogwarts..."

Nerida attempted to ease the tension by diverting the conversation towards the things that seemed more pleasant. "Well, what else did you and your brother do then?"

The girl's eyes lit up as she launched into a lively account of her Christmas adventures, the chatter gradually fading into the background. Nerida listened attentively, offering occasional nods and encouraging smiles. The dormitory seemed to settle into a more relaxed atmosphere as they engaged in casual small talk that buzzed with renewed excitement.

Imelda, however, seemed to lose interest, pushing up from her bed and crossing the room to where Apocrypha lay turned away, seemingly motionless.

"Blackwood, you asleep over there?" She called over, a hint of annoyance coloring her tone. "No way I could nod off with Kochanowska over there making such a racket."

Her comment hung in the air for some time, unanswered. With a nonchalant shrug, Imelda retreated back to her own bed, her intention of finding an ally in this noise seemingly thwarted.

Apocrypha remained perfectly still, eyes hooded as she stared fixatedly at the apple resting on the nearby table. Its surface held an almost hypnotic allure, and she found herself carefully counting the infinitesimal spots and blemishes. More often than not, those dots she was used to adding were the freckles on Sebastian's right cheekbone or the moles scattered on Ominis's arms – especially next to his elbows. Counting became a coping mechanism, a way to resist anything that threatened to lull her into unconsciousness.

The rhythmic tremor of her foot beneath the blanket betrayed her restlessness as she struggled to maintain a steady count, mouthing the numbers silently. The background chatter provided an unexpected help, and for the first time, Apocrypha found herself strangely grateful for Eliza's boisterous nature.

"Twenty-six, twenty-seven... twenty-eight," she murmured, lips tracing the numbers soundlessly.

For an indeterminate time, the background twittering continued, punctuated by the occasional giggle or sigh of annoyance.

Then, a sudden silence.

ICA – The Damned

She lifted her head, blinking in the unexpected darkness that had swiftly permeated the dormitory. The heating stove was cold and dark, the lamps extinguished. Her roommates' beds sat empty, covers rumpled from recent occupation.

Confused, she paused, then slowly laid her head back down, attempting to dismiss the strangeness by returning her eyes to the fruit. The apple that had occupied the table was no longer visible, the surface bare. She reached out a tentative hand, groping along the empty space. There was no table either.

Swallowing thickly, she fumbled beneath her pillow, retrieving the comforting weight of her wand.

"Lumos," she whispered hoarsely.

But the light revealed only more darkness – an impenetrable, fog-like veil that seemed to swallow up everything beyond the confines of her bed. She stared into the gloom, struggling to make out the familiar shapes of the dormitory, but the world beyond her four-poster remained a hidden, eerie void.

Surely this couldn't be real. Apocrypha blinked harder and shook her head before pinching her arm once, twice, wincing at the sting. The room remained unchanged, and she – still awake.

She rubbed her ears against a faint rumbling that seemed to emanate from inside her skull – a sound she knew all too well. Behind her, barely audible whispers arose from the void. She rolled over hastily, wand held aloft, but the light revealed nothing aside from the same rolling darkness. The whispers faded as quickly as they had come, leaving no trace of their source.

She pressed trembling hands over her ears, fighting to block out the renewed whispers that slithered through the heavy air from the other side. Their sibilant utterances spoke the language she recognized, yet this time carried an unmistakable air of menace instead of pitiful pleading.

The darkness pressed in, stifling and oppressive. The temperature in the room seemed to steadily drop until Apocrypha could see her ragged breaths misting before her. She shuddered violently, drawing her knees up to her chin as saturated eyes slowly discerned small shapes beginning to coalesce in the dark – indistinct silhouettes that hovered at the edge of sight and out of reach of the wavering glow. They swayed and billowed, devoid of features or solid form. She had already seen them before – in the Repository.

Something brushed feather-light against her ankle beneath the blanket, and Apocrypha recoiled with a choked gasp, kicking out violently before drawing herself into a tight, defiant ball.

The wand tumbled from her grasp, extinguishing the last feeble light, and both whispers and rumbling ceased abruptly, as if cut off by the flick of a switch. A deafening silence descended, sudden and jarring after the torment.

She lay frozen, eyes squinting against the blackness. Still curled defensively, she ground her teeth into her wrist until both skin and bone went numb, but nothing changed – only stillness remained.

"This isn't real, it can't be real..." She repeated like a desperate mantra, but the words rang hollow even to her own ears.

The quiet was almost a relief, and Apocrypha dared to cautiously open one eye. Even a faint outline of her bed had disappeared, swallowed by the dark just like her wand. Afraid to make any noise, she stilled herself, straining to hear past the thudding of her heart.

Time crawled by at a torturous pace as she focused on slowing her panicked breaths. She had no concept of how long she waited there in the dark, senses straining for any sign of the world she was used to.

The silence persisted, slowly lulling her into slightly calmer breaths. But just as she began to relax her rigid posture, a soft pressure gripped her ankle beneath the blanket once more.

Before she could react, something violently wrenched her from the bed, cracking her head sharply against the stone floor. Then just as quickly, it lifted her up and hoisted her inverted body upside down, dangling by one foot.

Suspended there, Apocrypha found herself eye level with the space beneath her bed. Her chest constricted at the nightmarish sight – dozens of jet-black heads with sunken eyes and narrowed pupils all stared back at her, clustered so tightly their features melded into a singular dark mass.

She recoiled instinctively, but the grip on her ankle was immovable. The hold only tightened as rough fingertips dug into her flesh with bruising force.

The heads tilted in eerie synchronicity, blinking slowly as they studied her inverted form, tracking every twitch and tremor. The disembodied gazes held no malice, only an alien, detached curiosity as they beheld her struggles. The heads' moist, ash-colored skin glistened in the non-light, muscles writhing and coiling just under the surface like a pit of snakes. Their malformed appearances betrayed no humanity despite the parody of a human shape.

She stared back, mouth working soundlessly in a futile effort to scream. She felt her ribcage vibrating, as if something were trying to claw its way out, but just then the grip on her ankle loosened.

Apocrypha collapsed to the floor in a gasping heap and sucked in a sharp breath through clenched teeth, suddenly being able to discern the shapes that came into view and the History of Magic classroom that swam into focus.

She found herself at the desk with her arms folded, squinting at the daylight that soaked through the windows.

"There you are," Ominis's concerned whisper cut through the post-nightmare haze. "I tried to wake you, but..."

His face hovered beside hers until the attempt to shield their napping failed with the book that slipped off the desk with a clatter. Around them, students glanced up curiously at the commotion, while Professor Binns droned on, oblivious.

Apocrypha lifted her head from where it had lain on her folded arms, disoriented. Behind, Eliza also startled, interrupted from fiddling with her black hair throughout the lesson.

As the ghostly teacher passed their desk, Ominis leaned in again.

"Your breathing sounded so stressed while you slept," he whispered. "More bad dreams?"

Apocrypha shifted uncomfortably, senses slowly readjusting to reality as she attempted to slow her rapid heartbeat. Her propensity for nightmares was no secret between them, even before last year's events. But these latest visions were growing steadily more vivid and sinister.

"I'll be alright," she whispered, not fully convincing even herself. "When did I fall asleep?"

Ominis shrugged in slight confusion, frowning. "Not sure. I was the first to drift off."

From the desk behind them, Eliza piped up with a cheerful whisper, attempting to gain attention by pointing at the dragonfly pin in her classmate's hair. "Oooh, I like your butterfly!"

Apocrypha managed a weak nod, still too shaken to correct Eliza or throw a biting remark in her direction like she used to.

She rubbed her trembling hands nervously before a sharp pain made her wince. Without thinking, she pushed up the sleeve on her arm – only to reveal deep, bruised bite marks and broken skin now oozing over the pale skin of her wrist. Apocrypha hastily covered her arm again, not wanting Ominis to worry – while he could not see the self-inflicted injury, very little evaded his perception when it came to those close to him. She could almost hear the worry in his silence.

Before Ominis could press the issue, the lecture ended in a monotonous drawl. Apocrypha scrambled to gather her untouched books and notes, mumbling an excuse about needing some air before hurriedly exiting the classroom.

Ominis's mouth twisted hesiantly as he listened to her rushed retreat, but he simply began neatening up her forgotten materials without a word. Eliza hovered uncertainly nearby, while other students filed out around them.

Ominis hefted his bag over one shoulder, unfocused eyes downcast in thought. Eliza approached him eagerly, accented voice tinged with uncertainty.

"What is with Apocrypha?" she asked. "She look...not good lately."

Ominis weighed his words carefully before responding.

"It's been a difficult year for her. For all of us." He kept his tone neutral, omitting anything too private. He found Eliza's friendly curiosity harmless, yet still it wasn't enough for him to offer information easily. "She's always been rather... different. But lately she seems more on edge."

Eliza nodded, wide-eyed and innocent as they exited the classroom. "Where she go now?"

"Knowing her? Somewhere almost impossible to find when she wants to disappear," Ominis replied vaguely. But he suspected she was likely in the Room of Requirement, her reliable refuge.

Eliza skipped along beside him as they walked down the hall, smiling shyly. "Where you go? Can I go too?"

"To see the Deputy Headmistress. Just a personal matter I need to discuss." Ominis's tone remained pleasant but final.

Undeterred, Eliza pressed on as she looked up at him beseechingly, lower lip jutting out. "Oooh, why? Tell me!"

Ominis suppressed a weary smile before stepping onto the staircase. "It's private, Eliza. But I'm sure I'll see you at supper, alright?"

The girl lingered in place, hesitation warring with duty across her delicate features as she watched Ominis walk away alone. With a huff, she whirled around and scurried off down the corridor, footsteps echoing until even Ominis's sharp ears could no longer discern them.

Ominis closed the distance to Weasley's office, hesitating only a moment before knocking firmly on the heavy wooden door.

"Come in," called the warm, familiar voice of the Headmistress. Ominis entered, finding her seated at her desk near the crackling fireplace. She set down her quill, giving him her full attention. "What can I do for you, Mr Gaunt?"

Polite but direct, he cut to the chase. "Pardon the intrusion, Professor. I wished to ask if there was any news of Sebastian's return?"

The Deputy Headmistress nodded gravely, but her expression softened with understanding. "As a matter of fact, Mr Sallow arrived back just this noon. Given the circumstances, he's been excused from classes until next week to allow him time to recover and catch up."

Ominis felt a swell of relief, followed swiftly by concern. "Is he... alright? Or as alright as he can be?"

The question felt hollow – how could anyone be after such a loss?

Understanding the underlying concern, Matilda sighed softly. "He will need time to readjust, as anyone would after such an ordeal. Mr. Sallow is resilient, but we must be patient."

Ominis nodded slowly, tempted to dash straight to the common room and see his friend that instant. But his purpose here went beyond Sebastian. "I'm glad he's back, but I'm also worried about– "

"Miss Blackwood?" Weasley interjected, averting her eyes knowingly and gesturing for him to take a seat.

"Yes," Ominis cleared his throat and lowered himself on the chair, choosing words carefully. "Her state has gotten worse since last spring. She's barely sleeping, and when she does...I think she's spiraling, Professor. Barely eats, barely talks."

Matilda's expression became serious, indicating she was well aware of the situation. "Yes, the other professors have informed me of her difficulties focusing in class and decline in academic performance. I wish I could be of more help, but unfortunately, my hands are well tied where the Ministry is involved."

Ominis could not keep the edge from his voice. "Forgive me my boldness, but what is the Ministry doing here if their presence isn't helping?"

Sensing she knew more than she could say, he pressed further without waiting, emboldened by his own frustration.

"You were there last year, weren't you? Below the castle, when..." He trailed off meaningfully. "You must know something."

Weasley's expression turned grave at the implication, eyes distant.

"Yes, I was present during the battle in the caverns," she admitted. "But the truth is, no one truly knows what happened deeper. Miss Blackwood and Professor Fig descended there alone, and Apocrypha was the sole survivor, as you well know. With Professor Fig's demise, I'm afraid she is the only witness."

Ominis nodded eagerly, unable to stop himself from interjecting. "But she doesn't remember anything– "

"Or so she claims," Matilda agreed. "Unfortunately, that is the case. But the Aurors' presence has diminished, as you might have noticed – their investigation below is concluded. They found something, but the Ministry has not seen fit to disclose their findings. Despite this fact, I believe we will receive some answers pretty soon."

Ominis fell silent for a long moment before responding.

"I hope so." He cleared his throat again, shifting on the chair. "Forgive my forwardness, Professor. I only want to help."

Weasley studied him with an air of resolve.

"I understand. Your loyalty and concern for your friends do you credit, Mr Gaunt. We will keep a close eye on Miss Blackwood and provide any support she may need." Her tone gentled. "And I appreciate you bringing this to my attention. Please inform me if her condition warrants my intervention."

Buoyed by her reassurance, Ominis rose to politely bow is head.

"Thank you, Professor," he said quietly. "Your kindness means everything."

Upon leaving the office Ominis lingered outside for a short moment, lost in contemplation. Suddenly roused by a thought, he hurried through the halls with brisk, rushed strides. His pace quickened into a near-run as he descended to the Slytherin dungeons, an air of urgency propelling him forward. Students jumped out of his path, startled by this unusual haste from the normally composed Ominis.

He slipped through the common room with barely a moment of notice towards his preoccupied classmates, making straight for his dormitory. Swinging the door open, he found Sebastian sprawled atop his bedspread and staring at the ceiling, still in his traveling coat as if frozen in place since arriving hours before.

A tense silence fell between them as they simply acknowledged one another's presence. Ominis hesitated in the doorway, attempting to break the stillness.

"How...how was your trip?" He winced internally at the insanity of the question, but couldn't find more fitting words.

Sebastian's reply came hoarse and hollow as his dull, sunken eyes fixed somewhere above. "There's nothing left of her now. Just a gravestone."

Ominis swallowed down his own helplessness.

"I'm so sorry," he offered lamely, knowing it was woefully inadequate.

"Leave me alone," Sebastian bit out harshly, turning his back.

Stung by the curt dismissal, Ominis nevertheless acceded with an understanding nod before softly shutting the door behind him. The vibrant, buoyant Sebastian he knew was unrecognizable – to see him so diminished shook Ominis to his core, and he feared the trauma had damaged him irreparably. Even in their darkest times, Sebastian's spirit had remained unbroken, but now Ominis felt this light might never return – Anne's loss had splintered something vital within his friend.

Despite his own doubts, Ominis held onto a flickering glimmer of hope that Sebastian would eventually find his way back to them. Stubbornly refusing to grieve the absence of the quick-witted, passionate boy who had befriended a distrustful outcast so long ago, he still believed in his friend's strength and resilience. Sebastian had always been the vital force that bound them three together, the engine of their friendship – without him, without any of them, the dynamic felt off-kilter.

But time proved to be a fickle companion. The following week slipped away with Sebastian making no effort to reconnect, and Apocrypha, floating between numb detachment and restless disquiet, hesitated to make a move towards him, too fearful of rejection and reasoned by Ominis's resolve to respect his need for space. Sebastian ignored them both during breaks, kept his distance to avoid their eyes in class and disappeared before meals ended. His bed in the dorm remained cold and empty until minutes before curfew each night, while the Undercroft, once a gathering place for their group, lay dormant, abandoned in their newfound isolation.

It was as if Sebastian had simply ceased to exist beyond compulsory school requirements.

The yawning crack in their circle began to fill, albeit unevenly, with Eliza's presence. Her overtures toward Ominis in particular became near constant, a strong contrast to her previously mysterious appearances in Apocrypha's vicinity.

The latter's passive aggression towards the intruder waned, subdued by exhaustion and somber introspection. Even when Eliza's clingy presence became impossible to ignore, Apocrypha allowed her to stay, recognizing the positive effect it had on Ominis. It seemed he found Eliza's companionship a small comfort amidst it all, one he was too weary to resist – for the reasons Apocrypha didn't like to think over for too long.

She stared into the gathering dusk, only half registering Natsai's gentle reassurances that Sebastian would eventually return to them in time, considering the difficulty of overcoming such a deep loss. They sat together on a stone bench amid a scattering of other students enjoying the winter courtyard break as snow drifted softly around them.

Natsai's words provided little comfort, yet her company reminded Apocrypha why friendships had started to feel so meaningful once more.

"What do you think he'll do now?" the Gryffindor wondered aloud. "He's seventeen, so the Ministry can't track him anymore. Think he'll stay at Hogwarts?"

Apocrypha merely shrugged, staring out at the sparkling snowfall – the future was unclear, as was Sebastian's ability to heal, no matter how endlessly her thoughts had circled that question. She steered the unpleasant subject elsewhere, fumbling with the sleeve of her light robe that did too little to protect from cold. "How's Leander?"

Natsai smiled faintly, curling tighter inside her coat. "Osborn's lot is as hostile as ever. Mocking words here and there, but mostly just stares and posturing. Leander minds them little. He asked after you recently, in fact."

Apocrypha was just about to raise her brows in question, but their conversation was cut short by a familiar voice behind them.

"There you are, Kryph. I was hoping for a word," Ominis requested politely, looking vaguely apologetic for interrupting.

Apocrypha turned her head wearily. "Ominis... What is it?"

He stood with his gloved wrists crossed behind his back, a gesture of gentlemanly manners and polite deference.

"I've just come from Eliza," he informed her. "She's insistent on speaking with you, up in the Divination Classroom."

Apocrypha's lip curled faintly in annoyance. Not this bint again.

"What could she possibly want this time? The climb itself is tiring enough. I won't be going," she declared, clearly annoyed by the mere thought.

"Not sure," Ominis softened his tone, but pressed on with a shrug. "She seemed to have a request - was inquiring after you specifically. I asked for details but you know our Eliza - she remained frustratingly vague."

At his characterization of Eliza as theirs, Apocrypha made no effort to mask her displeasure. She had never considered the foreign interloper a part of their circle – and never would.

Swiftly catching the pause in his friend's reaction, Ominis inclined his head, aiming to sound casual.

"Aren't you curious to hear what she has to say? This might ease up the tension between you two," he gestured gently towards her. "She's terrified of you to ask directly, so please humor me, hm?"

He felt her staring at him for a long moment, before a bitter sigh finally escaped her. After all, his influence over her remained steadily strong and unchanging.

"Fine, fine. I'll go, but only because you asked me to. Don't expect me to enjoy it." She grumbled in reluctant agreement, shooting a quick apologetic look at Natsai who was struggling to suppress laughter at her disgruntlement. "Sorry, Natty. Looks like our conversation will have to wait."

Natsai's response was lighthearted. "No worries. Good luck with those stairs though. They can be quite the challenge."

"Thanks for the encouragement," Apocrypha rolled her eyes before arching a brow at Ominis. "Are you coming with me?"

Ominis gave a nod, adjusting his gloves in a manner suggesting an unspoken thought.

"No, I have something to take care of." Came his evasive reply, followed by a discreet throat-clear.

Apocrypha frowned slightly at his cryptic words, but still nodded. "Alright then? I'll see you later."

With a final wave, she made her way back to the castle, leaving her friends behind.

The climb proved a true effort, lungs burning with each step over that arduous spiral staircase. Reaching the landing, she paused to catch her breath, cursing under her nose and tugging the ladder to the Divination Classroom. Hand over hand, she ascended the ladder, emerging into the cluttered room with a sigh.

At once, her eyes found Eliza perched eagerly by the oaken table, as expected, staring intently into a hazy glass sphere and radiating excitement. Her sunny smile faltered at Apocrypha's stern appearance before returning back in place.

"Ominis said you wished to see me," she stated brusquely, lingering by the trapdoor.

The foreign girl bounced to her feet at once, gesturing eagerly to the worn settee. "Apocrypha! So good you come, yes? Please, come in, sit!"

Apocrypha remained standing, expression locked in a wary scowl. "What is this about?"

Eliza stammered, struggling to express herself. "I seeing...things. I-in ball! Thought maybe... you want reading? Ball never lies!"

Apocrypha eyed her skeptically, unable to stop herself from wincing at the thick way of forming the consonants on that Polish tongue.

"See past, present, future. Help you understand path." Eliza continued, pleading. "Please, just one look, yes? Maybe... be friends?"

Apocrypha's scoffed, impatient with the girl's fractured speech and irritated by her audacity. Friends. "And why should I believe anything you 'see'?"

Eliza shrank back slightly at her sharp tone but persisted timidly. "No believe, is okay. But maybe see help. Future not set...see choices! You make own mind."

Those blue hopeful eyes bore into Apocrypha's defenses as she studied the intruder for a long moment. Merlin, it was a struggle to keep her temper in check – but she promised Ominis. Against her better judgment, she slowly lowered to the settee before the glass orb, exhaling dramatically. "Alright. Show me."

Eliza's joyful giggles filled the room as she bounced slightly in place, the voluminous sleeves of her vintage shirt swaying to mirror her excited motions. However, under her companion's piercing stare, her exuberance quickly faded. She cleared her throat awkwardly, tucking a stray red curl behind her ear before settling herself at the table.

She slowly inhaled, centering her thoughts as her palms settled upon the smooth crystal surface. Gradually, her breaths assumed a steady rhythm, eyelids gently falling shut before her brow furrowed against the blueish glow emanating from the glass.

For several moments she remained perfectly still, aware of little beyond the gentle rise and fall of her lungs. Then her eyes rolled back to expose their brilliant blue clouded into opaque white, otherworldly and ethereal on her childish face.

The hazy glow intensified, reflecting brightly in Eliza's glasses as she sank deeper into trance. Images flickered, distorted, then cleared – a window opening between this plane and Others. Across from her, Apocrypha leaned forward minutely, the only visible sign of curiosity amidst her perpetual scowl of skepticism and boredom.

She idly observed Eliza from her side of the table, head tilting now and again, but cynical reservations settled firmly in place. She had no real expectations save wishing the ordeal was over so she may leave as soon as possible – and, if she were honest, she couldn't stand thinking of her future in the first place.

Eliza's voice broke the taut silence, a haunting rasp wholly unlike her usual bubbly tone. "I see...fire. Big fire, everywhere... F-"

"Yeah, fire, of course," Apocrypha scoffed a humorless chuckle, resting her cheekbone on the fist. "Not happening."

But Eliza continued trancelike, not interrupted by her comment.

"...-riends fight. Broken bonds not fix." Her words came fragmented, delivered in fractured phrases as confusion flickered across her face. "Red eyes in smoke. See... all burn to dust. Not right..."

Then, Eliza's expression shifted to one of distress, causing her to flinch involuntarily. Her concern mounted, body stiffening as if struggling against some invisible force, and finally, her face contorted in terror.

Apocrypha sighed impatiently, but Eliza's next exclamation startled her to attention. "You- you should not be like... Ominis..? No, no..."

At this, Apocrypha's interest sparked harshly, her guarded demeanor splintering into alarm and demand. She slammed her hands upon the table and stood up to interrupt Eliza's trance.

"Ominis? What about him?" she demanded, eyes flashing with unprecedented intensity after Ominis's name spurred an unexpected urgency forth from her carefully maintained apathy. "Explain yourself."

The abrupt noise startled Eliza from her visionary state. Blinking rapidly, she tried to shake off her distress, confusion clouding her eyes as their color slowly bled back to pale blue.

Startled, she hastily removed her glasses, vigorously rubbing watery eyes to regain focus. Breathing in panicked gasps, she placed the glasses back on with trembling hands, clutching her chest as though her pounding heart might burst through. Her wide eyes lifted to Apocrypha's expectant gaze as she attempted to speak, but managed mouthing only soundless words too swift to decipher – foreign, unintelligible syllables hurriedly recited as though by rote memory.

Unfazed by Eliza's strange behavior, Apocrypha lowered her eyes to where the girl's hand grasped the crucifix at her breast, knuckles paling where her fingers clutched the fabric over her heart.

Leaning away nervously from Apocrypha's intense stare, the girl shrank back in her seat, lips still forming her clandestine prayer.

"I said," Apocrypha repeated firmly, lip curling in disgust at the sight of Eliza clinging to her pendant. "Explain yourself."

But Eliza only continued her soundless incantation, leaning as far back in her seat as possible while never breaking eye contact.

"I must go," she stammered finally, hurriedly pushing her chair back and stumbling a few times as she made her way towards the trapdoor in haste.

Panting, she escaped down the cramped ladder, nearly falling as she rushed headlong down the spiraling steps two at a time.

The visions were too real – a black cloak and narrow irises slicing though blood red eyes, involved in horrors she could not comprehend or acknowledge. Terror too terrible to voice clawed at Eliza's senses, events that could never be – yet she knew each figure: herself, her brother, Ominis, and even that brooding boy Sebastian who now kept such distance.

Uncertain of whom to confide in first, whom to warn, her thoughts settled on her brother – he had to know about this. But as she reached the ground floor in a frenzied daze, the answer presented itself as she spied salvation through tears – Ominis, leaving the Headmistress's office.

With a sob, Eliza launched herself at him, clinging desperately to his shoulders as her voice finally found its strength.

"Ominis! Ominis, please!" She cried out desperately, gasping to catch her breath and leaning heavily against him, eyes wild and distraught. "Must tell!"

He turned, concern twisting his mouth as he briefly tried to disentangle himself from the girl's grip. "Did you two get along alright? I know she can be-"

"No!" Eliza interrupted, struggling to find words as she looked up at him. "Please, believe – you be away. She bad, dangerous!"

Ominis tilted his head, frowning lightly. "Slow down. Take a moment to calm down first before telling me."

Slowly, Eliza took a steadying breath, yet that did little to help. She knew she wasn't allowed to reveal the details lest her brother forbid further interactions.

"See things – in ball. Future not good, not safe!" she panted. "Stay from her, far away... Please!"

Ominis blinked in confusion. "Stay away from who?"

"Apocrypha!" Eliza exclaimed between inhaling gulps of air. "Bad things if be with her. She hurt you – saw it!"

Feeling her cling tightly to his robes, Ominis slowly peeled her hands away while speaking calmly in an effort to soothe her. "Easy, Eliza. Kryph would never harm me. You must have misinterpreted your vision somehow."

But Eliza persisted, her urgency overwhelming any language barriers as she shook her head vehemently. "No, no! I see clearly! You and her – fight, burn! She danger to you – must listen!"

Ominis exhaled a calming sigh, carefully placing his hands over Eliza's shoulders. "I know her. Whatever you saw, it wasn't real, must have been a mistake."

"No mistake! Promise you keep away, stay safe. Please!" She insisted.

Ominis cleared his throat. "I can't do that. But I will be cautious, alright?"

"No!" Eliza denied emphatically, glancing around with worry. She leaned close, her whisper taking on a pleading edge. "She hurt you... She kill you, Ominis."

Ominis fell silent for a brief moment, inwardly flinching at her words. Though her concern touched him, he refused to believe any ill intent from a dearest friend – he could not be swayed without irrefutable proof.

ICA – The Guide

Yet, he couldn't dismiss Eliza's words, no matter how much he wanted to. Though he sensed no threat from Apocrypha, his ability to perceive danger had limitations, as did his objectivity where she was concerned. Eliza's accusations unsettled him, stirring doubt beneath his mask of calm.

Perhaps it was because he had become accustomed to strained relationships, like the one he had with Sebastian over the past year and a half, or his own family throughout all sixteen years of living. The pain of past betrayals lingered within him, and now the possibility of Apocrypha's true intentions added another layer of uncertainty – he liked to believe he knew them both, but did he really?

His trust in Sebastian had been manipulated before, and now he wondered if bestowing it in Apocrypha could also lead to betrayal. Trust was a fragile thing for Ominis, and those two held practically all of what little trust he had to offer. Was he once again misplacing his faith, as with Sebastian?

All Ominis wanted was true friendship – a stable bond he never needed to question. He dreaded the possibility of being deceived again, doubt plaguing his thoughts to question the rightness of his decisions.

These thoughts followed Ominis through the end of the day. Supper that evening was a lonely affair as he picked at his food without appetite.

When it came to bedtime, the prospect of sharing a dorm with Sebastian proved to be a challenge. Being in such close proximity to someone who clearly didn't want his presence became increasingly uncomfortable and awkward.

More and more, Ominis found himself retreating to the common room to sit quietly by the fire, only slipping into the dorm when a certain roommate had fallen asleep.

Tonight wasn't any different.

Ominis sat in the armchair next to the crackling fireplace in the common room, pale fingers tracing the insignia of his family upon the sealed letter on his knee – the one missive he's been hesitant to open for days since its arrival.

The mere feel of his father's name on the envelope filled him with a sense of trepidation. He knew all too well that there was rarely anything positive to expect from his family, particularly when his father was involved.

His fingers hesitated, contemplating whether to throw the letter into the fire without opening it. But Ominis refused to let fear dictate his actions.

With a determined tsk and a scowl, Ominis carefully broke the seal and untangled the letter from its wrapping, unfolding the crisp paper and pressing his wand to the inked words to allow them to take shape in his mind.

His expression grew increasingly sour, lips twisting with each passing sentence. The bitterness in his mouth grew, fueled by the contents of the letter. The letters were written in a stark, callous font, conveying a sense of cold authority:

At those words, Ominis's patience snapped like a tautly pulled string. With a mixture of anger and disgust he crumpled the letter into a ball and flung it into the fire, listening as the flames greedily devoured the paper.

The revelation of this arranged marriage, the prospect of being bound to a cousin he barely knew, forced into a union steeped in tradition and obligation, stifled any hope he had held onto, forcing him into a future that felt suffocating and restrictive – it was a reality he had hoped to escape.

Lowering his elbows onto his knees, Ominis buried his face in his hands, fingers tangling in dark blond hair as he struggled to process his thoughts. He had always known that his freedom was limited, that his family's traditions and expectations would eventually catch up to him – and that defying his father's wishes would come at a great cost, threatening the precarious balance he had fought so hard to maintain.

He knew he had no control over his own life, that this arranged marriage was an inevitable part of his future. But the mere thought of perpetuating the cycle of inbreeding within pure-blood families made him sick to his stomach.

"Ominis," Apocrypha called from behind, uncharacteristically soft voice cutting through the crackling of the fire.

He jerked upright, surprised, wand raising to sense her presence. Normally he was able to hear her silent footsteps, but lately she had grown unnervingly still in her movements.

Turning, Ominis felt her standing a safe distance from the flames, dressed in a nightshirt, barefoot. He heard her unsteady, exhausted swaying and noticed her fingers twisting anxiously – a habit he knew too well.

"Kryph?" he probed gently, clearing his throat. "Why aren't you abed-"

"I opened the Repository." She stated plainly, hurriedly speaking over him.

Ominis froze, shocked into silence. Though some part of him knew she must have, hearing her admit it so bluntly made his stomach twist uneasily. He stood up, struggling to form a response. "You...what?"

Twisting her fingers violently until her knuckles audibly cracked under the strain, Apocrypha stumbled over her words, nodding erratically.

"I don't feel right," she stuttered in a small voice. "I don't feel...me."

On the opposite side of the Slytherin dungeon, a pair of hazel eyes bored into Ominis's empty bed. Sebastian lay awake, warring with himself as he stared blindly at his best friend's cold pillow.

It was well past midnight, and Sebastian couldn't help but monitor Ominis's return every night, even if he refused to acknowledge it. Loneliness and detachment were foreign to him, and he had hoped that distance would help him heal. But the truth was, it only made things worse, no matter how hard he tried to convince himself otherwise. He felt incomplete without them – especially without Ominis.

He missed their companionship dearly, realizing distance had only deepened the hurt of loss and unsure how to reduce the damage after pulling away so forcefully before.

The time spent alone felt like torture. Sebastian regretted every hurtful word he had unleashed in his anger, every accusation that had wounded their friendship and hurt them out of his own pain.

Had he been too harsh in his grief? Did they still think of him?

He hesitated, chewing on the inside of his lip before lifting his head from the pillow, ears strained to listen. In the distance, he discerned two voices filtering from the common room, voices as familiar to him as his own breath.

Sebastian lingered in bed, turning the prospect of joining them over in his mind while listening to the quiet words too muffled to decipher. With thoughtful deliberation, he slowly sat up in bed and glanced furtively around the dark dormitory, tentatively buttoning a few extra notches on his nightshirt – perhaps subconsciously seeking additional time alone with his thoughts before gathering the courage to face them.

Finally emerging from the dormitory, Sebastian moved with uncommon quietude down the narrow corridor. An unnamed impulse nudged him toward stealth while eavesdropping on his friends' discussion, until his ear caught Ominis's voice growing clearer. His footsteps slowed unconsciously as he neared.

Ominis fumbled for words, unused to hearing his friend so openly distressed. She typically buried vulnerabilities alone, and he probed a few gentle questions – but she kept interrupting haltingly, stuttering hoarse half-words that lacked any meaning.

"I don't know how to - I never meant to-" Her breath hitched as she curled her fingers together harshly. "Why can't I just-"

Peering around the edge of the archway that led to the common room, Sebastian witnessed Apocrypha standing rigidly before Ominis, thin fingers twisting as her next joint crack made him flinch. But her next words stopped him completely.

"Can you-" she swallowed audibly, small voice wavering in palpable, rising panic. "Could you please just...hold me?"

Ominis stared, lips parted into stunned into silence by the unexpected request. It defied her aversion to touch since she hated it as much as fire, but now, clung to the edge of hysteria, she not only allowed, but pleaded for it.

Clearing his throat in confusion, Ominis still nodded eagerly. "I...of course."

He stepped forward carefully, gently lifting his hands as if approaching a frightened creature he was hoping not to startle. She flinched yet stood resolute, exhaling shakily as his arms gingerly encircled her, touch feather-light as if she might break. Her body remained rigid, every muscle tensed. Ominis leaned in slowly until their forms just barely met, ready to pull away at any moment.

Sebastian's heart skipped a beat as he absorbed the scene unfolding before his eyes – the intimate moment between his friends was both captivating and unsettling. He had never witnessed such vulnerability from either of them, especially considering Ominis's lack of eagerness towards physical affection and Apocrypha's deep-rooted disdain for it.

Witnessing this closeness felt intensely private, yet he couldn't tear his eyes away, hoping Ominis's wand wouldn't detect his presence lingering just out of earshot.

His gaze flickered with unnamed emotions at the sight of Apocrypha gradually leaning into the embrace with uncharacteristic trust. Sebastian shifted his weight and grimaced upon seeing her accept comfort he once took forcibly.

The conflicting feelings he experienced weren't easily defined as petty jealousy, but something more complex and difficult to decipher. It went deeper – a mixture of injustice, self-doubt, and an unexplainable sense of hurt. He couldn't pinpoint the exact target of his hatred, only that it gnawed at him – it was as if he was constantly on edge from the mere thought that someone might get closer to her than him.

So he watched, bewildered and mute, as Ominis slowly drew her closer. His eyebrows slowly crept upward, eyes widening in astonishment as he observed Apocrypha, with an instinctive understanding of her own needs, positioning herself in a way that seemed oddly familiar – resting her head beneath Ominis's chin and rubbing it against his jawline as her breathing finally slowed. It was as if she knew exactly what to do.

Ominis, in turn, offered indistinct reassurances, even while she made no move to reciprocate the hug and froze in that position instead, with arms limp on her sides.

But as she turned her head, angling her cheek against Ominis's chest, recognition jolted through Sebastian. He had seen this before – the old photograph from her childhood, depicting this exact pose with another fair-haired boy.

Realization dawned slowly. She had known this intimacy before, seeked to relive it.

Sebastian reeled at the implication, throat constricting. This was no one-time act of desperation.

Though she shunned touch now, some deeply rooted part of her still clung to the ghost of safety. But what has damaged that trusting girl he never knew?

Sebastian's heart sank deeper as he watched, the scene leaving him feeling hollow and detached, his determination to reunite with friends diminished. Though he yearned to rebuild their friendship, the intimate moment only served to reinforce his doubts and insecurities that festered like an open wound.

Perhaps they were better off without the constant strife and anger that clung to him like a specter, from the problems he seemed to bring. Maybe he was the sole source of their pain, a volatile element poisoning something that thrived in his absence.

It was a hollow, harrowing feeling, this resignation that the bonds once so cherished now seemed irreparably damaged.

A pained grimace twisted his features as these invasive thoughts clashed with his conflicted emotions. The weight of it all became unbearable, pushing him to retreat silently, once again disappearing into the dimly lit corridor as if he had never stirred from it.

The girl's dormitory lay still and soundless, punctuated only by the soft sounds of stirring roommates.

Eliza's eyes fluttered open halfway, drowsily drifting towards Apocrypha's empty bed across the room. She could have sworn her unsettling roommate had been there mere moments before – perhaps Eliza had drifted off, but now the subject of her watchful apprehension was absent.

She lifted her head, blinking the haze from her eyes before fumbling to put on her wire-framed glasses. Confirming the vacancy, she held her breath at the thought – this uncanny ability to move soundlessly was now worrying Eliza to her core, magnifying the dread inspired by the disturbing vision earlier that day.

Swallowing nervously, Eliza reached under her pillow, fingers instinctively curling around the seashell tucked there months before for good luck – the one Apocrypha had gifted her long ago. Though she was a source of fear now, the familiar texture of the shell still offered some small comfort.

Rising soundlessly, Eliza tiptoed across the dormitory floor, leery of causing any noise, and confirmed the abandoned bed once more. She crept towards the door to investigate then, hesitant due to knowing it creaked loudly when opened. Leaning close, she pressed her ear against the wood, catching snippets of hushed conversation – familiar voices, but too indistinct to discern speech.

Before she could act, a faint pop of Apparition behind her back startled her. Whirling around, Eliza landed her eyes upon one of the Hogwarts house elves standing by her bed, its spindly hands retracting from beneath her pillow. With another pop it disappeared, leaving only empty air where it had been mere seconds before.

Eliza released a shaky breath – though it was Osborn's usual manner of handing over the instructions without drawing attention, these magical deliveries never failed to unnerve her.

She hurried back, dread pooling as she retrieved a small folded paper from beneath her pillow. The elegant, strict script was immediately recognizable as her brother's hand:

Chapter Text

ICA – Through Windowless Inner Rooms

Muffled crashes jarred the child from sleep, eliciting a quiet gasp as he bolted upright in bed. Small fists rubbed at sleepy azure eyes before tiny feet slid to the cold floor, tiptoeing cautiously towards the closed door. More concerning sounds drifted down the hallway – soft, stifled sobs coming from somewhere beyond view.

"Mama?" His childish voice quavered as he crept into the dark corridor. Navigating by memory, he followed the muffled cries towards the kitchen. Rounding the corner, he discovered his mother crumpled on the wooden floor beside the kitchen table, face buried in shaking hands. Strands of her usually neat, chestnut hair hung disheveled and loose, sticking to tear-stained cheeks.

"Mama, what's wrong?" the boy called again anxiously, peeking out from behind a stool. At the sound of his voice, she lifted her head, makeup smudged and running in rivulets down her face. With a choked sob, she stretched out her arms beckoningly.

Obeying the silent summons, the child shuffled over, wrinkling his nose at the overpowering smell of liquor as she enveloped him in a desperate embrace.

"Why are you crying?" he mumbled into her shoulder. "Is it because daddy's still gone?"

She tensed, clutching him tighter to her chest.

"Your father is a liar," her words came out bitter and angry. "He betrayed us both."

The boy's brows rose in childish confusion. "Did something happen to him in Poland? Is that why he isn't coming home?"

The woman inhaled sharply, arms constricting around his small body.

"He's not coming back," she whispered harshly. "He abandoned us."

Gentle fingers combed through the coal black hair, so similar to his father's.

"You look so much like him," she murmured, almost to herself, before determination hardened her tearful eyes once more.

"But you'll stay with mommy, won't you? You won't leave me too?" Her grip tightened unconsciously. "You have to protect me now. Promise me that."

The boy nodded obligingly, though her painful hold frightened him.

"I promise," he assured her quietly.

Osborn jolted awake, vision blurry and disoriented. For a long moment he simply stared up at the scarlet hangings enclosing his four-poster, trying to shake off the distant memory that turned into a vivid dream. Drowsy, it took him a moment before his eyes found the clock on the nightstand – well past midnight. He was supposed to leave nearly half an hour ago.

Cursing under his breath, he scrambled out of bed, glancing around to ensure his roommates remained asleep. Their snores filled the dormitory, undisturbed by his hushed movements.

He slid on a fresh shirt, grimacing slightly as the fabric dragged over the maze of scars that latticed his defined back – etched reminders of his mother's temper whenever he resembled his father too closely.

Tucking in the shirt hastily, he slipped out of the Gryffindor common room, nerves rising as his fingers fumbled to knot the tie properly on the way.

Before the stone gargoyle that led towards the Headmaster's office, Osborn paused to straighten his disheveled appearance, brushing back unruly coal black hair and smoothing any telltale wrinkles from his trousers. Once presentable, he ascended the winding stairs and passed the stone archway, freezing in place for a short moment.

There she stood, back towards him, gazing out the window. He didn't need to see her face to recognize the dark hair in its customary severe bun, Auror overcoat, and familiar pipe smoke curling through the air.

"You're late," she stated without turning.

"I'm sorry, mother. My roommates delayed me." The lie formed reflexively on his lips before he could stop it.

She scoffed, finally glancing his way.

"Do not insult me such a feeble lie." Her tone chilled, clipped and clinical, though she pursued the matter no further. Instead, the woman took a long drag from her pipe and finally turned to draw closer, heavy heels scratching the stone floor rhythmically. "I trust you are adjusting here? Perhaps even forging...attachments?"

"I've made no friends, if that's your concern," Osborn shook his head strictly. "I'm focused on the mission, as instructed."

"Are you?" She asked, closing the distance between them to scrutinize him closely. "I hear you've been enjoying yourself recently, targeting Gryffindors in particular. I hope there is purpose in such frivolity?"

"Yes, naturally," he assured, meeting her glare unflinchingly. "It's calculated, not enjoyment. Some are easily manipulated – setting them on against the other House will help to isolate the target."

She considered him a moment, then gave a curt nod, temporarily satisfied with his rationale. "And the half-breed? Is she obeying?"

Osborn's jaw tightened briefly. "Eliza lacks fortitude, resists at times. But she will comply, willing or not."

"See that she does," his mother stated coldly. "The Ministry's efforts here are not to be squandered for one defiant bastard."

Osborn cleared his throat hesitantly. "The preparations are nearly complete. Everything proceeds according to plan."

His mother inhaled deeply on her pipe. "The Ministry expects results before the spring thaw."

"I will be ready much sooner," Osborn's voice grew firm after a brief pause. "Give me a week. I must only get rid of the reckless one closest to the target. Once removed, she will be wholly isolated and ours for the taking."

His thinly veiled reference to disposing of Sebastian hung between them for some time.

For a moment, the woman was silent, considering his cold pragmatism with an inscrutable expression. Osborn tensed, anxious for some word of acknowledgment or approval – anything to appease the desperate longing within.

"You've become quite resourceful," she finally conceded. "See that it is done discreetly. We cannot afford interference from the school."

"Of course," he nodded. "There will be no loose ends to tie us to any of it."

The faintest ghost of praise – it was all he was likely to receive. Still, he lingered hopefully, craving even the most meager scrap of validation that never came.

She offered nothing further and turned away, attention already redirected in clear dismissal.

Osborn stayed a few heartbeats more, words poised on his tongue before finally he swallowed his disappointment and withdrew silently from the office. The ache for her approval remained – an unfillable void.

He stalked down the staircase towards the dim corridors, irritation prickling beneath his skin. This meeting had gone smoothly enough, yet still he seethed, emotions simmering below a placid façade. As always, he felt tossed aside, an implement to be used and discarded – would she never view him as more than a means to an end?

Bitter thoughts accompanied him to the empty Charms classroom that served as his usual clandestine meeting place with Eliza one hour after midnight.

To his mild surprise, she was already there when he entered, her figure pacing agitatedly with a wild look in blue eyes. Before he could speak, she whirled to face him, movements jittery with anxiety.

"I cannot!" she blurted out desperately, accent thickened in distress. "You ask I kill chłopak! How I can-"

"I don't bloody care how you do it, just make the brat vulnerable as planned." Osborn scowled, patience already thinning. "Get rid of the dog, keep the snake occupied. Make it seem natural so as not to implicate us – what's not to understand?"

He scoffed dismissively, taking a few strict steps closer to tower over her. "We've already discussed this – just clear the path so I can get to Blackwood."

At his words, Eliza's breaths sharpened into panicked gasps as she grasped his arms pleadingly.

"Nie, nie, Apocrypha to Diabeł, demon!" she insisted frantically in a mix of English and her native tongue. "You must stay from her! Szatan kill you!"

Irritation flared in Osborn at her hysterics. He shoved her grasping hands away roughly.

"Don't be stupid, here are no bloody demons," he snorted derisively before considering a moment. "Dangerous she may be, but no devil. Not the real one at least – that's why you got the easy part."

But Eliza was not deterred, clutching at the cross around her neck in desperate petition. "But Szatan-"

"There is no Satan!" Osborn spat, lip curling to bare rapidly declining patience. "There is no Go-"

He bit back the rest, seeing her stricken face and the way she gripped the pendant. The same cross he had deliberately gifted her this Christmas – not out of sentiment, but a plan. In truth, Osborn cared nothing for her spiritual comfort – Eliza's religious piety ran deep, and he believed the necklace would strengthen her convictions by making her feel they were on the 'good side', not deepen her delusional superstitions.

"You're a right pain in my arse," he snapped instead. "A useless, skittering rat. Just do as I say for once, and everything will be fine. I've no patience for your hysterics tonight."

She was a tool in his eyes – flawed and unreliable – but still necessary. Unnerving her further would prove unproductive – she responded better to manipulation than abrasiveness.

Seeing Eliza shrink away, Osborn forced his tone to gentle, gripping her shoulders persuasively.

"Please," she whispered in a broken tone. "There is other way - "

"There is no other way," he cut her off brusquely, forcefully guiding her to his chest in a parody of an embrace. "This is your part, sister. I will handle the rest."

Eliza leaned in desperately into his touch, eyes welling as her fingers clutched and twisted the shirt over his back childishly.

"Make it happen tomorrow." He ordered calmly, holding an excruciating pause until eventually a small nod of acquiescence brushed her hair under his Adam's apple. "Good. Soon it will be over."

Swallowing his own nerves, Osborn hooded azure eyes while exhaling a slow sigh.

"And I'll take you home."

Anger was a complicated, uncontrollable thing. It demanded, hungry and insatiable, for an outlet. The caustic emotion clawed inside with savage persistence, festered like an infected wound, flooded the veins with scalding adrenaline that craved violence. Like magma building pressure beneath the earth's crust, it simmered just below the surface, raising pulses and narrowing thoughts until the only conscious urge was to unleash it.

To scream, to slam fists against the walls until skin split and knuckles bled, to find temporary peace in the harsh crack of splintering furniture – anything to expunge the virulent poison corroding composure from the inside out. It begged for more than passive festering – anger craved action, a visible impact to mark its passing.

He knew one thing for certain – he wanted revenge. But against whom? Rookwood? He was dead and gone, beyond the reach of retribution. The remains of Ranrok's followers who survived the caverns? They had vanished to gather their numbers along the southern coasts of Scotland according to the pages of the Daily Prophet.

There was no clear target for this anger. Aimless, it turned inward, leaving only bitterness. But he refused resignation, grasping for purpose and direction. The question of who to blame persisted, unrelenting.

Sebastian's thoughts chased circles. Did he deserve Azkaban for the justice he had exacted? What future remained with no one left to share it?

Even books, his most steadfast comfort and escape, now failed him.

The words blurred senseless before hazel eyes that would not focus, words losing meaning beneath the pounding pressure in his skull. Without Anne or any friends, his thirst for knowledge evaporated – what purpose did it serve now? He had nobody to share fresh insights with, to debate new theories late into the night. The mere thought exhausted him, while the isolation only fed the ravenous anger.

Sebastian snapped the book shut with a scowl, massaging the bridge of his nose. Sleep evaded him, robbing even basic peace. Leaning back in the armchair, he stared listlessly out the common room window, observing the murky depths of the Black Lake bathing in the dim sunlight – a familiar view, now drained of wonder.

Nearby voices drew his attention, jarring him from his brooding.

"It's been weeks since Callum resigned, we need to find a new Beater before the rematch against Gryffindor!" The tall, broad-shouldered seventh year insisted vehemently. Alastair, if he remembered correctly.

"You think I don't know that?" Imelda shot back, ponytail swishing in agitation. "Callum took a Bludger to the ribs last game, what did you expect?"

She rubbed her temples, equal parts exhausted and vexed. "I'm aware of the problem, Darrow. Pestering me about it won't make solutions appear faster."

"Well we can't keep getting pounded because you drag your feet on recruitment," Alastair fired back, throwing up his hands.

"It takes time to organize appropriate selections," Imelda's eyes flashed irritably. "Scheduling tryouts so late in the year isn't that easy, and who would agree after what happened to Callum?"

"I'll do it," Sebastian interjected simply from his seat. "Put me in as Beater."

Alastair scoffed derisively, looking him up and down.

"You? A bookworm who's never played?" He jabbed an accusatory finger. "Stay in the stands where you belong, Sallow."

Sebastian met his disdain with a cold, tired look. "How can you be so certain I'll fail?"

Imelda shifted uneasily, considering her housemates with a conflicted expression.

Sebastian's recent tragedy hadn't gone unnoticed among their House – his reputation as a brooding recluse was no secret, nor was the black temper that had consumed him these past weeks. The suffering now was plain to see.

"This position is dangerous enough normally," she said carefully. "But with the Gryffindors turning savage this season, it's even worse. The reserve players all refused the risk. Are you certain you understand what you're asking for?"

"I'm well aware of the danger." Sebastian's tone remained flat and detached. "I'm rather counting on it."

Imelda hesitated, clearly torn. Before she could respond, Alastair interjected harshly.

"This is bollocks! Sallow's got no experience – he'll get pulverized out there!" he spat, turning to face Sebastian fully. "Admit it, you're just desperate for violence after what happened. Taking it out on others won't help!"

"Careful, Darrow," Sebastian warned lowly, rising from his seat.

Sensing the tension, Imelda quickly stepped between them to hold Alastair's shoulder. "We'll settle this at tryouts. If Sallow can handle the Bludgers, the spot is his."

Alastair looked ready to argue before finally scoffing and stalking off muttering.

"Don't say I didn't warn you." Imelda sighed. "Training starts tomorrow, 6am sharp. Don't be late."

Sebastian gave a curt nod and left without another word. Perhaps this was the outlet he had been craving.

He had expected the Quidditch training being grueling. And it was – though the session proved even more demanding than he anticipated. For six brutal hours, Alastair ran him ragged across the frozen pitch, relentlessly pelting Bludgers in his direction and seeming determined to put Sebastian through the ringer – likely hoping he would quit.

The base Beater ensured the 'tryouts' were punishing, hammering him without mercy – after all, he was the only candidate vying for the second Beater position. Still, Sebastian persisted despite struggling to bat the iron balls away or redirect them forcefully at the training dummies. He wasn't built for such heavy physical pursuits – by the end, his shoulders burned fiercely from swinging the bat and general exertion. This was nothing like his usual sedentary existence tucked away with books, and even dueling seemed a lesser struggle in comparison.

And yet...there was something undeniably cathartic about each satisfying crack of the bat, about pouring every ounce of frustration into knocking the Bludgers off-course while picturing those he wished to hurt in their place. In those moments of intense focus, adrenaline and action, his churning thoughts finally went silent.

Sebastian thought he spotted specks of dark blond and coal black observing from the stands at one point, but they vanished before he could be certain. Did they still care what became of him after everything? A Bludger nearly taking off his head quickly redirected the focus from the conflicting thought.

Imelda seemed satisfied with his performance, having little choice but to accept him as their newest Beater with no other prospects.

Trudging back to the dorms at noon, Sebastian wanted nothing more than to collapse into bed which felt akin to paradise after so many frigid hours on the field. The mattress embraced his weary form, the sheets feeling blissfully warm compared to the biting chill of the pitch and winter winds that inhabited it. He never was one for flying – simply staying astride during Alastair's ruthless drills was challenge enough.

It was...nice, he realized, to feel this way – wrung out until no thoughts remained, nothing but the pounding of his heart and the comfortable pain of strain in his arms. But some musings were still too intrusive to strangle.

The idle thought of weekends brought a pang. He used to spend them eagerly joining his friends on some adventure beyond the castle walls or else holing up in the library together to discuss another trip to the place he called home.

Home. The word stuck painfully in his chest. He couldn't bear the thought of returning to Feldcroft now, with no one waiting for him there either – the town felt more a tomb than home.

For years, Sebastian had clung to his small circle of friends and family almost desperately, terrified of being cast aside. To have that stability ripped away was simply devastating.

Exhaustion overtook him rapidly, a welcome hideout from ceaseless ruminations. Sleep teased at the jagged edges of memory and emotion, more alluring than it had been in weeks. In this rare moment of peace, the actual sleep came easily instead of fitful tossing.

He awoke nearly nine hours later, bleary-eyed, disoriented and suddenly aware of a gnawing hunger in his belly – the first true appetite he had felt in weeks since Christmas. Apparently the physical activity had finally awakened his neglected needs.

Glancing at the bedside clock, he grimaced. Half past nine already – too late for dinner. With a grunt, he rolled over, taking in the empty dormitory. His roommates were still absent – likely at the Great Hall finishing up the evening meal he had slept through. No matter – the solitude suited him fine. He had grown accustomed to his own company these days.

Stifling a yawn, Sebastian settled back onto his stomach and curled an arm around his pillow to tug it closer, resigning himself to rest until morning – there wasn't much choice anyway.

As he shifted, his fingers brushed against something crinkling under the pillowcase.

Still half-asleep, he tugged it free and unfolded a piece of paper, blinking rapidly to clear the fog from his vision and squinting at the note in the dimness. He could never confuse Ominis's handwriting for someone else's. The message was brief:

Sebastian's pulse quickened as he sat upright, sleepiness fading. He reread the words once, then twice more as though to confirm their reality. Ominis's typically neat penmanship looked slightly smudged and tilted on the page, almost like a left-handed scrawl – odd, since Ominis was right-handed. Apocrypha was the left-handed one prone to messy scrawls from ink smears like the ones on the note.

But Sebastian pushed the observation from his mind. It was an impulse, responding to this call – perhaps desperation, but he yearned for any connection after the gulf of gaping silence between them. If it was one of them reaching out, what did the rest matter? He had been the one to push them away, after all.

He knew his weakness, his neediness for them. He was pathetically willing to latch onto any shred of past they could theoretically offer.

Shoving aside the sheets, Sebastian slipped out of bed and changed clothes rapidly, leaving the note lost in the tangled blanket. It was nearly time for Prefect rounds to start – getting caught sneaking out this late would mean detention, but the risk of punishment got barely registered just like in the old times.

Sebastian slipped through the castle under Disillusionment, though Prefect patrols seemed suspiciously scarce. Viaduct, DADA Tower, Gryffindor – finally reaching the Clock Tower Courtyard he winced as cold night air bit at his cheeks. He quickened his pace to pass the Wooden Bridge, finally shedding the charm.

His breath plumed in the icy air as he turned towards the sharp bend and scrambled down the slope, nearly losing his footing on the slippery ground in his haste. Sebastian paused to catch his breath at the bottom, fog streaming from parted lips. The old dock came into view, floating alone upon the dark waters of the Black Lake.

Rubbing his hands together for warmth, he stepped cautiously onto weathered board and scanned the empty shoreline, still panting from his hurried journey. Why would his friend ask to meet so late, in such an isolated spot?

Sebastian's shoes thudded hollowly on the creaking planks as he moved to the edge of the dock to wait. Shivering, he withdrew numb hands into his coat, peering about for any sign of movement. Nothing – only the lap of water and the gentle whistle of the wind whipping his coat broke the silence.

The minutes ticked by, stretching into what felt like an eternity. Tired, hungry, and now cold, he watched the calm water bob gently beneath the old rotten supports.

It was strange how the lake appeared so deceptively peaceful when its depths hid such menace, the creatures that called it home. He had never been particularly fond of water – just like flying.

Footsteps sounded suddenly from behind, too light for Ominis's usual tread. So it was her, then.

Sebastian tensed, hesitant to turn around immediately and grappling with his readiness to face the one behind his back. Risking a small glance, he began to turn his head, hearing the footsteps charging into a sprint of loud thuds.

"Listen, Kryph, I -"

Before he could have any clear picture of the figure, something cracked brutally against his right temple. Pain exploded across his skull and he reeled from the impact, blinded as the moment carried his teetering foot over the edge of the dock.

Hitting the cold water stunned him further, inducing a sudden gasp reflex that instantly let his lungs fill up with liquid through rapid, desperate inhales. Panic seized him as he sank rapidly into the murk, too disoriented to kick or struggle at first without breath to power his limbs. But with lungs burning without air, he began thrashing frantically through the muscle cramps and against the weeds tangling around his legs that further constricted the movements.

The weeds held fast, dragging him down into the hungry void, frigid water flooding his throat at the sluggish attempts to scream. His soaked clothes dragged him deeper, the coat billowing around almost calmingly in the cold so intense it felt hot.

His throat spasmed uselessly, reflexive gulps bringing a mouthful of murk instead of air as he fought against suffocating while the surface suddenly seemed miles above.

Black spots swam before fading sight as his struggles grew weaker, but through the gloom he managed to peer up. A dark silhouette stood motionless on the dock, watching his violent fight for life with detached impassivity from above. As his limbs grew unresponsive, the silhouette turned away.

Something large splashed into the water nearby a moment later – the rock that had struck him, he realized dimly, before the final, convulsive jerk forced Sebastian to inhale a lungful of bitter water.

The Slytherin common room buzzed with voices despite the late hour, but Ominis and Apocrypha bid their typical goodnights before curfew parted them.

"Goodnight," Ominis offered simply, receiving only a tired nod in return before they went opposite directions to their dormitories.

He headed for his room while she lingered a moment, called over loudly by Imelda.

"Blackwood, a word?" she exclaimed from the couch where the rest of the Quidditch team disrupted a heated discussion.

Ominis continued on, not wishing to interfere and entering the dorm room where his roommates were already preparing for bed.

"Oi, have you noticed Sallow around tonight?" one asked, glancing up from his textbook. "Haven't seen him at dinner."

"Probably on his way to receive another detention I'd wager." The other one shook his head. "Come to think of it though, he's usually been back before curfew recently."

Ominis tensed but forced a casual tone, deciding to busy himself at his trunk. "I haven't kept track of his whereabouts these days."

The lie came smoothly. In truth, he had tried to watch his estranged friend from afar since their fracture – difficult to avoid sharing a House. But Sebastian has always been impossible to control or predict.

Crossing the room, he stood silently by Sebastian's empty bed. He lingered over it a moment, conflicted. Should he be more concerned about his disappearance? Ominis's instincts prickled anxiously – he had no proof of trouble, but Sebastian proved to be a trouble himself.

Drawn by old habit, he sat slowly on the edge of the mattress, fingers trailing over the creases in the sheets still faintly warm and clinging to the familiar scent. He hadn't been this close to Sebastian's space in some time.

His roommates exchanged a look.

"What exactly happened between you three anyway?" Cassius prodded carefully, huffing an awkward chuckle. "Everyone's talking, you know. Saying you were caught up in some messy love triangle."

Ominis stilled, hand poised over the blankets. After a lengthy pause, he resumed his motions, words brittle despite the calm tone.

"Assuming our friendship could be reduced to something so pathetically trivial would be funny, if it wasn't so insulting," he said plainly. "That would be so simple, wouldn't it? Degrade years of friendship to petty infatuation and drama."

Cassius shifted, smile fading. He opened his mouth, but Ominis continued, an edge sharpening his words further.

"I don't care about schoolyard gossip from people who think love is the most exciting thing that could happen in their dull lives." He shook his head dismissively, quite fed up by continuous implications that followed their circle. "Frankly, it's just shallow – being unable to conceive bonds deeper than that."

"Hey mate, I didn't mean anything by it," Cassius backpedaled, taken aback by the sudden vitriol and raising his hands in a conciliatory gesture. "Just curious what's going on, is all."

Ominis exhaled shortly, regaining composure. He made sure his next words were audible enough. "Sniffing about personal affairs like pigs routing in filth."

He shook his head absently then, distracted by reminiscence for a brief moment while his hand continued to brush the fabric. It was then his hand brushed a crumpled piece of paper buried in the bedsheets. Curious, he carefully unfolded it, smoothing the page flat and pressing his wand tip against it.

The handwriting crudely mimicked his own elegant script, though the letters seemed exaggerated, the tilt off. Markings of a left-handed writer, abundant ink smudges – Apocrypha's trademark style. And Ominis never signed notes just with his initial.

Dread curdling in stomach, he rose abruptly and hurried from the dorm before his roommates could question him. In the common area, he quickly intercepted his friend, thankfully not gone to her bed yet.

"Kryph," he called out, drawing her aside with a tilted nod towards the wall.

She obliged without resistance, leaving the conversation with Imelda as if it never existed in the first place.

Alarmed now, Ominis presented the note urgently.

"Did you write this?" he inquired. "Asking Sebastian to the lake tonight?"

Apocrypha scanned the paper with a frown.

"Wasn't me. My writing's atrocious, but you know I don't do notes." She shook her head grimly. "And I haven't tried reaching out to Sebastian. You said he needed space."

Ominis nodded. "My thought exactly. And even if you tried – you'd be direct."

They stood in tense silence, the gravity of the situation sinking in. After a moment, Apocrypha shifted anxiously, gears clearly churning.

"That bastard," she muttered shakily, abruptly grabbing Ominis's sleeve to drag him violently towards the stairs that led outside the dungeons.

Ominis hurried to match her urgent pace – by now he shared her alarming conclusion, the picture piecing together steadily in his own head.

They burst out, sprinting recklessly through the halls. Apocrypha's breathless whispers revealed her own nerves.

"Absolute fucking idiot," she hissed as they ran. "I'll kill him myself for this-"

Nick Cave – Body Disposal

The Viaduct, DADA Tower, Gryffindor's passage – all flashed past in a blur. They raced on heedlessly, ignoring threats of detention from Prefects they nearly bowled over, footsteps echoing loudly as they sprinted through the corridors.

Slamming painfully into the heavy doors leading to the open grounds, they forced them open against the wind and scrambled outside into the freezing cold without coats or hesitation.

Somewhere ahead, muffled plop and a few splashes echoed faintly.

They scrambled and slipped down the icy slope, finally rounding the bend towards the lake. There – the dock, deceitfully empty. But the water before it rippled unnaturally from recent disturbance.

Apocrypha hit the slippery ground hard, scraping her palms raw in her haste to stand. Beside her, Ominis lagged slightly, lungs burning.

"Kryph – I can't swim–" he wheezed in warning.

"I know!" she yelled back, sprinting recklessly onto the creaking planks without slowing and shouting back over her shoulder. "Stay there!"

At the edge she leapt sharply forward, towards the spot the shallow ripples originated.

The temperature shocked her system immediately, but she kicked fiercely, propelling herself down and squinting through the gloom for any sign of Sebastian. The previous exertion had left her oxygen-starved, and she struggled not to gasp at the pain blooming in her chest.

The cold stabbed at her relentlessly as she navigated by touch and groped through swaying weeds, only cutting her hands on jagged shells littering the lakebed.

It was too dark to see, so she surfaced briefly with a gasp while withdrawing her wand with a hoarse Lumos.

Gulping a deep breath, she dove again, using one hand to pull herself along the bottom while sweeping her wand to illuminate the gloom with the ignited tip that cast a halo.

She moved the light over the muddy ground and slippery rocks, following the slope deeper. Realizing the bottom dropped off into a sheer cliff face ahead, she hovered at the precipice, squinting into endless blackness below.

Her lungs screamed for relief, but she knew well of the method to sink faster. Exhaling precious air fully, she plunged over the edge, eyes stinging against the murky water.

Faint movement caught her eye near one of the juts that clung to the underwater cliff – dozens of horned, pale forms swarmed through the weeds, surrounding something she couldn't quite discern. Grindylows, scores of them tangling their wriggling tentacles around some unseen prize they were dragging down, high-pitched screeches thrashing wildly in a malicious frenzy.

A limp hand drifted into the wandlight's glow for an instant, disappearing swiftly beneath the writhing tangle of creatures.

Apocrypha gulped reflexively, the need for oxygen overwhelming. There was no time to resurface – propelling herself down, she attempted to scatter the churning mass of demons with frantic swipes. They turned on her instead, screeching and hissing in protest, needle-like teeth bared in warning as razor-sharp pain tore at her outstretched wand arm before she could yank it back.

The wand slipped from her grasp, faint light flickering down to the weedbed below. Emboldened by dimness, the Grindylows swarmed viciously, clammy hands clutching at her limbs as they were trying to drag her down too, tearing at her clothes and skin.

She thrashed wildly, prying the demon's spindly fingers from her face while it snapped its jaws for her eyes, the last bits of precious air escaping her lips in an involuntary reflex.

The demon's bulbous, alien black orbs locked with her saturated ones, full of predatory hunger. Vision spotting at the edges, she stared back defiantly when briefly noticing two crimson dots reflected in the Grindylow's large jet eyes – her own irises.

Then the creature's gaze changed, and it recoiled with an alarmed wail shared by its kin. As if responding to an inaudible signal, the other Grindylows released their holds and hastily fled into the gloom.

Fighting to stay conscious, Apocrypha fumbled desperately for her wand, finally grasping the faint light. Lungs convulsing now, she navigated towards Sebastian mostly by touch and wrapped one arm around his chest from behind before kicking off the rocky jut and straining to drag them both towards the distant surface.

Breaching into air with an explosive gasp, she gulped sweet oxygen greedily. With effort, she swam on her back, towing Sebastian's weight towards the dock. She refused to consider how still and cold he felt.

"Ominis!" she yelled hoarsely, spotting him pacing the dock.

He turned at her call, stretching his arm out over the dock's edge urgently. "Here, I'm here!"

Apocrypha kicked weakly between ragged coughs, adrenaline fading, and she sank below the surface briefly before pushing back up again, barely managing to keep Sebastian's head above water. Finally reaching the dock, she directed Ominis to grab Sebastian's sopping sleeve and heave him up onto the planks. Crawling up after, she collapsed beside them in an exhausted heap, panting.

"Is he – check if –" she coughed out between gulps of air, weakly pointing at their friend's body.

Ominis scrambled over – fingers fumbling, he tore open Sebastian's drenched coat and pressed his ear to his motionless chest. After a tense moment, he shook his head grimly, voice shivering.

"He's not breathing."

Apocrypha crawled over on her fours, still coughing up mouthfuls of foul water. "Call for – call for help –"

Ominis hesitated only a moment before nodding and pulling away, trying to focus through the panic. Help. He had to summon a Patronus to alert the castle.

Behind him, Apocrypha tilted Sebastian's head back to open his airway, fingers torn and bleeding from repeated bites. Placing both hands on his abdomen, she began rhythmic compressions, pressing firmly upward and inward in a steady pattern. When one cycle passed with no response, she hesitated, face contorting.

"You complete goddamned fool," she seethed through gritted teeth. "I hate you for this."

Leaning over Sebastian's face, she pinched his nose shut and forced his mouth open before sealing her lips over his blue-tinged ones to blow air into still lungs. His chest rose and fell, but he remained unmoving.

Incensed, she pulled away and slapped Sebastian's pallid cheeks angrily a few times. "Wake UP, you idiot!"

When he remained unresponsive, she rapidly resumed the abdominal pumps, breaths coming fast and panicked.

"Come on...breathe, damn you," she panted out between counts. "How could you be so stupid?"

"Kryph, stop! I can't concentrate like this," Ominis snapped from nearby, failing to focus through her nearly hyperventilating shouts.

"Just cast the damn thing!" she spat hoarsely.

Despite the outburst that made Ominis flinch, she still nodded jerkily, inhaling a shaky breath before resuming her efforts.

Ominis breathed in deeply, picturing happier times together – but peaceful thoughts eluded him. He just wanted to have things go back – to how they were. Before all this bloody mess. The three of them together.

That thought calmed him as well as stabbed, but this longing solidified enough to steady him. His voice broke slightly.

"Expecto Patronum!"

With immense effort, a ghostly burst of vapour slithered forth in a silvery glow, smoking rapidly through the air towards the castle. Kneeling again, he found Apocrypha withdrawing from Sebastian's mouth once again and returning to pushing.

"Tilt his head back more," she instructed between panting breaths, a small despairing noise escaping her darkened lips involuntarily.

Ominis obeyed, tilting Sebastian's head further back to open his airway as much as possible while Apocrypha's pushes into his sternum were growing weaker, strength nearly depleted.

Just as she neared exhaustion, Sebastian's body jerked slightly. He convulsed, expelling a rush of murky water with a violent gag that pushed the mud and wisps of algae out of his mouth. Though still unconscious, each convulsive heave brought a ragged inhale afterward.

Ominis startled at the sudden movement, then exhaled in profound relief.

"Thank Merlin," he breathed shakily, quickly working off the soaked coat from Sebastian's shoulders and draping his thin uniform cloak over them instead.

Next to them, Apocrypha withdrew with a weary sigh and collapsed onto her back, chest heaving as she fought to slow her frantic breathing.

Ominis felt for Sebastian's wrist, pressing his fingertips over the vein.

"His pulse is there," he assured anxiously. "It's weak, but steady."

Apocrypha nodded tiredly at the news, eyes slipping closed.

Distant voices echoed from the distance then, accompanied by the sound of hurried footsteps.

At the commotion, Apocrypha's eyes snapped open. Crawling hastily to the edge of the dock, she peered down at her dim reflection in the dark water and grasped her face with one hand, scrutinizing her own eyes intently.

Nothing – just her usual unnatural green stared back from the barely rippling surface.

Chapter Text

Spend a moment on some BaS sketches. These art drops will become more regular as we continue, since much of what I've drawn so far depicts events in their 7th year - they will be full scene illustrations.

Thought I'd solidify the way I imagine the characters and provide more visual references for the readers since I often forget about secondary appearance traits and struggle to avoid tautology when describing facial expressions.

Nothing good is about to happen to them anytime soon.

Chapter Text

1886, Lublin

War. A grim specter that haunts humanity, inevitable as death. A deceptive word, conjuring images of fire and fury that stories made it out to be.

Here, war was a quiet, cold thing – a constant presence seeping through the cracks to mellow the sounds and smother the senses. Distant rumbles from afar. Muffled gunshots popping somewhere a few blocks over, thuds of grenades over the rooftops. And always the dust, billowing up from splintered wood and cracked stone to choke the air. Fine particulates that coated the rubble of demolished buildings, set adrift from collapsed walls, swirled through abandoned streets.

Dust was the true face of conflict.

One only heard the cacophony of battle when it was at their own doorstep. For those in the line of fire, the sound of war was disquieting in its tranquility.

By 1886, Lublin wore this sound like a funeral veil. The puppet Kingdom of Poland, flattened underneath Russian heel, harbored rebellions that flared faster than any plague through the ravaged country.

In this chaos, Britain had no allies. But magic was beyond politics.

A harried-looking Ministry employee gestured wildly at the tall woman before him, her elegant cloak stark against the grime. "Mrs. Sinclair! Your timing is most inopportune–"

"As Head of the Auror Office, I decide when intervention is warranted, not you," she cut him off coolly, authority ringing in crisp tone. "Particularly when my husband spectacularly failed to finish his mission with establishing allies here over a decade ago. The Department of International Cooperation has received no word in two years."

She glanced back at her assembled team – Hit Wizards and Obliviators prepared for the worst, spines straightening under her scrutiny.

"With the Crown ignoring this Muggle conflict, solving Philip's mess falls to us," the woman continued. "The Minister takes interest in the welfare of every magical child within the Empire. Including the half-bloods this regime forces into hiding."

The man paled, wringing his hands. "Madam, the Statute of Secrecy–"

"Should be your department's concern," she finished pointedly, arching one sharp brow. "Surely the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes understands the danger of exposure to Muggles in times of conflict."

The man bobbed his head anxiously in acquiescence, but his face blanched at the sight of a lone boy standing amidst the wall of officials.

"Surely the child should not be here, it's far too perilous–" he tried to protest.

The woman glanced coolly over her shoulder at the slender, stern-faced 13-year-old. Face pale but composed, his keen eyes stared straight ahead as he stood motionless, hands clasped behind his back.

"My son comes with us. He must see the realities we contend with if he is to lead the Office himself someday." Sinclair replied cooly. "This is no place for delicate sensibilities."

The man hesitated, hands wringing. "But madam... there is open massacre in the streets. Perhaps The Ministry should have sent someone less, ah, invaluable than yourself and the young master."

"Do not presume to tell me my duty," the woman replied firmly. "Give me the records of suspected Muggleborns. Now."

Chastened, the man shuffled through his documents and handed her a slim stack. She passed some of them to her son without looking. The boy accepted the files eagerly, hungry to prove his competence.

"Review these, Osborn. Learn to swiftly pick out pertinent details." She directed.

"Yes, mother," he replied without glancing up, diving into the pages. Something predatory in his concentration unsettled the watching man, but the Auror seemed satisfied.

The woman turned briefly to stare out the grimy window where the haze of smoke and dust muted the sky with dreary pallor. She was duty-bound to be here for the Ministry's work, but this city held more than strategic significance for her – it was deeply personal.

Somewhere in these rubble-strewn streets lived the woman Philip had abandoned his family for seven years ago, forsaking his only son without a backward glance.

She had brought Osborn here deliberately, to this decrepit place that embodied Philip's failure as a man and wizard – to show him the depths of depravity his father sank into after betraying them. The boy absorbed her lessons swiftly thus far – this trip would cement his understanding. Osborn must never become like him – disloyal.

Glancing over at her child, she asked evenly. "Have you determined our heading?"

Osborn looked up from the files spread before him and nodded once. "Yes. The hospital ward, one street over. And the orphanage near the city outskirts. Most refugee children will be registered at those locations."

"Very well. We'll divide our forces between the two sites." His logic was sound – the boy had his father's intellect, but her disciplined focus.

Nick Cave – Death and Baptism

The dust was suffocating, coating mouths with grit that parched tongues and throats. The strike on the orphanage had been brutal – whether any inside survived was unclear. The rubble may have claimed children and caregivers alike, burying all under collapsed walls.

But the streets outside held no freedom even to those who managed to crawl out of that hell. Soldiers prowled the streets, gunshots and shrieks piercing the heavy air – this rebellion was being forcibly choked out. Soldier or civilian, adult or child – the regime did not discriminate in dealing death.

The girl no older than eleven dragged her younger brother into a bombed-out alcove, vision blurred without her cracked glasses. Brushing slick red curls back from her forehead, she shoved the sniffling five-year-old back against a craggy hole in the wall that was hidden behind charred planks.

The child whimpered and clung to her filthy skirt, limbs octopused around her waist. "Na lącki! (Up! Want up!)"

"Shhh, Seweryn, shhh," the girl pleaded as he cried, begging to be held.

She tried to lift him with a strained grunt as more gunfire and approaching shouts in Russian split the air mere meters away. Startled by the commotion, she lowered the boy and glanced through the slats.

A man sprinted past their hiding spot, only to take a bullet in the leg and topple with a scream. Before he could rise, a soldier approached and dispassionately fired point blank into his head, the sharp report of a rifle cracking out violently.

Seweryn let out a hysterical scream at the gunshot, small body going rigid in his sister's arms.

"Shhh, ciszej, błagam... (Shhh, quiet, I beg you.)" the girl pleaded desperately, clamping a trembling hand over his face while he thrashed against her. But it was too late – the soldier's head snapped towards their hiding spot, rifle raised warily as he stalked closer.

"Cicho, cicho...(Quiet, quiet.)" she whispered through tears and trembling gasps as her brother's cries grew more frantic when the heavy boots crunched nearer, small limbs flailing in her tightening hold. He had to stay quiet or they were both dead.

But the boy was beyond reason, small body seized by sheer animal panic and hysteria – he thrashed and screamed relentlessly despite her pleas, cries muted by her restraining palm.

The soldier approached their alcove, peering into the ruins surrounding their hiding place mere steps away. Yet with the cacophony of battle around them, he could not pinpoint the source of the sound.

After an agonizing moment, harsh shout in Russian pulled the man towards the collapsed house adjacent. The soldier backed away, disappearing inside.

Only once his footsteps faded did the girl risk a peek through the slats. No sign of the soldier. After an excruciating stretch of silence, she slowly withdrew her shaking hand from the boy's face.

"Już... już po wszystkim (It's... it's all over.)," she soothed tremulously, stroking his hair.

When no answering whimper or sniffle came, she glanced down – only to find the boy limp and horribly still in her lap. Gentle blue eyes stared sightlessly ahead. His soft skin had taken on a bluish pallor during the struggle, oxygen cut off too long.

Suffocated in her own arms.

"Seweryn? Seweryn, obudź się... (Seweryn, wake up.)" she pleaded, shaking her brother gently. But the boy did not stir.

Panic clutching her chest, she laid him down inside the hollowed space of bricks, brushing the hair back from his forehead softly.

"Zostań tu... nie odchodź...(Stay here. Don't go.)" she whispered shakily. "Wrócę po pomoc...(I'll go for help.)"

Stumbling to her feet, she cast one more anguished look at his still face before fleeing the hiding spot. She took off at a staggering run, unable to turn back, to accept what she knew must be true. Gunfire still split the air behind her as she kept going, focused only on finding someone, anyone who could help Seweryn.

The streets were deserted ruins. No movement, no voices. It was a graveyard. Still she ran blindly, driven by desperation and denial.

Turning a corner, she spotted figures up ahead – not soldiers, but strangely garbed people speaking a foreign language. Three adults and a boy in fine cloaks, untouched by debris. Dark-haired and haughty, the boy seemed only a few years older than her.

Another child.

Without thinking, she bolted from her crumbling cover towards them.

"Pomóżcie! (Help!)" she gasped out, clutching at the startled boy's cloak.

The other child jerked back in distaste as she groped at his clean robes with her grimy hands.

"Don't touch me, you wretched cretin!" he hissed in English.

A tall woman beside him knelt swiftly to meet the girl's wild eyes.

"Co się stało, dziecko? (What happened, baby?)" she asked gently in accented Polish.

The child's words tumbled out choked between sobs. "M-mój brat...nie oddycha... Proszę, pomóżcie! (M-my brother...isn't breathing... Please help!)"

As she spoke, the woman nodded along, already rifling through files handed to her by a man nearby and scanning through the papers with a considering look. Red hair, blue eyes, suspected age of eleven – looked like one of the refugees in the documents.

"Jestem Ophelia Sinclair (I am Ophelia Sinclair.)," she soothed. "Jak masz na imię? (What's your name?)"

"Eliza," the girl sniffled, suddenly startling at the familiar surname. "Sinclair? Pan Sinclair to mój tata! (Mr. Sinclair is my dad!)"

Ophelia's expression froze as she stared at the sniffling child before her.

"Twój ojciec? (Your father?)" she repeated tonelessly.

The girl's confirming, oblivious nod was like a physical blow, and Eliza's resemblance to Philip suddenly seemed undeniable. The proof of his betrayal stood pitifully before Ophelia – this waif embodied that betrayal, while her own son suffered from his father's absence.

Ophelia's false sympathy drained away, replaced by a hateful revulsion that twisted her features before she restrained it. Two bastard children – while neglecting the firstborn son he already had. Despicable.

With effort, she kept her voice steady. "Gdzie jest twój brat? (Where is your brother?)"

Eliza's trembling hand pointed back the way she had come, and Ophelia nodded crisply to the waiting Hit Wizard.

"Take her." She snapped after reverting to English, roughly grabbing the girl's arm and shoving her over.

Eliza struggled faintly, confused and spilling out naïve questions plaintively. "Gdzie? Gdzie idziemy? Po mojego brata? (Where? Where are we going? For my brother?)"

When the man dragging her in the opposite direction remained silently detached, the girl began to struggle in rising panic.

"Nie! Mój brat! (No! My brother!)" she cried, twisting in his grip. "Nie tam! Seweryn! (Not there! Seweryn!)"

Ophelia ignored her, gesturing sharply for the man to take Eliza away as she kicked and screamed, sobbing protests fading down the debris-strewn lane.

After watching with cold satisfaction, Ophelia turned briskly away to rejoin her son and the rest of the escort with curt orders on their mission. The child was ignorant and simple – much like her traitorous father.

Eliza never saw them retrace their path back towards where she'd pointed. Back towards the body she so desperately begged them to save.

Author's Note:

Chapter Text

ICA – The Brighter Devil of Our Decay

The hours crawled by as she lay curled in her bed, hysterical sobs wracking trembling body as she rocked back and forth while chocked mantras tore from her raw throat. Over and over she whispered desperate prayers for Sebastian's soul, though she knew not what god would hear a wretched thing like her. All she could see was his face, lips tinged blue, features contorted in desperation as he fought for air. It haunted her – no one deserved such death.

More prayers slipped from her trembling lips between gasped breaths. The mere thought of Sebastian's lungs hurting from lack of air – just as Seweryn's – made Eliza's own breathing painful.

What had she done? She had murdered a boy. An innocent classmate. For what? Did Osborn understand the true cruelty of the orders he gave? How could she have listened, how could she justify whatever this mission's goal was if it required killing people so young? How much more blood would stain her hands before this nightmare ended?

When word came that Sebastian survived, relief came hollow the next morning. But her brother's reaction eclipsed what little comfort she hoped to obtain.

"You bloody daft trollop!" he seethed, backhanding her hard across the face.

Eliza cowered in the corner, cheek stinging as he thundered on.

"I give you one task and you bungle it like a pathetic waste of air!" he yelled while upending a desk violently. "Worthless quim can't even drown a half-dead pup!"

She flinched as an inkpot shattered near her head, shards raining down as her hand clutched a bruising collarbone. Never had she seen Osborn lose composure so completely. He seemed almost...unhinged.

He raged at her in the empty, dim classroom, hurling cruel insults between throwing objects. Failure, waste of space, pathetic mongrel – his contempt rained down without restraint.

"Brother, hush – curfew soon..." she risked a timid plea. But her broken English only seemed to aggravate Osborn further.

"Shut your idiot mouth!" he snapped, overturning another desk with a crash.

His handsome face was livid, spittle flying from his contorted face as he paced wildly, tugging at his hair and muttering panicked calculations.

"Fine. New plan. We go to the source," he eventually bit out while turning abruptly and advancing on his sister with chilling focus. "I'll finish this myself since you're clearly useless."

Eliza shrank further at his closeness, gentle eyes squinting as his fingers closed around her jaw painfully.

"And if you cock it up again, I'll slice your worthless cunt of a throat myself." He leaned in towards her face. "Try to fail me this time and you will wish Blackwood's fate was your own."

Eliza's sobs grew louder at his cruel words.

"Nie... I don't want hurt..." she begged. "S-stop it..."

Osborn's expression stiffened dangerously. Grabbing her face, he dug his fingers into her cheeks and gave her head a rough shake.

"You'll do precisely as I say, or your marginal existence will have no purpose left at all."

He shoved her face away in disgust before resuming his agitated pacing, muttering plans under his breath. Eliza curled into herself, shoulders trembling as she wept.

Rubbing his temples, Osborn murmured a hastily building scheme in his head. "Now listen closely, because I won't repeat myself."

Neither noticed the hesitant scuffing of footsteps approaching the door, pausing as the commotion inside grew clearer.

Leander had followed the distant shouting curiously after serving detention in Hecat's office – clearly too far from the common room where he was first heading just moments before curfew.

He paused outside, drawn by the voice he could not confuse with anyone else's except their Prefect's. Alarmed, he pressed his ear to the door, straining to discern Osborn's ranting and muffled cries that accompanied it.

"...after curfew, lure her out of the castle, you know the spot," Osborn instructed. "I must have at least a few hours before the Mudblood's absence raises the alarm."

"But Osborn-" the girl interjected tearfully.

"Shut up!" he barked harshly. "Wipe your disgusting face and get out."

Leander jerked back from the door as the quiet sobs started approaching along with muffled footsteps.

He had to warn her, had to warn all of them before Osborn could act.

But as he pivoted to flee, his heel scuffed the stone floor noisily just in time with the door creaking open. Eliza gasped at the sight of him, watching as as he lunged away down the hall.

He made it only a few meters away before loud footsteps pounded after him and a heavy weight crashed into his back, driving him hard to the cold floor.

"Think you can spy on me, you little shit?" Osborn's snarling voice was at his ear as he pinned Leander facedown.

Leander struggled futilely, wheezing as Osborn fisted a hand in his hair and wrenched his head up.

"Let me explain!" he choked out through the pain.

"Explain dying, you meddlesome cretin," Osborn spat. He clamped a hand over Leander's mouth to muffle any potential screams, and dragged him back towards the classroom by his hair. "Should've known you'd shove your idiot Gryffindor snout where it wasn't wanted again."

Eliza hovered uncertainly next to them, but at her brother's sharp look she held the door open only to shut it behind them three in a hurry.

Inside, Osborn released Leander's hair to hurl him back to the floor and aim a harsh kick at his stomach. The air rushed from the boy's lungs as he curled up with a pained grunt. Before he could rise, Osborn's knee ground forcefully into his spine to pin him again.

"You just had to piss me off again, didn't you?" he hissed and leaned down, panting erratically for a moment with wand finally in hand.

Roughly grabbing Leander by his throat, Osborn yanked his head up again to meet his sister's frightened eyes, voice ragged and unstable. "Remember this, Eliza. This is what happens when people cross me."

The ornate serpent hiding inside the floor beneath the concealed entrance to the Slytherin dungeon had never appeared so unwelcoming. The guardian had never cherished her presence, yet tonight its carved silhouette seemed openly hostile. She did not belong here – after nearly six months at Hogwarts, that truth was plain.

She whispered the password repeatedly before the metal finally relinquished its hold on the stones with an ominous grinding screech. Even the handle resisted her push, the heavy door grudgingly allowing entry with unspoken rejection.

Head bowed, she descended down the stairs, rubbing fiercely at the lingering tear tracks beneath her glasses, though her eyes remained swollen and red-rimmed. Sniffing, Eliza forced her trembling hands to still.

The common room was oddly vacant.

Typically small groups of students lingered in the low dungeon space long after curfew, but tonight she found only empty couches and dying embers. Eliza straightened her clothes and ran a hand through tangled fiery hair as she approached the girls' dormitory stairs. It took some effort to plaster a faint smile on her face while adjusting the shirt collar to hide the ring of vivid bruises circling her throat.

The metal steps seemed to strain and groan under her weight, nearly bucking her off in protest before she scrambled up in haste. At the door to her room, she hesitated briefly with a shaky breath before barging inside with forced enthusiasm.

"You no believe what happen!" she called out in excitement, mangling the English in her flimsy cheerful act.

Imelda and Nerida glanced up from their conversation, while the bundled form on the third bed did not stir. As usual, Apocrypha remained defiantly curled beneath her blanket, pointedly ignoring Eliza's presence.

"What's happened now?" Imelda asked plainly, glancing up and down as the girl bounced on her toes.

"Is exciting day! I was in Hogsmeade with Poppy Sweeting!" Eliza cried with exaggerated cheer, hands waving expansively. "She so nice girl!"

"Mm, no doubt you made straight for Honeydukes," Imelda commented wryly. "Don't see any bags."

Nerida leaned forward curiously. "Was it your first visit to the village?"

"No, no!" Eliza exclaimed, cutting Nerida off. "Is not about Hogsmeade. When we go back, Poppy and I seeing...how you say... Theese-tral? Near forest!"

"Nothing odd there," Imelda shrugged. "Thestrals are common in those woods."

"Yes, but this one not normal!" Eliza insisted, widening her eyes earnestly. She snuck a glance at the motionless cocoon of blankets across the room before continuing with a mournful expression. "Was...sad? Very skinny and no friends."

She frowned, injecting sympathy into her voice.

"Black skin, one eye white. Is limping too." Eliza sighed dramatically. "But so awful, see animal alone like that. Will it live, you think?"

At that, the blankets shifted, and Apocrypha finally stirred, sitting up in confusion.

"Wait. Did you say a black Thestral, blind in one eye?" she demanded. "Are you sure?"

Eliza nodded eagerly, twisting her hands. "Yes! You know him?"

Apocrypha hesitated, conflicted. "Did...did you notice if it had both horns?"

"Oh, was far to see well," Eliza replied, hands fluttering regretfully. "But looked very ill and alone. Very sad."

Apocrypha sank back into troubled silence, brows twitching in confusion. Andromeda was supposed to be safe in the Vivarium. What was she doing outside, let alone near the Forbidden Forest? And what was she to do? Finding Deek and searching the Vivarium was the first logical thought, but going to the Room of Requirement now was risky – too many Prefects prowling the halls. And with those vivid details, unique only to one animal she knew – Eliza couldn't have been mistaken.

Imelda's smirking voice cut into her thoughts. "Didn't take you for a beast lover, Blackwood. Not with how you treat poor Poppy."

Apocrypha scowled, stung by the barb.

"It's none of your business," she snapped defensively while sharply getting from her bed to rummage through her clothes, then sighed. "Sorry. Bit on edge tonight."

Imelda waved it off casually.

"We're used to your moods, don't fuss," she said breezily, exhaling a thoughtful sigh. "Think anyone would be on edge after Sallow's near drowning last night. Beater boys do attract such trouble."

Nerida frowned worriedly as their roommate moved about. "What are you doing? You can't seriously be going out now – it's after hours, you'll be caught for sure!"

"Not if you hold your tongues," Apocrypha said shortly, jaw set stubbornly as she pocketed her wand.

Eliza shifted nervously, uncharacteristically silent as she reclined to observe. Nausea churned her empty stomach but she kept quiet, throat working as she swallowed hard and forced her breathing into carefully measured. What she was doing right now made her want to scream.

"The forest at night is madness, even for you," Imelda argued. "Some sick Thestral isn't worth that risk. You'll get yourself killed over nothing."

Ignoring their protests, Apocrypha yanked a sweater over her head roughly.

"I'll be back before you all fall asleep," she muttered defiantly, and slipped out the door before more arguments could be made.

She stalked from the dungeon Disillusioned and silent, evading a few Prefects who started their now familiar routes. Tall doors groaned open at her careful push and she hurried outside, unbothered by the cold. A piece of childhood in the cold North had seen to that.

Hurried footsteps took her beyond the school walls quickly through the frozen grass.

Why did it have to be Andromeda? Why were those precious few she cared for always the ones to suffer? First the crack in her friendship, then Sebastian's close death, and now this. Was it her fault? Did everything she touched have to suffer? She needed a break.

So lost in thought, she almost failed to acknowledge the silhouette on the bridge ahead until a voice called out.

"Blackwood! Wait." Leander's voice made her stop jerkily.

He stood waiting, expression unreadable in the gloom. At his terse beckoning, she hesitantly drew nearer.

"What are you doing out here?" she whispered, still panting from her hurried flight.

"I need to talk to you," he said bluntly. His tone was odd, almost confused.

Apocrypha blinked in surprise but nodded for him to continue. He frowned, seeming to struggle internally for a moment.

"I...I wanted to find you," he cleared his throat roughly, shifting from foot to foot. "To tell you something important."

Leander rubbed his temple in frustration, face drawn and forehead creased in a deep frown. His thoughts spun, fragmented. He had sought her out for a reason, he was sure of it. He was warned she would be passing this bridge. But by whom? Why? To warn her? Yes, to warn her about something.

But the memory dissolved like smoke, leaving only a bitter anger he did not understand.

Apocrypha swallowed impatiently, briefly looking around. "What do you mean? Did something happen?"

"I hate you, Blackwood," he blurted out suddenly, meeting her eyes coldly. "I really do. You disgust me."

Bewildered, she blinked in surprise.

"What? Leander, are you alright?" she asked uncertainly. Such venom was entirely unlike him.

"Never been better," he bit out. "Stay away from me. I never want to see your wretched face again."

With that, he strode past her without a backwards glance. Apocrypha stared after him, nonplussed but not quite stung by his sudden declarations.

"Um...okay?" she mumbled bitterly.

Shaking off the odd encounter, she turned and broke into a run once more, urgency driving her brisk pace across the grounds towards the forest. She had wasted enough time already.

Back in the castle, the lamps burned low through the space of the Hospital Wing as Nurse Blainey bustled about long past curfew.

Tapping the shoulder of the lone student sitting at one bedside, she gently chided, "Mr. Gaunt, you were meant to be gone an hour ago."

"A few more minutes, please?" Ominis pleaded. "He's only just woken properly."

The matron sighed with pursed lips but relented, bless her Hufflepuff heart.

"Just a few more minutes then," she agreed sternly, setting a steaming brew on the drawer by Sebastian's bed. "Drink this down, Mr. Sallow, unless you fancy coughing up both lungs for the next week."

Propping himself up with effort, Sebastian reached tremulously for the brew before Ominis intercepted, bringing it to his dry lips. He drank deeply with a grimace, then sank back into the pillows with a faint groan, careful not to disturb the bandages swathing his head.

"Blimey, feels like the Hogwarts Express ran me down," he rasped jokingly, lips quirking.

Ominis frowned disapprovingly.

"Joking already. Yes, nearly drowning is quite hilarious," he said dryly, shifting closer on the bed and lowering his voice. "Do you remember what happened at all?"

Sebastian considered, looking mildly surprised himself.

"All of it, oddly enough. Got a note to meet at the lake after hours – thought it was either you or Kryph, so of course I went there. Next thing I know, I'm struck in the head and underwater." He shrugged. "Not shocked I'm sick as a dog now. But Imelda will have my guts for garters if I can't play Quidditch in a week."

Ominis's expression remained grave. "Is that all that's bothering you? We were terrified, Sebastian. What possessed you to go there alone at night?"

Sebastian held up his hands, protesting weakly through wheezing coughs. "Hey, wasn't my fault someone lured me out there to get rid of me. I thought it was one of you after all. Didn't exactly ask to be knocked unconscious and chucked in the lake, did I?"

Ominis leaned closer intently. "Did you see who it was?"

"Too dark. Barely heard them coming." Sebastian shook his head, wincing slightly at the motion. "Could've been anyone."

Ominis sighed deeply, turning his head as he reflected.

Sebastian glanced around the otherwise empty infirmary before speaking quietly. "She hasn't come?"

Ominis sighed, rubbing his temple in a brief moment of hesitance. Then his mouth twisted regretfully as he decided to offer the truth directly. "Kryph's convinced you tried to kill yourself."

Sebastian barked a startled, hoarse laugh. "Blimey, what nonsense! Why would she think I'd ever do something like that?"

"You know why," Ominis said gently. "You haven't been the same since... you know."

Sebastian shifted uncomfortably through a grimace, smile fading. He didn't want to linger on this topic.

"No, listen," he insisted. "You must've seen the note that lured me out, right? That's evidence someone wanted me gone."

"Yes, that's how we knew where to find you," Ominis conceded before shrugging. "But you know how Kryph gets – always assuming the worst with her grim hunches. And the note being fake feeds her theory."

"Why would I fake something like that?" Sebastian asked, puzzled.

"In her view? To avoid seeming weak, I suppose," Ominis murmured. "Never claimed to fully grasp her foreboding."

Rubbing both hands down his face, Sebastian sighed.

"I know her instincts are spot on normally, but she's dead wrong here." The hurt in his voice was poorly disguised. "Doesn't sit right, her avoiding me over something I didn't do."

Especially after them being apart so long already. But that was the part he didn't dare voice.

Ominis huffed knowingly, patting his leg in reassurance.

"You know her, Sebastian. Bristly as a porcupine but she'll come around in her own time once her temper cools, like she always has." He offered gently, slowly rising from the bed. "Kryph never did fancy being chased after. She always circles back eventually, on her own."

Sebastian slumped back into the pillows with a conflicted sigh. Though knowing Ominis spoke true, their friend's absence still needled him. Nearly losing his life made their time feel far too precious to waste on pointless spats.

He rolled to his side with a grunt, hastily grabbing the remains of the brew to drain the bitter liquid before dropping the cup back on the drawer. Hugging the pillow to his chest tightly, he buried his face in its softness with a muffled grumble. "I'll show her weak..."

Ominis chuckled, the remark easing his worry somewhat. But the levity faded as Nurse Blainey strode past.

"Time's up, Mr. Gaunt, you've overstayed your welcome. Out before I fetch the Deputy Headmistress."

Ominis raised his hands in concession. "Just leaving, ma'am."

The matron eyed him critically next to the door. "I expect you gone when I return."

Ominis nodded hastily. "Going, going!"

As she swept from the room, he turned back and smiled faintly at the prone Sebastian. At least some good came of this horrid mess – their friendship seemed mending after the strain of recent weeks.

"Get some rest. Merlin knows you need it after the day you've had," he murmured. "Goodnight."

With that, Ominis made for the doors, when a small figure barrelled into him just outside. Eliza came stumbling towards the Hospital Wing, gasping frantically. Clothes disheveled, red hair in disarray and glasses askew, she babbled disjointedly in panicked English he could barely grasp.

"Is... She is forest, the...I tell her, I didn't want..." she garbled through fragmented speech, gripping his arm desperately.

"Slow down," Ominis urged. "What's happened?"

Eliza took a gulping breath, eyes wild. "Is Apocrypha! She leave castle, go to forest!"

Ominis's stomach dropped. "What? Why would she go there? Did she say anything?"

Eliza wrung her hands, accent mangling her words, but fear carried across clearly. "I say her I see sick Thestral near trees, so she go now. But forest is danger!"

Shaking her head wildly, Eliza clutched his sleeve, forcing as little detail as possible on her tongue. Osborn would surely decapitate her for this.

"Is bad! Things in forest no one knows! Was all my fault!" Her voice cracked vividly as she dissolved into panicked sobs, hysterical tears leaving her swollen eyes incessantly. "I not want anyone hurt!"

"Hurt anyone?" Ominis pressed in confusion. "What do you mean by that?"

But Eliza only cried harder harder, before a scuffling noise behind made them both turn.

Pushing the door open a sliver, Ominis peered inside to see Sebastian already on his feet, fumbling with his clothes.

"What do you think you're doing?" he hissed.

"We're going after her, right?" Sebastian asked as though it were obvious, dragging a second sweater over his head.

"Not a chance," Ominis snapped. "Get back into your bloody bed!"

Sebastian tried for a disarming tone. "Didn't know you had such a vocabulary, mate."

Ominis scowled, storming back into the infirmary and jabbing a finger at his friend's chest. "Don't test me. You're not going anywhere."

"You don't really expect me to lie here while Kryph's out there alone?" he asked simply through hoarse hacks.

At this, Ominis faltered. He knew that stubborn set to Sebastian's jaw too well – he would never let this rest.

Seizing the hesitation, Sebastian gathered his things hastily, coughing violently as he tore off the bandages and nudged Ominis firmly towards the door. "Matron will be back any minute. Best be off before we're all buggered."

Grimacing, Ominis acquiesced and hurried them swiftly down the stairs, Eliza trailing anxiously behind. In the corridors, he turned to her sharply. "You stay here, understand? It's not safe."

Eliza clung to his arm, swollen eyes glistening from countless tears.

"You come back, yes? Promise!" she pleaded.

Taken aback and confused by her intensity, Ominis gently tried to detach her grip. Why beg for a promise over this?

"Of course we'll be back. We've been to that forest countless times."

But Eliza clung tighter, sobs muffled in his sweater. "No, you! Please promise!"

Ominis shifted, profoundly uncomfortable. Promises were not given lightly. Just then Sebastian's hushed call came from down the corridor.

"Oi! No time for snogging, lovebirds, you can do that tomorrow!" He whispered sharply. "Path's clear, Ominis, let's move!"

Startled, Ominis peeled Eliza off as gently as he could. "I have to go. We'll be back by morning."

Still she didn't let go, lower lip trembling violently as she sobbed. "Promise!"

"Ominis!" Sebastian's impatient whisper came again.

Torn, Ominis forced the words out, hoping to placate her.

"I...I promise. Now I must go," he said shortly, before sprinting off after Sebastian in haste.

ICA - The Evil That Defies

The Forbidden Forest was a vicious beast to the unaware, yet its laws were simple: move silently, take only what you need, don't draw close, and, above all, never bring light.

In the smothering dark beneath the canopy of grim trees, even moonlight was scarce – and where it managed to sparsely filter through the heavy awning, visibility was abysmal. But human eyes adapt with uncanny resilience.

She listened intently, soft footsteps muffled to not draw attention from the lurking fauna. Halting behind a twisted oak, Apocrypha stifled labored breaths, peering warily about. Where could Andromeda be? Not in the thickest areas – Thestrals favored wet environments, so likely near the small puddle of a pond at the forest's heart. She pressed on carefully towards the brackish spot in her mind.

Roots snared her feet as she picked through the maze of undergrowth, eyes narrowed to parse shapes in the gloom. A lumpen silhouette ahead gave her pause – a prone horse form sprawled limply across the rotting log next to the stone tunnel. Drawing closer, the shape sharpened into a mauled centaur, humanoid torso slashed and torn open in several places.

The corpse lay still upon the gnarled roots that encircled it, intestines trailing from a gaping belly wound. The gutted abdominal cavity glistened wetly, ropes of intestine coiling around hind hooves as blood pooled beneath the torso, seeping into mangled innards of pulpified organs. Apocrypha wrinkled her nose in clinical dispassion at the sight of jagged splinters of ribcage jutting from pulpy flesh, muscle and sinew dislocated to be turned outwards. Sickly sweet decay tainted the air.

The savagery of the wounds left no doubt – this had been a brutal, desperate kill.

Just then, a sharp crack split the silence from behind the stone tunnel wall, and a jagged, chitinous leg speared down, puncturing through the corpse's skull and erupting from an exploded eye.

Apocrypha recoiled but kept her breaths still, creeping around the boulder to see a fully grown Thornback crouching over the body and dragging it greedily beneath its bulbous, purple-tinged abdomen. Yellowish fluid leaked from its fangs as it tore viscera from the opened cavity, sharp front legs gently caressing the thick blanket of webs lining the entrance to the burrow.

Senses prickling, the spider picked up a shift in the air – movements alien to its territory. It whirled with unexpected speed for its size, abandoned precious prey and scuttled in front of the opening, rearing up with forelegs raised aggressively.

Too tired after hunting yet too alarmed to be chased away, the spider backed away almost instantly, rows of glistening eyes scrutinizing the intruder as the creature circled to place its abdomen flush against the stone. Lumps of pulsing egg sacs dotted the rock face beneath the shield of hard abdomen and outstretched legs tipped with glinting spikes – a parent, guarding the nursery ferociously.

Apocrypha understood – she had stumbled upon a nesting mother. Maintaining cautious eye contact, she slowly bowed her head to show empty hands in a gesture of deference, and backed away with excruciating slowness one soft step at a time to avoid even the slightest sound. Only when she had put adequate distance between them did she allow a soft exhale.

The creature did not follow – it had no reason to endanger itself presently, not before its brood hatched. Such cases were the rarest sort – a wild, bloodthirsty beast that could be reasoned with. But it worked – the mother had food and shelter secured in the safety of her nest, her young still warming in their sacs. Risking a fight now was unnecessary, simply the nature of things.

Orienting herself, Apocrypha continued towards the densest part of the forest, where colossal roots and trunks crossed and coiled, melding into winding walls. She searched for a shortcut through the maze, a gap to slip through, when a male voice called out sweetly from above.

"Got lost, darling?"

Glancing up, she saw Osborn perched casually on a rocky outcrop beside a fallen tree, overlooking her position while wearing a content, almost relaxed expression. An odd smile that curved his mouth could nearly be called adoring.

"Come to snog trolls, have you?" the figure from below called up dryly. "No takers at the castle?"

Osborn chuckled, seeming utterly at ease. He rose to his feet and leapt nimbly down, landing catlike on the path ahead mere paces from his target.

"I came to play, sweet." His smile never wavered, but his eyes were stone. "With you."

Apocrypha forced calm, though her heart clenched. Alone against Osborn spelled disaster.

"You have...quite an idea of playtime-" she remarked evenly, cutting herself off as realization dawned.

She halted mid-word, eyes narrowing – he had known she would come here. Osborn just watched her, eyes predatory yet oddly gentle – confirming the suspicion she didn't need to voice. She broke eye contact first, too unnerved by his soft stare.

"Where's Andromeda?" came her question in hope to regain some control.

He shrugged nonchalantly, ambling closer.

"Likely still in the Vivarium. Your Room of Requirement makes a cozy nest, though it lacks a fireplace." His voice dropped suggestively. "Too cold for my liking."

Apocrypha took a subtle half-step back, visibly confused but unmistakeably alarmed. How did the bastard get access? What kind of an orchestrated meeting was this? Why setting a trap for her?

"Eliza." She stated flatly, intently watching her opponent from a still safe distance.

Osborn's smile turned sly.

"Clever girl. But we're not here to discuss my sister," he tilted his head to exaggerate that playful demeanor, voice lowering intimately. "I'm rather more interested in you. And these months have proved enlightening."

Despite herself, Apocrypha swallowed hard. "Enlightening how?"

"Those children didn't have to die. You'd agree, no?" Osborn watched her reaction closely, twirling his smooth wand in skilful fingers.

She scoffed. "I've no idea what you're on about."

"Of course not," he hummed knowingly, turning to let azure eyes rake their hostile surroundings. "This seems an ideal spot for...reminiscing."

When his gaze returned to her, he found the path before him empty.

"I had hoped you'd make this difficult," he chuckled softly, moving to where he'd last seen her.

Stalking swiftly to where she'd vanished, he squatted to inspect the forest floor. Deer hooves here, the prints of an Acromantula there, froggish shapes from a mooncalf herd that passed twenty meters east a few hours ago. But his target's trail stood out clearly to his experienced eye – the fresh impressions of small feet, softened by moss but unmistakably human.

Osborn smiled, predatory. He'd watched her long enough to know that trace anywhere.

He inhaled deeply, sorting through the woodland scents – damp soil, pungent fungi, animal musk, the coppery tang of the dead centaur...and a faint sweat with a hint of citrus lingering ubiquitously after her, still clinging to the spot. He knew of her secret penchant for citrus, had observed this odd surreptitious habit for months. Always so prickly, that one.

He inhaled again, smacking his lips. The hunt intoxicated him already – how he adored that scent.

This was a game he excelled at – his talents had been honed through years of tracking more elusive prey than a Hogwarts student. He knew better than to play long with prey, especially with his present target, but the temptation overwhelmed reason.

"Please, drag this out," he called out softly, rising. "I do so enjoy the chase..."

Selecting a promising direction, Osborn prowled between the trees, instincts straining for the smallest sign of movement, a snippet of sound. This was not his first hunt, nor would it be the last.

"I've so looked forward to our time together," he crooned, keeping his voice low. This forest punished carelessness. "Just you and me, finally alone..."

He paused to kneel again. There, a broken cobweb on the brambles. He brushed it lightly, fibers still tacky. Further ahead, a faint bootprint in a patch of mud, headed westward. Clever girl, doubling back to confuse the trail.

He held his breath, tilting his head. Was that a scuff of fabric against bark? A snapped twig to the left – she was moving. Osborn glanced in the right direction just in time to glimpse her sprinting silhouette darting behind a rocky outcrop some 30 meters off.

"Getting warmer," he singsonged softly, prowling silently after the vivid signs. A branch cracked sharply to his right, suddenly too close, and he whirled, grinning. "There you are."

Only emptiness and countless trees. She was swift and stealthy, he'd grant her that. But panic thwarted true cunning - she was here, he felt it in his bones.

"I know what you've done," he crooned meaningfully, a clear hint of threat distorting his otherwise relaxed manner. "And I know all about your talents, too, though you hide them so well."

Grin splitting his face, Osborn leapt onto a mossy boulder for a better view, movements fluid and assured. She was within reach, her fear – a tantalizing perfume.

"Let's make this interesting, shall we?" he called, tone playful yet with an edge below. "For each minute I can't find you, I'll tell you about one of those children. Which one first, I wonder...the 4-year-old maybe?"

At the stirring undergrowth ahead, Osborn turned discreetly when her curled figure in the fallen hollow giant trunk entered his peripheral vision. He gave no indication of spotting her, continuing the pretense and scanning the trees ahead.

"Hm, I think I like the infant they found strangled in the lake better," he mused with demonstrative thoughtfulness, observing her small shifts secretly.

She sat there poised as if to attack, yet didn't act at all, despite ample cover and distance in her favor. Strange, she had the jump on him, and still hesitated to take the opportunity. What was she waiting for?

A skittering noise behind pulled his focus. Whirling, he spotted Acromantula spiderlings crawling from behind the rocks, each no bigger than a cat. Drawn by his voice no doubt.

Spitting a calm Stupefy to paralyse them in place, Osborn strode closer to the small bodies with deliberate nonchalance.

"I know you're watching, darling. Don't be shy now," he called out softly.

Stomping down hard, he crushed one of the young creatures, the crunch of its splitting abdomen echoing dully as it burst wetly beneath his boot. Osborn slowly shifted his weight, grinding the twitching arachnid into the dirt.

"Does this bother you?" he purred, pressing a heel against the second spider's back as it recovered from the spell. "Come out, come out..."

He leaned his weight down slowly, applying just enough pressure to hear the chitinous shell crunch, then crack and ooze wetly. It squirmed pathetically, legs scraping against the ground.

"Fragile things, aren't they? Just takes a little force..." He grasped one flailing leg, wrenching it loose with a slick pop. The spiderling jerked and thrashed wildly, emitting high, thin screeches.

Osborn didn't bother hiding a small smile, leisurely peeling the legs off one by one while listening to its agonized, futile squeals. Its screeches grew weaker as the creature lay legless and helpless while Osborn systematically ripped it apart, piece by slick piece. With the last limb gone, he finally kicked it aside, blueish hemolymph seeping from the mangled stumps.

Looking up with an amused chuckle, he called lightly, "Some may call this cruelty. But you know better, don't you darling?"

The legless creature attempted to drag itself pathetically through its own viscera, wailing piteously before Osborn finally pinned it for the last time and ripped away the cephalothorax, scattering pulped organs. He inhaled the coppery aroma deeply before glancing back at the hollowed tree trunk.

"It won't be long before everyone sees your true talents," he stroked his gore-slick fingers, prowling closer to her hiding spot. "Including your dear friends. They'll look at you quite differently then..."

Meanwhile, Apocrypha curled in on herself inside the hollowed tree trunk, arms wrapped tight around her knees. Fingernails dug crescents into her skin through the sweater, deep enough to draw pinpricks of blood.

Would her friends think less of her if they knew? If they discovered what she was accused of, the things she was certain she didn't do?

Osborn's languid footsteps drew dangerously near her hiding place, and she shrank back, heart hammering. Panic constricted her chest as he prowled past, so close yet seemingly oblivious to her presence.

She had to move, to find better cover before he discovered her... or simply attack while his back was turned. He knew too much. She could strike now. His body would never be found if she did this right, if she did it like she knew would work.

But raw fear had paralyzed her completely, heart hammering against ribs fit to crack them, throttling coherent thought.

She hated being chased, being hunted like this. The very notion of having to run, being pursued, made her blood run cold. That nameless dread of being chased defied all reason – morbid, irrational phobia that glued her in place now, unable to act with Osborn anywhere near.

He passed near her refuge yet again, tone contemplative. "Imagine their surprise when they find out who you really are..."

Viridian darted from side to side in numb efforts to spot his walking figure – she couldn't draw breath, vision blurring at the edges.

Just then, a distant shout made her flinch violently – her nickname, echoing through the trees along with the voice too familiar. Sebastian.

Osborn paused, sighing theatrically. "Speak of the devil..."

Apocrypha swallowed, the sound releasing a flood of relief in her chest along with spiking adrenaline as her breaths quickened dangerously. Clenching her eyes shut, she bit down on her own hand, hard enough to stifle the hyperventilating gasps. They were so close, yet still too far to reach her in time without the precise location to look for.

Shaking badly, she fumbled for her wand with a bloodied hand, sinking her teeth deeper into the free one – the sharp pain helped her focus. She had to concentrate on something good, a positive feeling – strong enough to break through the fog of mindless fear and conjure a beacon. Patronus magic was fruitless without a talisman of joy.

But everything in her screamed danger, screamed to run. She couldn't run, couldn't think. Perhaps Patronus would give her a chance, if she could actually manage the charm by some miracle – but its glow would draw Osborn instantly.

Twitching, she bit harder, heart stuttering irregularly. When the shouts came again, closer this time, the bone cracked audibly while she gnawed her finger, copper flooding her mouth as the vivid burst of pain briefly cut through the panic. She had to do something, anything.

"Expecto...patronum," she mumbled through the digit clenched between her teeth, the irrational incantation mangled and broken.

No wisp appeared. Of course not – she was talentless, unlike some.

Ólafur Arnalds – Vigil

Was it her fault, or was she simply born this way? Why couldn't she be more like her second half? They were supposed to be identical, both in character and image.

Yet he was everything people don't expect a boy to be – gentle, calm, imaginative and gifted. A dreamer, quiet and seemingly wise beyond his years. That ethereal viridian marked their shared blood, yet in him the vibrant hue somehow seemed more vivid. One glimpse of those eyes and any stranger knew – that boy comprehended things even adults overlooked. They marked him as something more.

She was his opposite, an inverted reflection that turned out to be everything expected of a boy, despite her never feeling like one. Quick temper, impulsive actions, secretive – always closed, never predictable. No trace of creativity or talent – just a preference for clear instruction over imagination.

Only one uncommon trait seemed to define her since very birth – an insufferable sense of injustice.

It was him who showed her the world was more than cold injustice. He was the one who gave her meaning, identity – being part of one whole. They were two halves of the same creature.

Biting into her broken finger again, she felt the pain finally grounding the fear. Her breathing seemed to slow as she she sank into the memory. Strange how even just the image soothed her – she hadn't allowed herself to think of him in a while.

Back then, things had almost made sense. She'd never felt alone, with him there to mirror her unearthly green despite his own always seeming to glow brighter. She envied how effortlessly he wielded talent, how he seemed to know things even without understanding them – like how that damned willow thrived by their house despite the coastal air and its hatred of saltwater.

She saw him then, at the coast near their home. They were no older than ten.

"Come out, scaredy-fish!" His laughter rang out as he extended a hand towards the hollow beneath the willow – her favorite hiding spot when things got unpleasant at the house. "What's got you so skittish this time, Kryph?"

"Am not scared!" She jerked away stubbornly with a defiant grumble, scraping deeper into the claustrophobic burrow to worm into the dark crevice between the roots.

He scrambled in after her swiftly, catching her ankle to yank her back with a playful shout.

"Gotcha!" He pinned her down inside the cramped space with a cackle, wrapping both arms around her in a tight embrace. "Admit defeat!"

She struggled half-heartedly, grumbling indistinct protests muffled in his sweater. But his grin was irrepressible as always.

"Agh! Alben!" Her small voice cried out before she burst into wheezing giggles upon feeling his fingers tickling her ribs. "Let go, you overgrown leech!"

Finally breaking free, she wiped muddy hands across his face in revenge, smudging it before dissolving into another wave of cackles.

He made an exaggerated show of wiping the dirt away, nose scrunched. "Gross, Kryph!"

He scooped up a clump of moist earth to return the favor, her shocked laughter fueling his own until they wrestled again, both thoroughly filthy and collapsed against each other in tired, panting joy.

Strands of dark wine-red hair sticking to his eyes, Alben wiped his face lazily before nodding towards the meadow beyond their shelter. "We should head back. Storm's coming."

She blinked at the piece of clear sky still visible from inside the burrow, baffled. "How can you tell?"

He shrugged, unbothered, but tapped his temple. "Just a feeling."

She wrinkled her nose, wanting nothing more than to hide there forever, away from the world that only he seemed to understand. But she trusted him completely.

"Bet you can't race me back home!" She challenged, worming her way back out and taking off without warning.

He caught up swiftly – always able to find her no matter where she hid.

Hands trembling, Apocrypha gripped her wand tightly and buried her face against her knees, expression contorting with suppressed tears threatening to spill over. Thin lips twisted into a pained line, and she stilled her shaking foot as nose scrunched against the burning in her eyes.

He was the only purely good thing she'd ever known.

"E-Expecto...patronum," she choked out again, the incantation fragmented by a sob.

A tiny silvery light flickered from the tip, fluttering unsteadily before it swelled into a small wisp – then blossomed into a slender, moth-like shape with four delicate wings. It flapped protectively before her, casting its faint glow over her huddled form.

Barely registering the success through her tears, Apocrypha waved her wand jerkily, directing the guardian from the hollow as if to brush aside an irksome insect. It hovered uncertainly, like its caster.

Turning back to the hole that served as her lookout, she blinked through wet eyes and recoiled as if burned. Azure eyes rimmed with icy blue stared back from inches away, narrowed malevolently just outside the trunk.

Osborn tutted, viciously tearing away the rotting bark to widen the gap. "Found you, poppet."

Before she could find any courage to react, his hand shot through the opening to grip her arm bruisingly and forcibly haul her out. She didn't fight it, paralyzed by old instinct – just froze like a frightened animal.

Osborn curled his lower lip theatrically, mimicking sympathy at her painful expression and wet eyes. "Oh darling, what's got you so sad?"

He held her easily with one arm, the moth's wings fluttering erratically overhead. With clinical interest, Osborn aimed his wand to strike it down, when the action jolted his captive from her trance. She clawed and kicked, buying precious seconds for the wisp to flee as he wrestled to subdue her. Caught off guard, his wand hand twitched, forcing the spell to miss its target as the moth darted away frantically through the trees.

"Temper, temper," Osborn chided as she finally exhausted her last strength. He yanked her closer, breath hot on her ear. "Playtime's over – time to get us home."

Another shout echoed through the trees – Sebastian's rasping voice carried far.

"Kryph!"

"Quiet!" Ominis hissed at him, whispering harshly. "You'll draw every predator for miles."

"How else do you expect to find her?" Sebastian snapped back defiantly. "We're hardly going to by whispering!"

Dissolving into wracking coughs from the effort, he gasped painfully – the cold air scorching to his raw lungs.

Ominis grimaced at the harsh sound, pressing a palm to his flaming forehead. "You're burning up. This was a mistake-"

"I'm fine," Sebastian rasped stubbornly, shrugging him off. "We have to keep looking."

They pushed on deeper into the forest, Ominis's calm patience finally cracking under the strain of stress. "Why do you never listen? Just once?"

Sebastian shot him a sharp look. "Really? Now's not the time to-"

"No, we're discussing this now," Ominis barreled on, months of frustration finally boiling over. "You never think before acting. And I'm left picking up the mess when things go wrong, which they always do!"

Sebastian just gestured for him to lower his voice, but Ominis was far past calming.

"You'll get us both killed like this," he seethed. "For once in your life, listen to reason!"

Sebastian seemed to be unprepared for such an outburst, feet carrying him further on their path without an answer – he wasn't sure what to do with this truth. After a period of tense silence, he halted abruptly, bending double to muffle more agonized coughing in his sleeve.

Temper fraying uncharacteristically, Ominis grabbed his shoulder, finally snapping.

"That's it. You're going back to the castle, now."

Sebastian wrenched away. "The hell I am!"

"Go. Back." Ominis bit out, voice deadly quiet. "I'll bring her back myself."

"I'm not. Going." Sebastian bit back, struggling not to let another wave of coughs sway the confidence in his tone. Seeing Ominis's thunderous expression, he cleared his throat, trying for lightheartedness to redirect the tense air. "I nearly died yesterday, and you're already angry with me. Least wait a bit."

But his friend was deaf to the weak humor. "Here it is – you don't think, do you? You're going back to the castle, even if I have to drag you myself."

He reached for Sebastian's sleeve, but he jerked away sharply.

"You can't order me around," Sebastian said through clenched teeth.

"Because you always know best, is that it?" Ominis's voice rose to a shout. "You only make things worse when you're like this! Why can you never just trust me?"

Sebastian opened his mouth to argue but Ominis cut him off sharply.

"No, enlighten me! Tell me why my word means nothing, why you must always take matters into your own reckless hands. Please, explain it to me!"

Ominis panted harshly in the ringing silence, scowling at his reckless, foolish, best friend who may well get them both killed. He turned away to pace back and forth, stewing state heightened by Sebastian's telling silence. Though at this point, any response would likely worsen his temper.

He had tried, sincerely tried to move past everything – to forget, forgive, pretend Sebastian's doing changed nothing between them and Anne's death hadn't destroyed their world. That they could return to how things were if he just ignored the pain.

But the pain was too much, and he was tired of holding it in. Anne's absence still skewered his heart each morning. Sebastian's brush with death had nearly stopped it altogether. Now another friend was missing, and Sebastian still barreled ahead reckless as ever. Always so damned confident he knew best, no matter who suffered for it. Ominis was tired of making excuses, tired of seeing those he loved pay the price for Sebastian's arrogance.

And with Apocrypha somewhere out there alone, and he couldn't contain the hurt and pretend any longer.

"This is your fault, all of it!" he burst out bitterly. "You left when we needed you most, too busy wallowing in self-pity! And this is the result!"

He whirled on Sebastian again, spilling out accusing words. "Selfish to the end, just like with Anne! She'd still be here if not for your stubborn arrogance!"

Ominis could feel Sebastian flinch at the accusation – he had never voiced the bitter thoughts aloud, but exhaustion tore away the filter. He knew he should've stopped.

"If you hadn't been so focused on chasing phantom cures, so obsessed with denying the truth, you wouldn't have killed Solomon in your madness and Anne might have lived, instead of dying across the country, alone!" His voice broke slightly but he forced the words out – and regretted them instantly. "If you had just just accepted things and settled for what time she had left, been there for her at the end instead of running off on foolish bloody quests, she might have died at home, with family beside her. You took that from her!"

Sebastian's face contorted, raw anguish breaking through the defiant mask.

"I know!" he yelled hoarsely. "I know, I know, I KNOW!"

He dragged both hands down his face, breaths coming rapid and shallow.

"You think I don't realize it? That I don't hate myself for failing her, for failing you both?" His voice shook badly, words fractured around the lump in his throat. "I know I'm a complete cock-up, I know it's my fault! I live with it every goddamned day now!"

Sebastian's chest constricted with suppressed coughs and he took a few agonized gasps before being able to continue.

"I ruined everything, just like I always do," he nodded feverishly in between his shouts, barely holding back tearless sobs. "But I'm trying to do something right for once, because you and Kryph are all I have left!"

Ominis exhaled a harsh, breathless sigh and advanced with almost violent strides before pulling Sebastian into a crushing embrace, tight enough to hurt. Sebastian clutched him back desperately, swallowing convulsively to restrain the threatening tears. Neither could recall ever hugging before in their near six years of friendship.

"I'm sorry," Ominis choked out. "I didn't mean-"

"No, you were right," Sebastian rasped, shaking his head sharply. "I deserved it, all of it."

Ominis squeezed his eyes shut and tightened his arms, sighing determinedly after a small moment.

"Let's finish this."

Sebastian nodded jerkily, harshly coughing into his shoulder. As they finally pulled apart, a sliver of light caught his eye over Ominis's back. Squinting, he made out a faint wisp fluttering unsteadily through the trees. The glowing shape landed on a nearby trunk, leaving a shimmering trail in its wake that unknowingly demanded the instincts to follow.

"Ominis," he whispered, pushing his friend's wand hand in the direction of the light.

They both strode over in bewilderment as the insect-like creature drifted down and immediately fluttered over to land on Sebastian's chest, tiny legs clinging to his sweater.

Sebastian stared at the fragile creature intently – two fuzzy antennae, uneven and distorted forewings, spindly legs gripping the fabric with tiny hooks... and two glowing dots that stared back at him. Somehow, impossibly, he knew.

"It's her," he breathed, cupping the fragile messenger to cradle it gingerly beneath his palm.

Ominis's sightless eyes widened at the certainty in his tone, but he didn't question it. All thoughts of stealth forgotten, they took off running recklessly along the glimmering trail, heedless of the noise they raised while slipping on icy patches in their haste.

Only halfway through did Sebastian realize the trail was rapidly fading, the wisp under his hand dissolving away. Lifting his palm slightly, he saw only a few sparkling specks remaining where the moth had been. But they didn't slow, Ominis matching him stride for stride – even without the guiding light, they knew the direction.

A stomach-churning stench greeted them before the trees thinned – something was burning. The acrid smell of smoke grew stronger ahead, leaving no doubt where it led. Eyes watering, they burst into a clearing wreathed in oily fumes, and stumbled right into a scene from nightmares – the clearing stood empty amidst the choking smoke, flames greedily consuming the hollowed burrow in the corner.

Fire erupted from the earth, heat rolling in blistering waves while voraciously consuming a nest of spongy egg sacs lining the stone wall not long ago. The stench was sickening – burnt chitin and smoldering capsules now blackened and popped, spiderlings oozing from the ruptured membranes.

Ominis doubled over, coughing painfully in the acrid haze.

"Where is she?" he yelled hoarsely, wand held out unsteadily as he staggered about.

Sebastian spun, searching through the stinging fumes. "I don't see her!"

The smoke stung their eyes and seared their lungs, but they pushed forward still.

"There!" Ominis coughed, gesturing towards a heap of burning rocks. "I sense movement!"

They rushed over, but Ominis yanked Sebastian back suddenly – the shape shifting in the rubble was far too large for a human.

An ear-splitting screech tore the air as the massive Thornback crashed free, chitinous body wreathed in licking flames. It reared up wildly despite its horrific burns, legs scraping the earth in maddened agony. Blind in its pain, it thrashed violently upon sensing alien presence, burning legs carrying it around chaotically.

Ominis and Sebastian backed away swiftly, wands aimed uncertainly.

Bereft of her young and fatally wounded, the creature locked onto their presence, primal protective instincts overriding unimaginable pain.

She had nothing left to lose now.

Chapter Text

ICA – Blessed Agony

The Transfiguration courtyard was oddly still, the usual bustle muted to a gentle hum as the castle grounds stretched lazily under the midday sun. A few students milled about unhurried, voices blending pleasantly beneath the murmur of foliage.

Warm wind whispered soft nothings and fluttered through, gently teasing both hair and cloaks as Apocrypha squatted comfortably. Her muscles felt soft and pliant, movements slow and drowsy. She basked in this tranquility with uncharacteristic calm – merely considering exerting the effort to stand felt nearly criminal. She was content to remain tucked comfortably here, arms curled around bent knees as she stared down at the soft green blades below her boots. Their sweet, earthy aroma filled her lungs with each easy inhale.

Is it... spring already?

From behind, familiar voices bantered lightly – Ominis and Sebastian relaxed against the wall, at ease.

"Honestly, you need a hobby besides trouble," Ominis chided, though his tone held suppressed amusement.

She let the comforting sounds wash over her without focusing too closely – even those were enough to lull her. Maybe it was a good idea to get back to the dorm and just surrender to sleep without fight for once – a brief thought that dissolved quickly upon her noticing a hairy lump scuttle up beside her boot as if seeking shelter. Vision blurring, she blinked slowly, expecting to see a cat, when eight legs brushed the grass next to her feet gently. An Acromantula spiderling, no bigger than a kitten, emerged cautiously from the blades.

She extended both hands upwards without hesitation, absently noting spots of rusty dried blood speckling her fingers. This odd calm muffled any concern – the events that led to the wounds felt distant, untroubling. Whatever happened – she couldn't remember, nor did she try to.

The timid creature crawled trustingly onto her waiting palms, and she stroked its fuzzy, almost velvet abdomen gently, paying no mind to the experimental nip of tiny fangs against her wrist. It curled contentedly in her cradled hands, gleaming black eyes guileless.

Eyelids growing heavy, she just let her mind drift aimlessly, cocooned and lulled by the delicate prickle of soft legs and the melodic ebb and flow of familiar voices.

She was on the cusp of dozing off when Sebastian's distant voice jerked her awake. "Oi, Kryph! Let's get going."

She stammered and nodded hazily, staggering to her feet with the pliant arachnid still nestled in her cupped palms. "Uh-... Y-yes, coming!"

Turning towards where she'd heard them last, Apocrypha found the sunny yard abruptly deserted, all traces of life vanished. The warm wind had vanished, leaving stale, oppressive air. Bleached grey light leeched the color from her surroundings.

"Ominis?" she called uncertainly. "Sebastian?"

No response came.

She looked down to glance at the bundle in her hands, recoiling as dark fluids dripped viscously between her clenched fingers. Coarse hairs poked through the gore – remains of the trusting creature she'd held. Suppressing a gag, she scrubbed desperately at the ichor.

The sharp tang of smoke invaded her senses abruptly when she inhaled. Swallowing convulsively, she scanned the lifeless courtyard warily. Somewhere from behind, an eerie susurrus of whispered chanting and faint rumbling drifted towards her – a sound she knew too well. Slowly, she turned, the cold certainty flooding her gut.

The glowing pool shimmered and pulsated darkly beyond the shadowed archway of the corridor, misty tendrils of chaotic magic unfurling just within the dark space. They swayed insistently in her direction, beckoning.

She recoiled a step instinctively. No, not this.

A rough voice rasped from the void behind that eldritch light.

"It is good to see you again ."

Apocrypha scanned the empty expanse, wide eyes darting about frantically to find the source of danger. She swallowed thickly, willing her voice steady.

"Show yourself."

From the impenetrable darkness behind the pulsating wisps, a chillingly sweet laughter curled forward.

"I've missed you."

The viscous puddle split slowly as an inky female silhouette stepped from the void towards its centre – nothing but a light-devouring shadow devoid of all features.

"I don't know you," Apocrypha uttered warily.

The swirling void where its face should've been tilted, assessing.

"You do. Look around – does this place not seem familiar?"

At its urging, she took in her distorted surroundings. The bleached courtyard now glowed blood red, light emanating from the central statue – or what had replaced it.

Instead of the astrolabe globe that proudly peeked from the middle of the courtyard, a sphere of twisted goblin-wrought metal now stood, razor-edged blades and spokes twisted and crooked to form a jagged, gaping cage. Crudely woven wires writhed in constant motion as if alive, parting only briefly to reveal chaotic magic throbbing and churning within its iron heart while emitting a deep crimson glow.

The storage from the last repository.

At Apocrypha's nearness, the sphere convulsed violently, razored contours shredding the fabric of reality around it. Chaos spilled through rending gaps as every metal thorn seemed to twitch in struggle to contain this unnatural life. Whatever was held captive threatened to break free.

She whipped back from the sinisterly pulsating contraption, heartbeat thundering in her ears. The oozing pool at the shadow's feet ran crimson, surface bubbling hungrily. As she watched, the silhouette coagulated into solidity, gaining two cavernous, bloodshot eyes surrounded by glistening sinew and weeping sores. Rivulets of dark fluids trailed down its distorted features, lips peeled back from distended jaws in a gruesome rictus grin.

Suppressing a shudder, she forced out a whisper. "Who are you?"

The macabre creature cocked its head, deflecting her question.

"You're not in a good place right now."

"What do you mean?" she demanded. "Who-"

"Him," it interjected firmly. "He is not an ally. Resist him."

"What? Who are you talking about?" she pressed angrily. "Stop speaking in riddles."

It smiled, rows of serrated teeth gleaming wetly – it savoured the received emotion.

"You will understand soon enough. For now, you must wake up."

It gestured behind her urgently. She turned to follow its motion-

-and jerked bolt upright on something plain, vision blurry. Consciousness returning slowly, she stirred sluggishly, but her hands remained still – bound at the wrists with coarse rope that bit into her skin. As sensation prickled back into her extremities, she realized her ankles suffered the same fate – she was tightly bound to the chair beneath her. Testing the ropes groggily provided no give.

"Awake, sweetling?" Osborn's saccharine voice startled her from across the room. "I was starting to get bored. Exhausted after our little adventure in the woods?"

She lifted her head blearily to find Osborn leaned against the edge of a desk across from her, watching her struggles with a smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"You've been out quite a while," he mused. "Must've been good dreams."

"What do you want from me?" Apocrypha rasped, throat dry.

"Just you," he replied simply.

She frowned scornfully, tugging pointedly at her bonds. "Your courting methods need work."

He chuckled at that.

"Perhaps. Subtlety was never my strength. Action is so much more rewarding, though I'm clearly no gentleman in that regard." A dangerous glint entered his eyes then, pinning her in place. "But I have other talents to make up for it."

He turned away to bend over the desk with a soft sigh, leaving Apocrypha to take in her unfamiliar surroundings.

She moistened dry lips, verdant eyes darting around to catalogue the details and ground herself – a small dim office, fire crackling somewhere behind her to provide the only light, the familiar woodwork of the desk Osborn bent over casually, and the moon visible through the big window behind it. Hogwarts. She was still at Hogwarts.

Osborn looked back at her, leafing through a sheaf of papers.

"I've been busy these last months, you know." He selected a folder from the stack – one of her files. "Very busy indeed. Have learned so many interesting things about you..."

He lifted the official-looking documents with a knowing smile, turning her way.

"You've caused quite the headache for the Ministry."

She kept silent, eyes narrowing at the papers.

"Quiet as ever I see," Osborn smirked, perching casually on the desk's edge. "The Aurors couldn't get a peep out of you last year either. Stubborn little thing, aren't you?"

He licked his thumb, looking through the pages with theatrical interest.

"Still, I'm surprised you revealed nothing, even under Cruciatus. Staying loyal to someone very special, I take it? The late Professor Fig, perhaps?"

At the mention of Fig, Apocrypha flinched before she could stop herself, eyes darting away tellingly.

Osborn's smile turned predatory. "Ah, there it is. Tell me..."

She pressed her lips together firmly, refusing to rise to the bait. After a moment he sighed, almost fondly.

"This whole mess...it never should have ended up in the hands of a woman. Far too naive for such matters."

He pushed to his feet and began to circle her slowly, footsteps echoing on the stone floor. "What on earth possessed you to trust someone like Fig, hm? Did you just latch onto the first father figure who paid you mind and ignore every instinct screaming otherwise?"

She scowled at this but bit her tongue, eyes tracking Osborn as he prowled. He stopped briefly, allowing her to watch his silhouette from the corner of her eye.

"You suspected his motives weren't pure, don't deny it," he chided. "Yet still you obeyed without question. How very stupid."

He paused expectantly. When she stayed mute, he sighed in exaggerated disappointment.

"Blind loyalty gets people killed. Did you never question how oddly helpful he was, yet utterly intent on secrecy? Why the need to hide things from your friends, your Professors? From the Ministry itself?"

Apocrypha's tracking eyes slid away half-closed and troubled.

Osborn noticed her shift in demeanor. "Oh yes, I'm well aware of the games that fraud was playing."

She glanced back sharply. "How?"

"I know everything about your little arrangement," Osborn tsked, shaking his head. "The bloody fool documented everything – kept a diary in his private office outside Hogwarts."

Sliding behind her chair, he leaned down to whisper in her ear.

"So opportune, isn't it? An unstable girl with a unique ability, taken under wing by a professor married to an ancient magic researcher. Then conveniently assigned to travel in a carriage instead of Hogwarts Express, along with George Osric, who just happened to have a goblin-crafted case containing the Portkey to Gringotts."

Apocrypha bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted blood, but refused to respond. It hurt – rummaging through the doubts she had since that encounter on the beach almost three years ago. She had truly ignored every instinct – was she indeed so miserable? So desperate for purpose that she didn't question until it was too late? The thought haunted her. She kept her eyes fixed ahead, mouth – a thin line.

Osborn clicked his tongue in mock concern. "Quite a string of happy coincidences, wouldn't you say? Finding you right when he needed a patsy."

He searched her face intently for any betrayal of emotion. But she remained statue-still, defiantly silent.

"Fig orchestrated it all to suit his own ends," he whispered in her cheek. "Tell me, did you ever doubt you were just a pawn to him? Did he even care for you at all?"

At this cruel insinuation, his captive's temper finally snapped.

"Shut up," she hissed through clenched teeth, straining against her bonds furiously.

Osborn chuckled and leaned lower to leave a mocking kiss on her cheek.

"There's that fire," he purred, grinning as she recoiled violently, itching to strike him.

He sauntered back to the desk, humming tunelessly while sifting through the papers once more.

"No point denying what I already know," he called over his shoulder. "Fig and his wife weren't just dabbling out of academic curiosity – they wanted that power for themselves."

Selecting two folders, Osborn weighed each in hand contemplatively as he talked.

"The man was mired in ancient magic obsession – dangerous knowledge. Why else keep the Ministry in the dark? If he'd fully disclosed his theories, we could have handled this long ago. But no, he squirreled you away instead."

Turning back to face her fully, he tapped the documents together while muttering his thoughts aloud.

"That's why he kept it all hushed up, played the mentor for you," he glanced from behind the papers with a sly smile. "Don't tell me you never questioned yourself why he involved himself so thoroughly in your potential connection to that type of magic? Why he trained you himself rather than alerting the Department of Mysteries?"

Apocrypha pressed her lips together and glared – hurt written plain across hardened expression. Osborn's smile turned savage at having found a tender spot.

"Why else would a professor conveniently have Polyjuice potion on hand to impersonate the Headmaster?" He continued casually. When she stayed stubbornly mute, he shrugged. "No matter. The diary was quite illuminating."

He sighed then, tossing the papers back on the desk to roll up the sleeves of his shirt.

"The old man knew far more than anyone realizes," his voice dropped, silky and vicious. "But we could find out more together – if you'd enlighten me..."

Apocrypha clenched her jaw obstinately. "I won't tell you anything."

Osborn's mouth curved with amusement, anticipation glinting in azure eyes. "I do love it when you talk like that. I so enjoy breaking stubborn things..."

He turned to the desk once more, attention darting back to the paperwork as he flipped through a journal.

"Surely you saw my work on Prewett. He broke rather quickly – nowhere near as entertaining as you'll be."

In the deafening silence, he heard her harsh swallow upon realization finally setting in. Satisfaction relaxed his features into leisure expression as he tapped his chin thoughtfully with his wand. "Just one thing I must check first..."

He scratched a small scribble on the paper, straightening sharply after.

"Purely personal curiosity, I assure you," he muttered in thought before turning abruptly to aim his wand at her. "Imperio!"

The curse splashed over her without any seeming effect – she tensed, then exhaled slowly, face still dangerously defiant. Osborn watched for a long moment before lowering his wand, but she continued to stare back, viridescent eyes hard as stones.

"Excellent!" He laughed delightedly, turning back to scratch another note with his quill. "The rumors were true – you really are immune to Imperius. We shall have quite the entertaining time together."

He flipped through his notebook idly, pausing to jot down an occasional note, then chose a green apple from the desk and crunched into it lazily. He chewed with his mouth open, turning to look over her like one might observe a lab specimen.

Swallowing, he ambled over back towards her and held out the half-eaten fruit casually. "Want a bite? Nice and sour, just how you like."

Apocrypha jerked away harshly from his nearness, chair nearly toppling back before Osborn caught it, chuckling through another juicy bite.

"Whoops, careful now," he chided with pretended concern while chewing, lips smacking. "Wouldn't want any cracks in that pretty head before we've even started."

He peered down at her distressed expression as she shrank back, now visibly unnerved by her vulnerable position. Fear suited her far better than defiance.

"You look rather on edge," he commented calmly, swallowing once more. "Good, very good."

The faint shudder that passed through her at his words made heat coil low in his belly, travelling straight below his belt. He took another loud, enthusiastic bite to distract himself, juice trailing down his chin.

Wiping his mouth, Osborn squatted by her chair to run his hands along her ankles, checking the bonds. She flinched and recoiled from his touch, but the ropes held fast.

"Hush now, be a good girl," he tutted, stroking her thigh consolingly. "No more Unforgivables for you, don't you worry."

Satisfied with the ropes, he pushed back to his feet and straightened, taking another crunching bite.

"Cruciatus is old news – loses its spice with repetition," he continued, talking lightly around the fruit. "And Killing Curse would be counterproductive and terribly inefficient for my needs – since you're clearly not immortal."

He chuckled to himself softly, then twisted his wand between slender fingers swiftly.

"Nah, my talent lies in working with this," he tapped the tip against his temple meaningfully. "As I'm sure you've gathered."

Lobbing the apple core into the fire, he dusted off his hands and leaned in again to take his captive's blood-crusted hand to examine it. The finger she'd broken yesterday was healed flawlessly, no signs of previous damage save for the reddish flakes still mixed with forest dirt. He made a soft thoughtful noise, rubbing away the dried blood with clinical interest. Impressive regeneration. This confirmed promising theories about her singular biology.

He stood abruptly, clapping decisively.

"Right then! One last essential test before we move on," he cracked his knuckles, slowly circling back towards the desk to look through his notes eagerly. This was the experiment he had been waiting for.

He rooted through the leather bag next to the papers and withdrew an empty vial, turning it over in his hands.

"This one has been an interest of mine for quite some time," he explained, voice casual yet eager. "Important work – for science, of course."

At her renewed thrashing against the ropes, he turned and clicked his tongue in feigned sympathy. "Now now, no need to fuss. I promise to be quick and gentle."

But the cold in his eyes betrayed the lie.

Osborn sauntered back towards his captive, small breaths coming out deep and panicked as she turned and twisted her wrists against the ties.

Grasping her chin, he forced her to meet his eyes.

"No screaming, understand? We both know you're far too proud for hysterics." He smiled slowly. "But I do admire your fortitude, poppet."

He leaned in with chilling intimacy, loosening the ropes on her left wrist with unsettling care – just enough to roll up the sleeve of her dirty sweater and rotate her arm upwards, exposing the vulnerable flesh of inner forearm. The ropes were swiftly retied, coarse fibers imprinting greyish skin with angry purple welts.

"Shhh..." he soothed, thumb tracing the knot of dark veins beneath her thin, almost transparent layer of flesh. "Try not to struggle, it will only make this worse for you."

He slid his wand along the tautly stretched skin as though testing for the softest point. Finding the spot where her forearm met elbow, he angled the tip like a blade against the darkest vein.

"Do hold still now..."

Then he slashed the wand down in one not so hurried, savage cut. Her flesh split wide from elbow to wrist, hot blood welling instantly.

Apocrypha grunted harshly, neck veins cording with the effort not to scream. She thrashed in agony, but only rough, breathy groans escaped her tightly clenched teeth that trapped back cries. Face contorting against the searing pain, she convulsed in the chair, fingernails on her free hand cracking and bending where they clawed the wooden armrest.

Osborn watched her struggles dispassionately and cut deeper, peeling back muscle and sinew until bone gleamed wetly underneath. He worked with clinical precision despite her increasingly violent efforts to free herself, blood flowing in dark rivulets and spilling everywhere during her fight.

"That's it," he whispered, carefully positioning the vial below the font of blood. The fluid seemed reluctant to leave her body, clinging in long strings until gravity tore them loose.

Once satisfied with the quantity, he withdrew the vial and sealed it, eyes fixed on the rare prize. Shaking flecks of gore from his hand and wiping it absently on his black shirt, he crossed to the window, holding the glass tube up to examine its contents.

Anthony Willis – A Shared Bathroom

Within moments the thick vitae inside churned before turning darker, then seemed to coagulate further without its host. The consistency was abnormal, almost gelatinous.

It continued to thicken before azure eyes, turning into lumpy masses that clung to the glass as if alive. Oozing glutinous clots shifted obscenely against the vial walls, merging and splitting into writhing worm-like tendrils that left smears of glistening bloody ichor as they migrated blindly. They seemed to move on their own volition, pulsing with unnatural life that glowed faint red at each of their cores.

Osborn peered closer at the writhing, freezing as realization struck. He had seen this before – the lurid glow in oozing tendrils, pulsing lightly like smoldering embers.

Hurriedly, he dove into his bag once more and retrieved a larger vial. Inside, an undulating black mass swirled and crawled slowly in larva-like knots, floating just beneath the lid. That same baleful inner radiance pulsed from their hearts.

Osborn held both containers together, scrutinizing their contents. Though retrieved from different sources, they were fundamentally identical – sentient, predatory, and above all, arcane. But the fresh sample still glistened wetly with vitae, not yet fully separated from its vessel.

Abruptly reminded of his captive, Osborn turned to look at her.

The puddle beneath her chair congealed, drying rapidly, but the blood near her mutilated arm remained glossy and thin. The dangling ropes of fluid seemed to crawl upwards, burrowing back under her split skin greedily – like parasites returning to their host. Her bleeding gradually slowed, then ceased entirely despite her forearm still being cut open and raw.

She didn't seem to mind this intrusion – fever-bright viridescent eyes prioritized him instead. Drenched in sweat and blood, Apocrypha seemed taut as a bowstring, pupils narrowed to slits under the black strands of slick hair that clung to her face, breaths coming out in harsh pants that bordered with sobs. Primal and feral.

In that instant, Osborn realized with cold certainty – if she somehow got free right now, she would surely murder him. The look of pure hatred in her eyes was unmistakable – she was going to make this hurt.

The revelations crystallized with terrible clarity – it had been her all along. She was the missing piece. Not the informer that would lead him to the vessel – she was the vessel herself now.

"It was you," Osborn whispered. "Not the goblin attack. You were the reason why the caverns crumbled."

She bared her teeth in response, raw anger overpowering pain. Osborn's pulse quickened at the sight, but he stood just outside her limited reach.

He placed both vials on the desk with unsteady hands, then moved towards her once more, voice strained.

"You little liar...you did take from the Repository after all," he circled her chair warily, piecing his deductions together aloud. "That's why it was already empty when we arrived."

She snarled wordlessly, wild eyes tracking him.

He paused behind her, cautiously leaning down to murmur, "It's inside of you now, isn't it?"

Apocrypha jolted against her bonds with sudden violence, words coming out strangled by a snarl. "I'll kill you."

Osborn deftly sidestepped her efforts, lips quirking. No doubt she meant every word – but this ferocious reaction was all the confirmation he needed.

His azure eyes strayed to the larger vial on the desk warily. What he contemplated now was madness – but the raw promise of violence she exuded proved intoxicating. By all reason, he should fear her – yet perversely, her perilous nature exhilarated him. She unsettled him, perhaps even more than his own mother. He couldn't recall feeling such uneasy fascination for another female.

That sly smirk returned as he retrieved the glass tube from the desk, holding it up tauntingly. The gelatinous larvae within churned faster at her proximity, smacking wildly against the glass sides facing her. Her nearness only agitated them to react more violently with each remaining pace.

"Well, well, look at this," he purred, watching the viscous lumps fight towards her. Halting before her, Osborn held up the tube demonstratively. "Someone's excited to see you."

Her eyes snapped to it, pupils dilating with recognition. She remembered the vial's size and shape – identical to those Isidora had used for one of her first successful extractions centuries ago.

And it just clicked. Isidora.

Osborn noted her horrified recoil with great interest. "What's that, sweetling? Remember something important?"

She shied away in sudden panic, ropes biting deeper into flesh until her the blood flow in her limbs started suffocating. Carefully, after a taut moment of hesitance, Osborn popped the metal lid off, watching avidly as the thick tendrils oozed out eagerly.

They floated up immediately in quivering anticipation, undulating through the air towards her exposed wound. Finding the vulnerable opening, the churning strands poured inside, forcing their way into torn muscle and squirming through layers of tissue to rejoin their host.

This time, the intrusion left her not that quiet, past adrenaline fading rapidly to prioritize the pain – she spasmed in agony, throwing her head back with a hoarse guttural cry behind gritted teeth. The chair creaked where white knuckles clenched, her harsh panting loud in the small room. The cords of her neck stood out like ropes as she convulsed against the invasive mass that burrowed deeper and assimilated into her being, dissolving beneath the thick layer of exposed flesh to cauterize brutally from within. A varicose map of dark veins was rising to the surface of her skin, betraying the parasitic entity.

Osborn observed the grotesque process with rapt fascination from a cautious distance. Gradually her pained spasms eased and rigid muscles slackened, head lolling forward limply. He crept closer, kneeling to peer beneath the veil of black hair obscuring her downturned face.

Inside the dark nest of dishevelled strands, her eyelids cracked half-open slowly. Beneath hooded lashes, eyes smoldered blood red, pulsing with each labored breath. Upon acknowledging Osborn's presence her pupils narrowed back and shot up – even in this state, she tracked his every motion like prey.

"There now, that wasn't so bad," he soothed mockingly, staring back into eyes no longer wholly human. He had never beheld a more astonishing, dangerous creature. "Feel more whole?"

Seeing her weakened state, he pushed to his feet and considered silently before crossing to the desk once more. He retrieved another vial, this time from the drawer – differently shaped, already full. A potion.

"I must say, I didn't think I'd get the information I wanted before we'd even started the actual interrogation," he mused on his way back to her. "Yet here we are. I now know almost everything I wanted. Almost..."

Grasping a fistful of her hair roughly, he forcibly wrenched Apocrypha's head up. She blinked blearily as he uncorked the vial with his teeth and grabbed her jaw firmly to press the glass between her lips. Still, she clenched her jaws at the attempted intrusion despite the dazed state.

"Come now, it's just a spot of Veritaserum," Osborn chuckled, pinching her nose closed. "Open up."

Once she gasped for air, he poured the potion in swiftly and pressed his palm over her mouth to not let her spit it out. "That's it, just relax, there's a good girl."

Releasing her head to sag forward again, he strode behind the chair towards the neat bookcase next to the fireplace, and selected several folders. Humming idly, he brought them over and sat atop the desk again.

"I must say... your little friends are quite fascinating too," he commented lightly.

At his words, Apocrypha tried limply to lift her head. She remembered – the forest, the spiders, and Sebastian's voice in the distance.

"Where...where are they?" she slurred hoarsely.

Osborn gave an indifferent shrug. "Hopefully Thornback food by now. No new missing student reports except you, poppet. For now."

He leafed through the first file, flipping and lifting the pages lazily.

"Let's see...you and Miss Onai caused quite the stir with Harlow last year, didn't you? Little investigators." He huffed knowingly, tossing the papers aside. "Nothing interesting here though..."

The name on the next record provoked a scoff – Ominis Gaunt.

"Now Gaunt on the other hand...I'm more curious about this one. Unusual for someone like you to form strong attachment." He glanced up sharply. "Be a shame if something happened to pretty boy."

Apocrypha dragged in a painful breath. "He knows nothing...of the repository."

Osborn tilted his head, regarding her intently for effect of the serum. At this point she wouldn't be able to lie.

"Pity," he allowed with a chuckle. "But pressure points are easy to find on high pedigree aristocratic stock like the Gaunts."

Her sluggish reactions quickened slightly at the implied threat. Osborn made a thoughtful noise, letting the notion sink in.

"I wonder, what would dear old dad say if he knew his heir was fraternizing with a half-blood like you?" He tapped his chin in exaggerated thought. "Though I imagine it would be far worse if the esteemed Gaunts discovered an, shall we say, intimate connection between dear Ominis and a half-blood – after Eliza is through with him."

Osborn allowed a heavy insinuation to hang in the air before smirking cruelly. "If you take my meaning."

Apocrypha let her head loll to the side, face half-buried against her shoulder.

"You're both dead...when I get out," she rasped weakly.

Osborn tutted in amusement at the threat, bluff forming easily on his practised tongue. "You won't be getting out anytime soon, poppet. I've got plenty of ways to keep you contained."

He leaned back casually, taking the last of the three files.

"Besides, the Ministry can't really touch the eminent Gaunts directly. Too powerful, too distinguished, regardless of their proclivities." He turned a page. "Your other friend though...I'm quite fascinated there. Heard such interesting things about him around the castle these last six months."

Glancing up, he caught the fractional, almost imperceptible tightening of her mouth. "Ah, so you do know."

Plucking out a paper, Osborn examined it casually. "Lucky for pretty boy Ominis, having the Gaunt name to hide behind. But dear Sebastian has no such protections."

Apocrypha swallowed involuntarily, foot drumming weakly against the stone floor at the implied threat.

Osborn shifted atop the desk with a sigh, one leg dangling as he rummaged idly through the disorganized mess one-handed. Blindly locating a pipe, he stuffed it lazily between his lips while continuing perusing the record, polished wood clicking muffled against his teeth.

"Rumor has it Sallow dabbles in the Dark Arts. Though without proof." He made a tsking sound. "I don't suppose you'd know anything about that?"

She clenched her jaw against answering, but the Veritaserum overpowered her reluctance.

"...Yes," she admitted tonelessly.

Osborn's interest sharpened. He flicked open a match and held it to the pipe bowl, puffing it alight.

"Excellent, we're getting somewhere. Now then, specifics..." He grinned wolfishly around the stem, leaning forward intently. "Did you witness him using Dark magic first-hand?"

"...Yes." Each admission clearly pained her, but she had no choice.

"Did he assist you with the Repository power somehow?"

"No."

Osborn took a long drag, watching Apocrypha's face through the curling smoke. "So he knows nothing of your...change in nature since last year?"

"...No. None of them do."

Osborn's expression soured briefly at the lack of damning evidence, personal hatred for Sebastian twisting his mouth into a crude line. He was eager to uncover something truly damning about the boy – but he would take what he could get.

"Has Sebastian Sallow ever performed Unforgivables in front of you?"

Apocrypha tensed, face constricting. "Yes."

"Which ones?"

"...All three."

Eyes lighting up, Osborn snatched the file again, scanning for a particular detail. A name leapt out from the swarm of letters:

Name of Deceased: Solomon Sallow
Relation: Uncle of Anne and Sebastian Sallow
Date of Birth: March 11, 1847
Date of Death: April 19, 1891
Age at Death: 44 years
Cause of Death: Alleged heart attack

Additional Notes:

Last legal guardian of Anne and Sebastian Sallow
No investigation conducted into cause of death
Buried in Feldcroft on April 23, 1891

A slow, anticipatory smile spread across Osborn's face. He set down the page, teeth clenching around the pipe predatorily as he exhaled a plume of smoke though his nose.

"Has our friend cast the Killing Curse before your eyes?"

Apocrypha's shoulders hunched as she clearly fought the serum's compulsion with obvious distress. But resistance was futile.

"...Yes."

Osborn's smile turned savage. He took a long, satisfied drag, blowing smoke pensively while savoring the moment before the damning admission.

"And who, pray tell, did Mr. Sallow murder?"

She swallowed convulsively and sucked in a sharp breath to struggle before the potion won out.

"His uncle. Solomon Sallow."

Osborn pushed off the desk to pace slowly, rapidly puffing the pipe with clear satisfaction. A soft laughter escaped him at some private thought before he fixed his captive with an almost obsessive look.

"Show me," he declared suddenly. "I want to see it."

"Never," she slurred stubbornly, lifting her head with effort. "Can't make me."

"I rather think you're in no state to stop me," he purred eagerly.

Snatching another mouthful of acrid smoke in a final deep inhale, he stabbed the smoldering pipe onto the stone ledge above the fireplace and grasped a fistful of her matted hair, roughly wrenching her head up. Bleary eyes struggled to focus, but by this time their colour regained their greenish hue.

Osborn angled his wand at her face, holding her gaze unwaveringly.

"Legilimens."

She recoiled internally but her exhausted defenses crumpled swiftly before his brutal mental onslaught. Her mind was disordered, perceptions muddied by pain. Osborn rifled through the inner landscape of her disjointed memories, exposing thoughts and feelings meant to be private.

Images and sensations bleeding together in flashes:

A dark common room swam into view, illuminated by cold light filtering through a window to the lake below. A pale boy with unseeing crystal eyes, fair hair and aristocratic posture standing next to the opening.

Billowing flames engulfing a house next to a drooping willow, a child's hysterical weeping nearby. Her anguished screams pierced the roar of the fire.

Laughter echoing off cold floors where three friends sprawled together against the pillar, passing a bottle back and forth while joking and drinking with the careless abandon of youth.

A careworn woman with kind jade eyes glistening with tears that slipped down her cheeks, gentle hands holding a small pale face.

Then – a cramped room with rough wooden floors. Sebastian sprawled supine, dictating lazily while a large sheepdog rested its snout on his chest. She sat nearby, quill scratching as she transcribed his words onto parchment signed for Ominis.

Osborn pushed deeper still, honing in on the damning scene he sought. Finally her mental walls shattered completely, laying bare the catacomb memory.

His hostage lingered behind Sebastian as he clutched an odd object, face carved of stone. Before them, an older man appeared only to destroy the relic, undead creatures shambling forth. Chaos erupting as the Inferi turned savage, Solomon struggling to contain the mayhem, yet still attacking two children in his anger.

"She cannot be healed, Sebastian," he implored hoarsely, limping and holding onto his wounded side. "You must stop!"

Face contorting with hurt and desperation, Sebastian slashed his arm down in a familiar gesture. The burst of blinding green light exploded from the boy's wand and lit the tunnels. Solomon collapsed limply, dead before he hit the floor.

Osborn withdrew with a gasp, elated by vicarious depravity. He released Apocrypha's hair and she sagged limply, drained by his mental ravaging that forced trails of red slowly trickle from each nostril. Meanwhile, Osborn straightened with immense confidence in every motion – this was better than he could have hoped. The implicating secret was his to exploit however he wished.

"Just as I thought," he purred, licking his lips. "Our friend is a killer after all. My my, whatever will the Ministry say about this?"

When she didn't seem to have any strength to react, he bent over her once more.

"I knew you wouldn't disappoint, poppet," he murmured, kissing her temple almost fondly. "Rest for now. We'll continue later."

Still savoring his clandestine victory, Osborn snatched up the discarded pipe and puffed it back to life, exhaling satisfaction in a billowing plume. He circled behind the chair with hungry eyes and crossed to a small cabinet built into the stone wall. Inside was a small wooden storage system reminiscent of a perfumer's organ, rows of empty phials neatly labeled and organized. Selecting an empty phial, Osborn scratched 'S.S.' onto a slip of parchment and adhered a careless scrawl to the glass.

Brow furrowing, he pressed the tip of his wand against the temple and closed his eyes to mentally grasp the illicit memory. It glowed bright as he focused, solidifying into a wispy, opalescent strand, delicate as gossamer. He pulled slowly until it clung to the wand's end, quivering and finally detaching. With great care, Osborn angled his wand downward, guiding the glimmering vapor into the open capsule. It floated and coiled lazily, luminous and fragile as spider silk.

With a satisfied hum, Osborn stoppered the phial and held it up appraisingly. The pale mist pressed against the sides facing him, as if aware. He smirked, placing the vial gently into the tray – this secret would ruin the boy eternally. He had struck the perfect leverage point at last – it will grant him an inflexible silence from his prisoner, unless she were to betray what she held most dear.

"This little secret will keep you quiet, won't it dear?" He whispered softly from behind the limp, already unconscious figure in the chair. "Would be a pity for our grim reaper to lose his cozy castle for a cold cell."

He closed the storage above the precious prize and exhaled a sinuous stream of smoke while stretching upwards lazily. "But who knows? Azkaban may suit young Sallow."

Ólafur Arnalds – Re-Enactment

Consciousness came and went in fragments. Strange snippets accrued – disjointed moments she would later fail to string together wholly.

She grasped at details whenever heavy lids managed to peel open briefly – shapes swam in and out of focus, muffled conversations bleeding through the drug-induced fog as the officials murmured around her, their silhouettes looming and blending together while words reached her warped and distant. A heavy black cloak around her shoulders felt coarse against sensitized skin on her forearm.

Each blink brought abrupt scenery changes, surroundings shifting inexplicably.

Brief flashes of flying over the city were reduced to a blur – most likely London, judging by the brick row houses and smokestacks somewhere distant below the carriage. Aurors on all sides, their robes blending into a silly-looking stain. Osborn seated opposite her, uncharacteristically tight-lipped and tense, sharp eyes darting about as his arms folded across his chest. His confident amusement had hardened into something more sober, almost uneasy.

Another blink – nightfall, a rough hand forcing a vial between her numb lips, more city noises muted through heavy panes.

A jostling stop, bodies shuffling. Firm hands guided her out with more force than care, memories fragmenting further – a gloomy alley smelling strongly of rain and refuse, dead-end against old brick that melted into dark tunnels. Ancient stonework pressing close, footsteps echoing down the claustrophobic passageway.

A change of hands, firmer grips steering her faltering steps. She stumbled along, held up firmly by both arms while pulled along a narrow tunnel slanting steeply downward, the ground hard and uneven.

The hands felt impersonal, almost clinical.

Too bright, too loud in the vast Atrium space ahead – shoes clicking over polished floors, ceaseless Ministry chatter ricocheting off the massive hall's walls, the soothing trickle of water from the Fountain of Magical Brethren. Just a glimpse of the golden wizard and enchanted creatures spouting water – little time to process before she was dragged along roughly.

Too many stairs – down again, her feet scrambling to keep up.

They marched her deeper into a wide corridor lined with heavy oak doors, finally stopping at one indistinguishable from the rest. Osborn was the one to open it, revealing a spacious sitting room and a few young wizards nattering amongst themselves. New faces turned towards the arrivals.

Osborn stepped inside the familiar surroundings with a dramatic flourish, grinning tiredly.

"I believe you owe me a hundred Galleons, Reggie," he called out jovially. "Told you I'd deliver."

At his voice, two wizards no older than twenty sprang up eagerly from the armchairs.

"Ozzy, you slippery devil!" the stocky one – Reginald – laughed, grabbing him in a headlock and practically hoisting him off the ground in enthusiasm. "We figured you'd be freezing your arse off in the Highlands till spring at least!"

Laughing, Osborn wrestled against the exuberant greetings playfully. "Got lucky, plans changed. Things fell into place early."

"Our boy works fast! Knew you had it in ya," another wizard – slim blond youth just barely out of boyhood – elbowed Osborn roughly once he wriggled free, cackling while tousling his friend's hair. "Reckon we can finally get some real work done now."

Lifting the strands of tar black hair from his eyes, Osborn clapped their shoulders fondly, then glanced back towards two escorts hovering nearby with the girl sagging between them.

"Lock her up for now, gents," he directed casually, jerking a pointed chin towards the dim corridor before spinning back to his friends. "Right then – drinks first. Merlin knows I've earned it."

Two taciturn men took the cue, firmly guiding their disoriented charge around the corner to one of the bedrooms. She offered no resistance, briefly blinking in acknowledgement as one wizard behind her chuckled in amusement.

"Here, here!" Reginald cheered. "Have to celebrate properly. Can't believe we missed your 18th birthday last month!"

The door shut behind her with a resolute click as the key turned in the lock, muffling the distant sounds of celebration.

Apocrypha blinked slowly, surveying the sparse room – a simple bed, nondescript desk, a lone lamp on a drawer. No decorations or personal effects – a candid yet undisturbed space.

Unsteadily, she made her way to the bed, lowering herself to the floor beside it and leaning her back against its solid frame. Head falling back on the covers, she drifted in a hazy borderland between consciousness and oblivion, lashes fluttering as the distant voices lulled her towards sleep once again.

How much time had passed since the interrogation? Days? Weeks? Time slipped by in a blur, crawling past indistinguishably.

The sudden sound of a key in the lock jerked her back to wakefulness. Lifting her head with effort, she peered blearily as the door opened to reveal a tall woman in a crisp shirt and tailored trousers.

The stranger moved closer, tsking softly.

"Come now, let's get you up."

Grasping Apocrypha under the arms, the woman lifted her effortlessly onto the bed, folding a pillow in half to prop her head higher.

"You're so light," she murmured, almost to herself. "Can't be more than ninety pounds – you look barely older than twelve, not seventeen."

Smoothing back the girl's tangled hair, the woman eased herself on the bed beside her, tone turning soothing.

"There now, don't worry. No more Sleeping Draught from here on out, I promise," she whispered. "I only just arrived when I heard they'd delivered you. Terribly sorry I'm so late."

Apocrypha swallowed with difficulty, parched throat aching. Through half-lidded eyes, she detected the azure hue of the woman's gaze – a familiarity striking her, though she was too weak to properly react.

"What...date is it?" she managed.

The woman seemed to understand the intent behind the question. "It's been four days since you left the Slytherin dungeons."

Apocrypha tried to roll onto her side, the effort draining her further. "My friends..."

"They survived," the stranger replied evenly. "You don't need to worry about them for now."

Viridian eyes narrowed slightly, unconvinced.

"Prove it," she croaked hoarsely.

The woman inclined her head with a soft sight. "You'll have to trust my word for the time being."

A faint scowl flickered across Apocrypha's features as she listlessly turned her head, slowly surveying the room again. "Where...who are you?"

"You're in the Ministry headquarters," the visitor answered calmly. "My name is Ophelia. You may call me Ms. Sinclair."

At that, Apocrypha's eyes snapped back to the woman's face, firm features seeming almost gentle in the lamplight. The Auror nodded, understanding the silent query.

"Yes, I'm his mother. Osborn has given me a full report on your condition. The Ministry will be taking care of you now." Her expression turned somber. "It was a long, but successful mission – extracting you from Hogwarts. The professors would never have handed you over willingly, despite Black giving us full right to take you."

Apocrypha broke the eye contact, saturated irises darting away. "Why?"

Ophelia's tone shifted to one of patient explanation.

"Well, first and foremost, you're still a child to them," she leaned closer, arms crossing over the folds of fine shirt on her chest. "They protect their students. And as far as Hogwarts was concerned, you were the victim of a goblin attack, not the source of danger."

Her mouth curved ruefully then. "But the Ministry knew better. We've started investigating the whole case right after the tragedy."

Apocrypha stared back mutely, confusion slowing her thoughts further. Ophelia took advantage of this lapse.

"You see, we tried to retrieve you legally, but the professors – particularly Sharp, Hecat and Weasley – were adamantly against it. They have...personal biases against the Ministry's methods." She sighed heavily, as if annoyed. "Likely thought we sought to exploit your abilities."

Apocrypha's brows arched with sudden acuity as she managed a rasp. "Isn't that...exactly what you want?"

Ophelia's mouth tightened, expression turning serious.

"You don't yet grasp the danger you've posed – simply by possessing that ability. And now that we know the Repository's full power courses through your veins, you've become an even greater risk to the world peace." She paused meaningfully. "What we want is to ensure you don't become an uncontrollable threat. The Ministry must bring you under the supervision, for everyone's safety."

Apocrypha considered a moment, still disoriented yet slightly less dizzy.

"And if I refuse this...supervision?" she asked cautiously.

"I'm afraid you don't have much choice in the matter," the woman replied lightly. "After all, I understand Osborn has ways of keeping you...disciplined."

Implication sinking in, the girl still pressed. "What are you saying?"

"Well, if you rebel, I'm afraid we may have to...interrogate your mother. I doubt you'd want that." Ophelia paused once more, studying the reaction closely. "Or perhaps reveal a certain secret about your dear friend. We wouldn't want him ending up in Azkaban, would we?"

The threat hung heavy in the air, weak stomach twisting unpleasantly. Apocrypha fell silent while staring up at the Auror, the faint fight draining from her expression. Resignation crept into her features instead.

"When can I see them?" she asked hollowly.

Ophelia's lips curved slightly.

"That will depend entirely on how compliant you are," she said simply. "The Ministry wishes to provide you with proper training, to understand what's happening to you. Give you the treatment you need. Wouldn't you like that?"

Apocrypha's eyes slid away once again. "I don't want any of that."

"Not even to be rid of the...parasite inside you?" The woman pressed, one brow arching.

The child before her hesitated, then shook her head mutely. Ophelia's expression shifted to one of approval.

"Wise choice. The Ministry wouldn't want to remove it either. Not that we know how – even attempting would surely kill you, considering how deeply it is rooted." She tilted her head slightly, slender shoulders shrugging. "So what is it you do want, hmm? I'm sure we can provide."

"I want to see my friends. Go home," the girl murmured, eyes downcast.

The Auror hummed, observing those dropped eyes glistening briefly. "Missing your mother, are you?"

She offered no response, resolve visibly crumbling. Last spark of defiance extinguished – only longing remained.

"You remind me of my son in that regard, you know," the woman sighed, shaking her head. "He's always held so tightly to the same mental pillars – friendship, family, duty. Osborn has been trained for this work from a very young age. It's all he's ever known."

Apocrypha met her eyes warily. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because you must understand," Ophelia replied gently. "Osborn can be...harsh at times. Lose control. You must forgive his ways – this line of work...it hardens a person. Takes a thick skin."

Saturated eyes stared hard at her, a spark of resistance rekindling and flaring back rapidly. The girl pushed herself away from Ophelia's nearness, understanding the implication behind the calculated empathy.

"You're mad if you hope I'll think better of your son after everything that prick has done to me and my friends," she spat.

Unfazed, Ophelia rose from the bed, hands smoothing over her pristine attire.

"This space is yours now," she stated coolly, swiftly changing the subject. "You may do with it as you please."

"I'm not getting used to to this place," Apocrypha shot back defiantly. "Ever."

"We shall see about that," the woman remarked cryptically, gesturing around the modest room. "These, in fact, are the quarters for the younger generation of Aurors-in-training – all children of Ministry officials. But you've been placed here, closest to Osborn, for him to keep a close eye on you. His office is just down the hall, near the showers."

She turned towards the exit, continuing impassively.

"You must understand, the entire Ministry grounds function like a beehive – employees often remain on the premises for long operations that require extensive preparation." Her tone turned matter-of-fact. "But we all return home eventually. The speed of your own relocation depends entirely on how quickly you accommodate yourself."

She paused then, hand around the door handle. "And should you attempt anything foolish, you'll find the exit under constant guard. I'd advise against any... escape ideas."

With that, the woman swept out of the room, the door clicking shut behind her but not locked.

Exiting the quarters, she found her son leaning against the wall opposite, hands shoved grimly into his pockets as he observed her coolly. His grimace spoke volumes – it was clear he had overheard the entire exchange with their new addition.

"What games are you playing?" he asked sharply, voice carefully lowered to a whisper. "I thought before this entire operation, before my placement at Hogwarts even, we had agreed seducing or befriending her was off the table – she's far too distrustful, as evidenced by my reports. Even Eliza couldn't get close."

"Eliza at least managed to infiltrate her inner circle," Ophelia countered.

Osborn shot her a disdainful look.

"By pure luck," he scoffed. "And need I remind you that I was the one who delivered her."

"This is what was expected of you," his mother sighed wearily. "Regardless, we can't risk making the girl our enemy."

Clicking his tongue in annoyance, Osborn eyed her narrowly.

"So I'm supposed to stay here, is that it? Surely you must be joking." His lips curved unpleasantly – it was uncharacteristic for him to express personal desires so openly to the domineering parent. "While I'd be delighted to experiment with her further, I'd rather like to return home for at least a week – Reggie and Lewis are rotating back as well."

Ophelia's mood shifted abruptly, tone turning biting in an instant. "Absolutely not. You'll remain here as long as I deem necessary. This is work, Osborn – if you don't get to rest, it's because it's important. Peace is a privilege, not a right."

Osborn tsked, scowling. An unfamiliar edge entered his tone, his deference to her wavering ever so faintly. "Level Three can monitor her just as well."

Closing the distance, his mother leaned up to match his eyes sternly – but a flicker of surprise crossed her features, the newfound height difference briefly catching her off guard. For the first time, their eyes met levelly. Previously, whenever they stood thus, he seemed either shorter or humbly equal – but now he towered over her, posture straight and confident rather than typically hunched in deference.

Still, she recovered swiftly, leaning into his space authoritatively.

"It's decided. You will get on the girl's good side – I don't care how you manage it," she ordered icily. "Or do you want to complicate things further?"

Osborn held her stare for a long moment, feeling an unexpected sense of control bloom within himself. An odd sensation prickled at the back of his mind – for the first time, he found his mother's nearness less daunting. But he wisely kept this revelation to himself.

"As you say."

Chapter Text

ICA — Half Forgotten

The two long days dragged on interminably for Osborn like a lifetime of tedium. Inactivity ran counter to all his rigorous upbringing and nature — it was difficult keeping idle.

Lacking any tasks or stimulation, he found himself thinking often — an unfortunate state, as his mind demanded constant stimulation. But with his companions and mother temporarily absent, boredom and restlessness started gnawing at his edges. The only options were repetitive tasks to pass time.

Mostly he evaluated the ongoing experiments taking place across the various Levels, scouring his notes for patterns and consulting with senior staff — The Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes was loud with activity as always. Paperwork and routine tasks usually settled his mind, as did lengthy showers and studying personal subjects of interest, reviewing documentation or drafting experimental proposals.

Yet no matter where his work took him, Osborn inevitably returned to the living quarters. While stubbornly refusing any emotional involvement with the subject he was denied permission to study directly, he found himself drawn back compulsively to monitor her strange behavior nonetheless.

Despite his best efforts, boredom mounted steadily. Pacing endlessly, smoking incessantly — nothing could alleviate the frustration of this enforced stagnation. Working without clear directives in such close quarters with a hostile element was bound to breed anger — this anomaly was detained so near, yet so prohibitively out of reach. He wanted to study her, classify her, put her in order.

Each night as Osborn retired to his office, he was separated by just three thin walls from the unpredictable subject — to whom he had allowed two days to habituate herself to this new reality, and no doubt hatch her own schemes. He knew she was surely devising countermoves, considering available options — that instinct for self–preservation must've surely screamed that murdering him in his sleep would prove the logical first step towards escape.

The notion of violence from her, while prudent, stirred something treacherous within him that he quashed sternly. Frustration with his current predicament forbade dwelling on the thrill such musings evoked, anger over his mother's command too fresh.

Each night he fell into a fitful doze whilst scrutinizing every shadow for signs of infiltration. Every creak and footstep roused him at once, wand clenched.

But no attack ever came.

Whenever he passed her open door — deliberately left unobstructed for monitoring — a harsh viridian stare bored holes into him. He tried occasionally engaging her through insults or intimidation techniques — anything to alleviate the stagnation, hoping to bait some response or decipher her moods. But not once did she rise to provocation or touch the meals left by her bedside. Not even the cloak she was delivered in disappeared, as if she was primed to flee at any moment.

While predictability had always bored Osborn, this abnormal behavior not suited for her current predicament disturbed him on an unprecedented level.

This unstable, unique specimen unsettled him — the only thing she was bound by now was her own loyalty, but would it prove enough to save his own skin? While Osborn believed he knew her well from months of covert study at Hogwarts, her motives remained perplexingly complex — an irresistible puzzle, an ever–shifting equation, too evasive to unravel easily.

Even now under close scrutiny, her inner workings eluded total comprehension — Osborn hated admitting that, in the end, she proved entirely unknowable.

"Davis, remind me — how long can one last without sustenance?"

The question came out casual and bored as Osborn massaged his temple and set down the tome. The logs crackled merrily in the hearth, infusing the air with woodsy notes that mingled pleasantly with the freshly brewed coffee's aroma. With fire casting a warm glow over the cozy sitting area, he stretched tired limbs in his usual spot on the leather couch and rubbed the ink over his digits. He treasured recording details — the satisfying scrape of quill and smooth vellum soothed an analytical compulsion.

A bulky guard monitored the perpetually open doorway ten paces hence, countenance stern yet attentive.

"A week without food, three days without water usually, sir," came the dutiful reply.

Osborn nodded approvingly, taking a ruby apple from the overflowing fruit basket on the table before him.

"Nearly a week since leaving Hogwarts, yet not a morsel or drop taken," he hummed thoughtfully around a crisp bite. "I wonder if that thing inside keeps her alive, maybe even sustains her?"

The guard remained stoically silent — such topics fell outside his purview. Sighing, Osborn selected a plump orange from the basket and took another bite of his apple before sauntering into their guest's dim quarters. As expected, defiant green glared resentfully from beneath tangled hair and cloak she buried herself in while curled on the bed.

Osborn settled near, placing the half–eaten fruit on the drawer before meticulously peeling the orange, tone turning jovially persuasive.

"You know, they planned to keep you in a cell," he remarked casually, glancing over the small space. "Is this not more...hospitable? Thought your mother taught you basic manners."

He found her staring, expressionless as ever, eyes following his movements with unnerving focus. Osborn continued peeling the orange, deliberately laying the rinds next to the apple on the bedside drawer to fill the air around the captive with the citrus's tempting aroma.

Pausing, he met her verdant eyes directly. "Hungry, are we?"

A treacherous swallow betrayed her before stoicism set in once more. Osborn's lips curled in a faint smirk.

Reaching out, he grasped her thin wrist and pulled back the cloak sleeve to examine the long incision on her forearm. Her lack of protest spoke volumes — must be too weakened at this point to put up much of a fight. Instead, she stared straight ahead, faint twitches of heavy eyelids betraying some small signs of clear discomfort and muscles tensing instinctively under the unwanted touch. But she offered no resistance still.

The wounded skin was pulled taut and puckered, sunken vividly into the print of the lingering cut. Though the tissues had begun fusing together with new threads weawing the edges slowly together from within, the raw seam of healing was still clearly discernible — reddened flesh drawn tight across the indentation marking where his wand had sliced through.

It remained an angry, imperfect melding, far from the smooth completion of scarring. But already signs hinted her remarkable regenerative abilities working tirelessly beneath the surface to rebuild what had been rent asunder.

"Looks like regeneration is treating you well," Osborn remarked appraisingly, running a finger along the fresh skin. "The body heals, but... no magic can remedy what's inside our heads, eh?"

He rolled her sleeve back into place and deftly split the peeled fruit with long fingers, droplets of sour–sweet juice trickling free. Lifting his hand, he licked the stickiness from each digit with lingering, deliberate motions, eyes never leaving hers.

"Human emotion is a potent force unto itself, after all."

The quote made her brows knit faintly, uncomprehending. Osborn chuckled at her puzzled, questionable expression.

"What? Can't blame me for extracting that memory too — your conscious moments were brief, but some things surfaced," he confessed, shrugging in mock apology. "Had to occupy the time somehow while waiting for the transit."

Popping an orange segment into his mouth, he continued casually, leaning back to prop an ankle on his knee.

"Much remains to be learned about what goes on that complicated head of yours," he tapped his temple, tone turning more benevolent. "But in good faith — how would you feel about writing letters home? To your dear mum, perhaps even friends?"

Slowly, so slowly, she lifted her head, expression hardening faintly at the prospect of getting the smallest answer to her questions. Osborn huffed knowingly — this reaction was a success.

"Nothing too revealing, of course — I'll have to read them first, for safety," he assured easily. "Just tell them you're alright and being looked after. What do you say?"

Her dull eyes dropped contemplatively in thought.

"I'll cooperate...but only if all the replies are returned to me," she stipulated cautiously. "Ophelia said my friends survived, but I won't trust a word."

Osborn considered the proposal, rubbing his chin in mock thoughtfulness. A fair exchange, and one baiting the hook further still.

"That's reasonable, I suppose. Though Merlin knows how they managed to pull through," he huffed with a note of begrudging respect. "Tough nuts to crack, your mates. Especially Sallow — even survived the lake, that one."

At this, Apocrypha blinked, mouth parting in question. "What? Was that you...the lake incident?"

Osborn shrugged unapologetically. "Thought you knew it was me. Though I can't hide — Eliza did most of the job, I'm best at planning."

Her expression twisted with revulsion. "You're sick."

"I did what was necessary," he replied dismissively. "You don't have even the slightest idea how closely the professors guarded you — the Ministry couldn't get directly involved, or Weasley would've raised hell. Speaking of Weasley — she certainly knows something, given that she didn't appear bothered by the deaths of two Ministry employees within a year, even with all the evidence directly tying their demises to you."

Unbothered by her hateful stare, Osborn shifted to a more relaxed position on the bed, tossing an orange segment into his mouth.

"Now that you're here, I can share a few things." He chewed thoughtfully. "This was a long operation. We needed to isolate you first, without the professors suspecting."

Apocrypha's eyes narrowed bitterly. "So you came up with nothing better than trying to murder my friends?"

Osborn rolled his shoulders in another careless shrug.

"There were other ways, I suppose. But they would have taken too long to manage." His mouth curved in a wry smirk. "And I just really couldn't stand Sallow, to be honest."

She stared at him in stunned silence, realizing the full extent of his ruthless machinations. "What exactly did Sebastian do to earn such venom?"

Osborn chuckled softly. "Ah, it's not so much about Sallow himself. I just don't take kindly to those with a temper like my own, you see. It's really a matter of survival of the fittest — nature favours those who climb this pecking order. I much prefer to stay at the top of the proverbial food chain."

As he spoke, Osborn casually slid several slices of the fruit across the sparse covers, creating an enticing trail that led nearer to him.

"And Sallow, well, he always had to challenge that," he rubbed his fingers contemplatively, peripheral vision attentive to her reaction. A test, and she responded just as expected — cautiously inching her fingers forward to pluck the orange segments one by one only once his eyes strayed and attention seemed to waver. Clearly trying to hide her desperation, she tucked one segment into her cheek. "Couldn't just accept his place — written plain on that smug face."

His eyes glittered with the faintest amusement at being bested in this contest of wills, but he pressed on casually.

"Anyway, you've got letters to write," he remarked airily. "You shall have the replies from your precious friends along with your mother's letter returned to you as proof of their good health. I'll deliver them unedited — though of course, I'll need to check the contents first. For now, we've got work to do."

Apocrypha considered him sharply, rolling the piece in her mouth to another cheek. "What sort of work?"

Osborn arched a brow, pleased by her first civil response, and smirked before folding his hands behind his head and leaning back casually.

"Glad you asked. We can start now, in fact. But first — for Merlin's sake, take a goddamn shower and look something resembling a female." His eyes raked over her matted hair and grime–coated skin with unconcealed displeasure. "Or at the very least, a human."

He sniffed derisively, nose wrinkling playfully.

"You smell like a pub rat, Blackwood." His lips curled mockingly. "We've standards to uphold here. Let's start with the basics, shall we? Hygiene is step one."

Her eyes flashed defiant, yet weariness kept protest unvoiced. Osborn's opinion of her looks or character as a person mattered little — if he was even capable of seeing her as such. But promises of correspondence lifted weariness momentarily — if cooperating would secure the promised letters from those she cared for, she would swallow her pride and bend to the demands. At least for now.

Silently, Apocrypha accepted the quill and parchment he provided, the scratching of nib against paper breaking the strained silence as she set to work. Scribblings only a select few could translate and splotches of ink gathered where her left–handed grip smudged the lines, subtle telltale signs of her hand that would assure her friends and family the letters were genuine.

No details of her predicament, no place names, no expressions of fear or discomfort tainted her detached assurances that she was unharmed and under care. Though the lie burned bitterly on her tongue, survival instincts had her bending to this new environment despite trepidation being her constant companion in this place. But escape seemed implausible against impossible odds stacked high — she was outnumbered and outmatched at each turn without nothing better than defence against the stronger opponent whose behaviour towards her remained a careful, studied neutrality. One had to simply be ruthless and skilful enough to even attempt escaping the Ministry's hive — she wasn't that lucky.

All of her focus and energy were narrowed to waiting, learning, searching for the slightest window of opportunity, however infinitesimal, to probe a breach. Until that moment came, she could only hope those she was thinking of would not forget her existence. The thought made her stomach churn.

The letter to her mother flowed with more openness, the worry for Nadine's endless fretfulness palpable in her carefully chosen words. Though the true extent of Apocrypha's predicament remained veiled, introverted affection and reassurance woven through the lines were no less genuine.

Osborn remained a silent observer at her side throughout, occasionally crunching into the juicy flesh of an apple or clicking his pipe against his teeth as he reviewed each page once she had finished committing her thoughts to parchment. A sour expression occasionally flickered across his features before a faint, sardonic chuckle escaped him at certain sections, no doubt relishing her subtle efforts to mislead.

As final strokes dried, he affected a dramatic sigh.

"My, you can be quite sentimental, can't you?" Mock-sweetness curled his mouth, finger tapping meaningfully against the letter signed for Ominis. "Seems I've lost a few Galleons to Lewis on that account."

Apocrypha offered no reaction to his playful remark, tiredly watching as he folded the papers with a flourish.

"A deal is a deal. I'll have these sent off directly," he announced, tucking the correspondence away. "In the meantime, you'll be getting ready. I'm quite done with this boredom."

With that, Osborn swept from the room, heading directly to his office to formally slide the pages into the Ministry-stamped envelopes and seal them with the appropriate insignia. Wasting no time, he then made his way to the Owlery, unconcerned by the curious glances from staff that might potentially question such unilateral approval. After all, this was his mother's direct behest — to bring the girl onto their side by any means necessary and keep their captive appeased.

It took less than twenty minutes to complete the task, with Osborn pausing briefly to refresh his coffee and peek in on a few colleagues along the way. The familiar aroma of freshly brewed caffeine and the reassuring bustle of activity in the corridors helped alleviate some of the stagnation he'd grown to resent. Even so, he found his thoughts repeatedly drawn back to his charge.

By the time Osborn returned to the living quarters, a faint sound of rushing water had him pausing just outside the bathroom door. So, she had obeyed his directive after all. Yet her compliance seemed almost too easy — was this leverage truly so strong, or was she hatching some scheme?

Turning the handle slowly, he listened intently for any sign of reaction from within. But the steady stream seemed to have muffled his approach, and he detected no alertness from Apocrypha as he eased the door open, slipping inside silently.

He peered inside, eyes falling upon a slender silhouette standing behind the half-transparent shower curtain with her back turned. Even from this angle, her severe malnourishment was painfully evident. Her shoulder blades jutted sharply against pallid, papery skin, every knob of her spine visible as she hunched under the stream, inky hair clinging wetly to the protruding contours of her back in leech-like tendrils. Osborn's expression soured faintly — while he generally favoured petite builds, Apocrypha appeared alarmingly underweight for her height. This was a level of emaciation that bordered on the disturbing.

It was a sight that stirred a peculiar mixture of clinical fascination and an unexpected twinge of something he refused to name. Osborn had seen plenty of emaciated subjects in his line of work, but there was an unsettling fragility to this particular project that made his analytical mind pause.

He cleared his throat to announce his presence, watching as she whirled with a startled jerk at the intrusion and clutched the nearest towel to hastily cover herself. Her eyes were wide, yet Osborn detected no true fear in them. Wariness, certainly, but an underlying core of defiance and self-possession that even this compromising position could not fully erase.

She stood frozen, the flow of water cascading rapidly down her chapped, purplish mouth and tangled curtain of dark hair that obscured her knitted brows. She clutched the poor, threadbare towel that didn't quite cover her fully and stared back at him with naked, unbridled hatred.

Sharp hipbones jutted out at severe angles, the distance between her inner thighs alarmingly broad and knobby knees stark as if only bony protrusions. The abrupt curve of her waistline dipped in an abrupt, unnatural angle that robbed her figure of any feminine allure — it was neither aesthetically pleasing nor graceful.

Her collarbones stood in stark relief, crawling sharply towards bony shoulders where thin arms were marked by a network of angry, chaotic line-like scars — most surely left by her own nails, according to Osborn's observations. A deep, hollowed groove between the delicate clavicles drew his eye, accentuating the faint outline of ribs visible where the towel failed to cover the practically non-existent swell of her breast.

Tearing his eyes away, Osborn gestured brusquely towards the dresser.

"Your uniform is in there. Hurry up," he muttered gruffly.

Glancing back to her rebelliously set features again, he watched with clinical curiosity. His work had never afforded him such intimate access to the bare form of a female before — a gap in his knowledge he now found himself eager to fill.

"Were you bathing in cold water?" he asked, nodding towards her darkened lips.

Apocrypha's stare remained level, unflinching.

"Keeps me from falling asleep," she returned flatly, a faint edge of sarcasm creeping into hoarse voice. "Were you supposed to watch me even here?"

Osborn cleared his throat, the uncharacteristic awkwardness of the situation catching him off-guard.

"Don't be ridiculous," he muttered dismissively, shaking his head before turning and exiting the lavatory.

It was a long, tense moment before she finally emerged from the bathroom, damp hair still clinging to her face as she stepped out. The ill-fitting Ministry uniform hung oddly on her frame, as if a child had donned an adult's clothing. She fidgeted with the crisp white shirt, shoving it roughly into the grey pants that were cinched tightly at the waist, the jacket draped unceremoniously over her shoulders at an awkward angle that obscured even the standard Ministry badge.

It was clear she had made every effort to appear larger, perhaps in a self-conscious response to her recent exposure. The overall result was a disheveled, haphazard mess — a half-empty sack trying in vain to appear full.

Osborn released a disapproving sigh, but nodded curtly. "It will have to do. We should be going."

With that, he tossed her a grapefruit he had peeled while waiting, watching as she deftly caught it, already beginning to break the fruit into smaller segments. They left the quarters and ascended the stairs in tense silence.

Once in the bustling Atrium, Osborn allowed her a moment to cautiously survey their surroundings as she chewed the citrus.

"This way," he directed, gesturing to another stairwell. "Keep up. I got lost in here more times than I can count as a child."

ICA — Cathuria

Apocrypha offered no response, simply falling into step behind him as they made their way towards the enchanted lift. The steady chatter and bustling energy of the Atrium fell away as they descended, the groaning rattle of the lift doors opening onto an unsettlingly quiet Level 9. Every footstep and breath echoed eerily in the dark, sterile black-tiled corridors.

Polished floors stretched out before them, lined with identical, imposing doors. Faint, indistinct voices drifted from behind them, mingling with a strange, whispering susurrus whose source was not immediately evident.

They made their way deeper into the passage, heading towards one of the furthest doors where several wizards stood sentry beside flickering blue-white torchlight.

Osborn's demeanor shifted, expression steeling as he produced a specialized pass, clearing his throat seriously.

"Confidential research," he announced in low tone.

The guards scrutinized the credential closely, before casting a critical eye towards Osborn's charge. After a terse nod, one of them unlocked the heavy door, allowing the pair to pass through.

The chamber beyond was cloaked in oppressive darkness, save for the flickering of the same blue-white glow that cast an anxious pallor over the walls and the shelves lining them. The air was thick with an uneasy hush, broken only by the faint rustling of movement somewhere ahead.

Apocrypha's eyes darted from one shelf to the next, immediately noticing the familiar vials, equipment, scrolls and notes with the schemes she had seen before — remnants of Isidora's work, she recognized with a chill. More equipment and brewing apparatuses crowded the long tables, and a worryingly recognizable tome sat atop one desk — the book she retrieved from the caverns under the Restricted Section she had visited with Sebastian. How had the Ministry obtained all this?

"This is my favorite place in all of Britain," Osborn whispered, voice hushed yet almost reverent. He started slightly as the sudden, harsh call cut through the gloom.

"Who's there?" a gruff voice demanded.

Osborn straightened, calling out a greeting while inclining his head respectfully. "It's Sinclair, Mr Cameron. I've brought the girl."

From the darkness emerged an elderly man in flowing robes, spectacles perched low on a prominent, hooked nose. Wispy white hair framed a weathered, jowly face as he looked at the arrivals.

"Ah, Osborn," the chemist acknowledged with a disdainful quirk of his brow. "I expected you to bring her next year. The Auror department does love to dawdle with all their paperwork."

Osborn offered a contrite nod. "My apologies."

He gestured Apocrypha towards a set of workstations, where the chemist directed her to take a seat next to a vast variety of chairs next to the wall. She did so without visible resistance, eyes narrowing cautiously at the sight of the restraints affixed to the armrests. As her sight slowly adjusted to the dimness, she realized with a sinking feeling that the other chairs in the room were not unoccupied. Seated silhouettes slumped like puppets, unmoving and silent — three in total.

She tore her gaze away from the unsettling sight, shifting uncomfortably in her seat but determinedly refusing to dwell on the fear churning her stomach.

"The gloom — what's it for?" she breathed, desperate for a distraction.

The elderly chemist wordlessly retrieved a chair from his workstation, placing it beside Apocrypha before settling into it. Flicking on a nearby lamp that allowed a warmer glow into the chamber, Cameron reached out to grasp her wrist and stretch her arm forward, scrutinizing the thin scarring line that bisected her inner forearm.

"Many of the substances we work with here are quite unstable," he explained, tracing the healed flesh with a gnarled finger. "Even ambient light can irreparably damage the delicate processes involved in their fusion."

His weathered eyes shot up to meet hers. "Your blood, for example — it reacts rather poorly to sunlight. Not the blood itself, of course, but what resides within it."

The sudden illumination cast the room in sharper relief, allowing Apocrypha a clearer view of her surroundings now visible in the improved lighting. But their true nature was better left hidden.

The three silhouettes she had glimpsed were, in fact, the limp forms of men — bare-chested, unkempt, of varying ages and ethnicities. It was clear they were no longer living. One had his head lolled forward, while another was thrown back at an unnatural angle. The third sagged bonelessly, mouth agape and oozing. Despite their varying looks, they shared a disturbing commonality — each bore a single deep, smooth incision on different areas of their bodies: one on the stomach, another on the forearm akin to her own scar, and the last across the side of the neck. But the wounds did not end there.

The first man had a gaping hole punched through the center of his chest, the skin around it blackened and necrotic. The second's shoulder was so grotesquely dislocated it seemed ready to tear free of skin. The final figure's eyes were simply gone, as if something had clawed its way out, the empty sockets weeping blood that stained his slack ruin of parted mouth.

Apocrypha continued to stare, transfixed, at the macabre remains next to her.

"What happened to them?" she asked, voice deceptively level. "Who were these men?"

Cameron reached for a peculiar monocular-like instrument, peering intently at the scar on her forearm.

"Azkaban prisoners," he stated matter-of-factly. "Scum of society, really. But at least now they've served a purpose." He paused, adjusting the focus on his equipment. "Your unique condition has led to a remarkable discovery — this new magical phenomenon could be a scientific breakthrough of monumental proportions. It may very well change the world."

A faint sound from behind had Apocrypha turning her head. Osborn had knelt beside the final body with the gouged-out eyes, looking closely at the oozing sockets.

"May I see the records for this experiment, Mr Cameron?" he asked, glancing up at the old chemist.

Cameron heaved an annoyed sigh. "Do as you please. I can't keep you out of the lab files, and Merlin knows I can't keep you out of any part of this place." His wrinkled eyelids twitched as he waved a hand towards the junior. "Not even the Minister himself could manage that, it seems."

Osborn chuckled softly, a hint of pride in the self-conscious sound. He rose and moved to stand behind Apocrypha's chair, leaning his elbows against the backrest.

"As far as I can tell," he mused, "the host's age, gender, or race doesn't seem to matter. This thing requires a very specific type of individual."

The chemist hummed in agreement, reaching out to firmly grip Apocrypha's wrists and strap them to the chair. "That appears to be the case. This one may be the only one who fits the parameters, though we've yet to fully determine what those are."

Slipping on a pair of gloves, he selected a scalpel from the table.

"All our previous attempts with female subjects have ended in failure as well — simply didn't survive the transfusion." Without warning, he brought a scalpel to her palm, slicing into the delicate skin as he spoke in a disturbingly detached, clinical tone. Apocrypha grunted, but Cameron continued speaking as if performing a routine procedure. "It has been rejecting every other host we've offered it over the past seven months. But fortunately, Azkaban is always well-stocked with test subjects these days."

Osborn leaned in close, his breath tickling Apocrypha's ear as he whispered, "Who knows, perhaps we'll be seeing your dear friend in one of these chairs someday. Wouldn't that be wonderful?"

She clenched her teeth in silence at his whispered words, but offered no retort.

"Sinclair," the chemist's irritated voice cut through. "Step back, you're blocking the light."

Chastened, Osborn obediently leaned back from the girl's chair. Blood was already pooling rapidly in her palm from the fresh incision, the viscous liquid quickly taking on a strange, thickened consistency. Cameron's movements took on an urgent efficiency, his practiced hands accustomed to capturing fragile, crucial moments. He turned to open a metal case on the table beside him, using long forceps to carefully extract a spherical object about the size of a Bludger. Outer spiral layers of interlocking blade-like concentric edges moved around some glowing core that emanated soft blueish light, pulsing and shifting restlessly.

The instant the object left its case, the inner glow intensified, swirling mistily and straining weakly towards the one strapped to the chair. Cameron manoeuvred the sphere closer, positioning it over Apocrypha's wounded hand. At the proximity, the glowing center turned a vivid, violent red, swirling chaotically against its cage.

Apocrypha watched warily but did not resist. Some of the thickened blood slithering back into the cut, while a few ropey strands crawled along her fingers towards the glowing sphere.

"Is this what you found beneath the castle?" she asked tightly.

"One of several," Osborn confirmed from behind her. "There may be more still buried in the ruins."

Cameron shushed them both, observing intently through his monocular. With meticulous care, he guided the stretching cords of blood to make contact with the orb's surface. Immediately, tendril-like forms writhed to life within the globe, pushing through the spinning blades and worming their way outside the confines to meet and rapidly fuse with the sanguine feelers on the injured hand. In a matter of seconds, the connection was made — the tendrils retracted swiftly, disappearing into the wound on their host's palm and pulling their glowing contents along with them.

With a quiet exhale, Cameron returned the now-dormant sphere to its case. Selecting a quill, he began silently taking notes as he observed his subject for several minutes. But aside from a faint grimace, Apocrypha showed no visible reaction. She merely sat stiffly, appearing outwardly unaffected by the process of fusion.

Osborn glanced curiously over Cameron's shoulder. "Well? What do you make of it?"

The elderly chemist gave a thoughtful nod, staring pensively at the metal case holding the artifact.

"It seems to confirm our theory. We are dealing with two distinct, yet intrinsically linked forms of ancient magic here." He began cleaning his equipment while talking. "The one created and altered by Morganach seems engineered to manipulate and consume the energy of the original force we discovered. In essence, bending it to its will."

"But they're identical in structure, no?" Osborn moved around the table, glancing at the records and schematics.

"In form, yes," the chemist agreed. "But their purposes differ fundamentally. The original power was inherently meant for creation, particularly of physical matter — able to generate it from nothing. Morganach's sentient corruption exists solely to dominate and devour the older magic — it feeds on both physical energy and, more dangerously, the human emotion it was borne from. Yet neither can thrive in isolation from one another. There is an inherent interdependence between the two — true symbiosis at play."

The old man leaned back, steepling his fingers, attention drifting back to the raven-haired subject in the chair.

"Any noticeable changes to your condition, girl?"

She gave a small shrug, the movement hampered by her restraints. "Feel a bit more awake, I suppose."

"To be expected. The shock to your system, most likely," Cameron nodded, scratching another note. After a moment, he gestured for Osborn to come closer. "Keep a very close eye on her when you're dispatched down south. And bring her to me promptly upon return, twice a week. We must continue these trials until we understand precisely what this entity needs to fully integrate with a host — before it decides to devour our one viable subject."

Osborn nodded dutifully. "Of course, sir. I'll ensure she is delivered to you on schedule."

Chapter Text

ICA — City of Graves

Time passed strangely at the Ministry — it took on an abstract, almost intangible quality. Without the routine markers needed to track night from day, windows in the quarters and rare allowance out except for the grim lab, Apocrypha found it impossible to grasp for dates. Enforced isolation distorted her perception until all days and hours bled into one another.

No newspapers weren't permitted either — anything that could orient her in the outside world was strictly off limits. Her wand had been confiscated even before she got delivered, so they said. With that, even the slightest of distractions disappeared as well.

At the very least, resisting the urge to sleep had become incrementally easier since the transfusions began. The regular trips to the laboratory seemed to leave her increasingly alert — though perhaps energized was the more fitting term. She managed to avoid succumbing for what felt like days at a time, rousing herself with sharp pinches or bites whenever she eventually slipped under for too long.

Around her, the staff had taken to referring to the transfusions as "feedings" — as if she were livestock being fattened up for slaughter. They were preparing, grooming her for something — whatever the ultimate plan, it was clear they aimed to ready her for a purpose.

Physically she felt stronger, but mentally, Apocrypha found her grip on calm rationality slipping. With each successive procedure, an insidious sense of someone else under her own skin took root. Auditory hallucinations had begun to appear during still moments — whispers at first, steadily building into voices that insulted and hissed, wept, screamed and choked, echoing pains and resentments both foreign and familiar. Beneath it all swirled a churning miasma of bottled emotion — anger, envy, regret, anguish — that Apocrypha guessed originated from the artifacts where pain itself was made and kept material. It was a sickening sensation — simply feeling that many people trapped within the corruption Isidora created with her own hands.

The return letters from her friends took an eternity to arrive. With no concept of time, Apocrypha could not say if a week had passed or a month. But when the correspondence finally came, she clung to it like a lifeline. The pages she unfolded bore a jumble of questions scrawled in familiar scripts — where was she, when would she return to Hogwarts, was she safe? It was clear her friends had scribbled these desperate missives in a rush.

Still, she found herself re-reading each one obsessively, scanning for any sign they were forgeries. But no — the distinctive hooked y's were undoubtedly Ominis's hand. Sebastian's writing had the same wide spacing between paragraphs and slight rightward slant. The vivid imprints left by Natsai's firm quill strokes were unmistakable. Nadine's small, neat letters were familiar.

At least Osborn kept his word.

Though permitted no explicit details in her replies, Apocrypha hurried to draft reassurances to each, the act of simply seeing their words igniting a fragile belief that they would not forget her, no matter how long she was forced to remain away from them. Would she ever make it back to them at all?

After blowing gently on the ink to dry the last page, she carefully folded the letters in half. Rubbing at gritty eyes, she rose from the writing desk, glancing automatically towards the permanently open door just steps away. From inside Osborn's office drifted the faint sounds of rustling pages and fragrant tobacco smoke. Silent feet carried her to the office she had never seen from the inside, then a cold fist knocked twice and eased the door open. Late afternoon sunlight streamed through the windows onto neat stacks of files, momentarily forcing her to squint against the glare.

Osborn tsked as the intruder entered without invitation, affecting a stern tone. "No concept of manners either, I see. You're meant to wait until I say 'come in'."

Eyes screwed shut, Apocrypha blindly held out the letters in response with a mild scowl. He stepped in front of her, partially blocking the sunlight so she could tentatively blink her vision clear.

"My, you were quick about it," he commented, taking the pages and returning back to his desk.

Blinking rapidly as her vision adjusted, she made a hesitant attempt to glance around the office for any indication of time.

"Is it afternoon then?" she ventured cautiously, watching as Osborn had busied himself scanning the letters, casually trailing the stem of his pipe along the lines as he read. The smoke wreathed his sharp features.

Verdant eyes scanned for details — a clock, a calendar, a newspaper, anything to orient herself after so long sequestered away.

Not a speck of dust dared settle amidst the fastidious order, not a paper out of place on the oaken desk — books lined the shelves in a gradient of sizes and colors, documents stacked in uniform piles by subjects. It was a meticulously organized space — a workspace of someone possessing fanatical precision. No stray pieces of parchment or quills cluttered the space — even Osborn's casual leaning against the desk appeared a deliberately composed tableau.

What drew her attention most, however, was the hefty pile of envelopes atop the corner of the desk. The unmistakable Hogwarts crest marked each one.

"What are those?" Apocrypha asked, nodding towards the stack.

Osborn wasn't going to answer that.

"Rather clever bit here," he noted with a tap of his pipe against the section. "Asking after their lessons and school events. Trying to deduce the time of year, were you? Very sly."

Caught, Apocrypha made a grab for the letters, but Osborn easily lifted them out of reach, chuckling softly at her obvious frustration.

"I'll rewrite them," she said gruffly.

"Just having a laugh, relax," he placated, folding the pages neatly with a dramatic exhale. "No point keeping you confused about time any longer, since we'll be travelling starting tomorrow. I'd go mad myself spending another day cooped up in dreary London."

At this, Apocrypha paused, senses deciphering the purpose behind this abrupt change in their regimented routine. "Traveling? Where?"

"The southern coast of Scotland." Osborn moved to tuck the letters away in a drawer before turning back to her with a humourless smile. "Right after your feeding in the morning."

By the time they returned from the southern coast, Apocrypha was little more than a hollow shell. What fragments of memory remained from those weeks were a shattered mosaic at best.

She recalled the early spring days by the sea, the biting winds, the restless tides that mirrored the familiar waters of her childhood home on the island she grew up on. Endless instructions from nameless officials, contingencies and invasion plans discussed in low voices. A map filled with locations of weapon stockpiles and drilling sites — machinery of Ranrok's loyalists remains, they said, built for the next invasion foretold by the seers.

She was shoved to the forefront frequently during those weeks — a tool to prevent casualties. Or so they claimed.

One single detail stood out clearly: somewhere along the way her wand had splintered during a raid, snapped clean in two from the force of magic she had wielded in the heat of battle — the amount of raw energy she had been forced to channel proved too much for the fragile wood.

It was then she discovered her wand had been acting as a regulator of sorts — a focusing lens to keep the chaotic flows of ancient magic contained and under strict control.

Without that containment, without its steadying influence, the raw energies burst forth in an unrestrained torrent, obeying her subconscious impulses rather than conscious direction. She could scarcely comprehend that chaotic torrent, let alone command — it responded to her mental focus, yet the flows carried an almost sentient malevolence, careening erratically with each undulation, cruel and untamed. The resulting maelstrom laid waste to an underground goblin outpost, severely traumatizing several hit-wizards caught in its path despite her efforts to direct the current.

Alarmed officials were quick to issue stopgap replacements — wand after wand pressed into her hands, each weaker than the previous. None lasted more than a few days before snapping like twigs beneath the strain she could no longer fully bridle. But after the operation concluded, no offer came for a more permanent, robust regulatory solution. She wondered distantly if this had been their plan all along.

She noted the new development with clinical detachment, filing it away as merely another fact of her current existence. The rest of the magic she had learned at Hogwarts still required a wand's focus, but no one had bothered verifying the breadth of her skills beyond the ability to channel the ancient power at will. She was a weapon — nothing more. Strange that she felt so indifferent about it.

Apocrypha did not bother trying to comprehend the greater purpose behind what she had been made to do. As long as obedience earned her brief chances to reach out to those she cared for, proving she still existed, it was enough to subsist on. Hope was a luxury now, traded away for survival. She moved where directed, spoke when required, and tried not to dwell on anything beyond the next task.

In the dreary aftermath, she conceded the situation could perhaps be worse. Carrying out the Ministry's instructions gave her actions a clarity that appealed to the pragmatic side of her nature, even when it meant risky missions like the one on the southern coast. She was adjusting, even to Osborn's continual presence. His perpetual nearness had become an expected element, like the walls of a cell memorized through long years of captivity.

Here, none of the officials pretended to care for her personally. Osborn made no pretense of caring for her either, never speaking sweet platitudes or painting himself as a friend. He was far from the falsely charming creatures she despised, like the fluff-brained Puffskeins and attention-seeking Kneazles from her Care of Magical Creatures classes. He acted with the unfiltered honesty of a Thestral — his motives and appearance laid bare, if cruel. This brutal honesty was something Apocrypha found herself almost appreciating.

She was slowly coming to realize that perhaps working for the Ministry was not entirely disagreeable — there was a grim contentment in having clear directives, the simplicity of following orders over the creative endeavors she had suffered from back at Hogwarts. In this stark environment, risking her own welfare for tasks like the expedition seemed a small price if it protected her friends and mother from whatever leverage the Ministry held over them.

At least Natsai was safely distanced from all this, her involvement in their adventures last year proving not enough of a pressure point for Osborn to utilize. He could not use her as he seemed able to use the leverage on Ominis or Sebastian should she step out of line or show her compliance wavered.

It was odd how in the quiet moments, when finally left alone back at the Ministry headquarters in Dumfries, her thoughts drifted most often to Natsai. It was an unexpected realization — perhaps after being surrounded solely by men, save for the occasional Ministry witch passing through, she had felt an emotional void only another woman could seem to fill. Despite their relationship being more distant than the bonds she shared with Ominis and Sebastian, there was a sense of safety Natsai brought, the effortless kinship they once shared that Apocrypha had taken for granted.

Most men failed to provide any sense of true comfort or safety in her experience — Apocrypha had learned the hard way not to blindly trust in their surface intentions. She thought of Professor Fig with new bitterness now, her doubts hardened into conviction by Osborn's hints. Even Professor Sharp's sincerity now seemed in question. Did Deputy Headmistress Weasley know more than she admitted? But there were still others like Professor Ronen she was unsure of...or Professor Hecat. So many uncertainties remained. The questions swirled and turned over relentlessly, each one stirring the headache that had become her constant companion — all while she tried in vain to assemble some coherent picture from the fragments.

But in familiar isolation, there was little else to occupy her time beyond thinking.

"Merlin, I'm sore. Can't wait to get rotated back home," Lewis stretched out on the lumpy sofa, grimacing as he flexed his shoulders. "This place is dead depressing too — why can't we just apparate back to London already?"

From the sagging armchair by the fireplace, Regulus sighed over his coffee mug. "We've still work to finish up here, you know that."

Sprawled lazily across from Lewis, one leg crossed over the other, Osborn chimed in.

"At least you two got some time off before coming up. I was stuck playing nanny in London for a solid two weeks." He pulled a face. "Looking after the Blackwood girl the whole time, fun shite."

At that, Lewis perked up with a grin.

"Ah yes, how is our newest little weapon getting on then? Make any...er, meaningful connections while you were locked up together, Ozz?" he purred with a wiggle of his eyebrows.

"Don't need or want any sort of 'connection', thanks." Osborn scoffed, rolling his eyes.

"Didn't mean her becoming one of the group," Lewis shrugged. "But a bit of fun on the side never hurts."

Osborn raised one eyebrow. "What kind of fun?"

At that, Lewis glanced around before his eyes flicked towards the stairs leading up to the bedrooms, voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper.

"She upstairs?"

Osborn stared at his friend for a long moment, the implication slowly dawning on him. When it finally clicked, his lip curled in distaste. "You can't be serious, mate. She's not even my type, for one. And I'm not not enough of an idiot to make that kind of trouble."

"Just having a laugh is all!" Lewis cackled unconvincingly.

From his armchair, Regulus muttered over his drink, "We all know you were dead serious, Lewis."

Lewis sputtered indignantly at the accusation, scrambling to defend his supposedly pure intentions, but Osborn had already lost interest in the conversation. His focus shifted when the door to the living room creaked open and one of their sentry guards entered, prompting Osborn to rise from the couch in greeting.

"Evening, Graham," he nodded, taking the proffered letter. The Ministry seal was stamped prominently across the front.

"Correspondence from your mother, sir," Graham informed him before being dismissed.

Osborn hummed his thanks, returning to the couch and swiftly breaking the seal. Sharp azure eyes raced over the contents quickly, taking in his mother's gracefully sloping script in mere moments. An irritated groan escaped him as he finished.

"What's the matter, Ozz?" Lewis inquired.

Osborn muttered something under his breath and waved a careless hand in response, already ascending the stairs towards the bedrooms, letter in hand. Once upstairs, he rapped his knuckles against the wall where the archway met the door to Apocrypha's temporary room.

"Not asleep, are you Blackwood?" he called out mockingly.

Entering, he found her upright and alert within, lightly fingering the bandages over her brow as she examined the healing wound in the mirror.

"No," she responded evenly, meeting his reflected gaze. "Did you need something?"

"I come bearing good news for once," Osborn informed without preamble. "We'll be leaving this place tonight."

She turned to face him calmly, the lack of sincere interest vivid on plain expression. "Where are we going?"

"Hogwarts. You'll be there until noon tomorrow to complete your exams."

At that, Apocrypha blinked in surprise, brows knitting. "Why would they allow that?"

"No one's 'allowing' anything," Osborn snorted derisively. "No one's 'letting you go' anywhere either. But it seems the barrage of constant complaints and petitions from that Deputy Headmistress and her former Unspeakable pals are becoming a pain in the arse. Don't need the publicity threatening to stir up trouble."

Osborn couldn't help an acerbic laugh at the obvious flicker of hope on his charge's face, thoughts clearly rolling like pebbles in her head at the mere mention of Hogwarts.

"No one's forcing you into anything here, correct?" he asked, crossing his arms and leaning his shoulder against the door frame. "And you'll stay quiet about everything we've done, hm?"

After a moment, she allowed her eyes to slid aside, head managing a stiff nod. "Yes. I chose this willingly."

"Good. Then you'll tell the staff exactly that." Osborn clasped his hands behind his back. "Clearly they want you back badly enough to make a nuisance of themselves. Can't imagine why... Anyway, give them no reason to cause problems for the Ministry. I'll retrieve you at noon tomorrow once your exams are complete."

Apocrypha's face soured briefly, the abrupt shift in routine leaving her confused. "How am I to perform without a wand? And why noon? The examination period usually lasts-"

"There's a special schedule arranged for you," Osborn cut her off sharply. "Custom tasks to evaluate your skills in less than a day."

He watched as she closed her mouth and turned away in obedience, adjusting the bandage over her eye once again.

"Always have to be the exception... the privileged case, aren't you?" he continued bitterly. "Admitted late to Hogwarts, showered with attention. Given the rarest Fieldguide, access to the Room of Requirement..." His lip curled in contempt. "And then, a 'special ability' too. You didn't even have to work for any of it. It's like you're the main character in some silly fairytale written just to make oneself feel special."

Apocrypha did not respond, continuing to fiddle with the cloth on her brow, eyes downcast in a picture of meek acceptance.

"You're right," she finally murmured, voice hoarse. "I don't deserve any of it. Are you done?"

Caught off guard, Osborn paused mid-tirade.

"Well...anyway," he cleared his throat awkwardly, unable to resist a scoff. "Be ready to depart in an hour."

The journey to Hogwarts passed in near silence, interrupted only by lowly muttered conversations of the Ministry escort.

Despite the special accommodations made for her examinations, Apocrypha could scarcely believe the end of term exams were so close.

Judging by the mild late spring climate, she estimated nearly three months had elapsed since her forced departure. Time slipped away too easily when days seemed to double in hours due to the lack of sleep between the tasks that constantly occupied her.

As the familiar turrets came into view out the flying carriage window, she found herself glued to the glass eagerly.

There stood Gryffindor Tower — was Natsai already tucked away inside, or perhaps with Garreth? Was it curfew already? The Black Lake seemed tranquil, surface glinting under the moonlight to hide the giant underwater window into the Slytherin common room below. Were Ominis and Sebastian still awake at this hour? Did they think of her, as she did of them?

When the carriage landed in the Clock Tower Courtyard, she was the first to eagerly slip outside, heedless of their escort. The sight of Professors Weasley and Sharp stirred an almost dizzying relief. In that fleeting moment, when her brooding doubts and suspicions seemed to fall away. Before she could approach, one of the guards' hands clamped down on her shoulder to root her in place, while the other guard conferred briefly with the staff in hushed tones.

She craned her neck to glance back, finding Osborn still lounging inside the carriage, chin propped on one hand. His cool gaze lingered on her pensively through the glass, as if lost in private contemplation. She looked away first.

The stalemate was broken as Headmaster Black emerged between the professors, smoothing his vest with a dignified air. Exchanging a few final muttered words with the escorts, he peered down at their charge sternly.

At some unspoken signal, the guards stepped back and directed Apocrypha forward — though not without a rough shove as if to remind her of her place. It was an unnecessary motion, since she was already moving eagerly towards the waiting staff that ushered her within the castle walls.

Professor Sharp was first to greet her, his reserved features softening into a faint, almost relieved smile. "Welcome back, Miss Blackwood."

"Inform her of the examination accommodations, nothing more." Headmaster Black interjected in a curt tone. Without waiting for a reply, he turned on his heel and strode away, as if merely dealing with this matter brought him personal discomfort.

"Of course, Headmaster," Professor Weasley responded evenly, turning her attention towards the late arrival. "If you'll come with us, Miss Blackwood, we can discuss the details in my office."

Olafur Arnalds — Tell Us What Happened

Professor Sharp he limped along beside them, his old injury causing the familiar uneven gait Apocrypha had observed so often during classes.

As the heavy door swung shut behind them, a palpable change swept the room — an air of tension seemed to dissipate from the small office.

"Thank Merlin," Deputy Headmistress exhaled heavily, briefly laying her hands on Apocrypha's shoulders in a tentative half-embrace before stepping back at the girl's instinctual tension.

Professor Sharp sighed alongside, though his tone was laced with worry rather than relief.

"What happened back in January, Apocrypha? Do you recall how the Ministry secured rights over you? Where have you been kept all this time?" His tone was gentle, but the questions came rapid-fire.

Apocrypha's eyes dropped as she twisted her fingers nervously. "I-..."

Flickering memories of Osborn's unblinking stare from the carriage haunted her. For months she had lived beneath that suffocating scrutiny, every action witnessed, every thought predicted. After so long bereft of any privacy, their expectant looks now felt intrusive in ways she could not properly articulate.

Swallowing hard, she steadied her voice with effort.

"The Ministry is studying...my ability. But I wasn't mistreated," she assured, though the rehearsed words came haltingly. "I chose to cooperate willingly. They informed my mother. I was well cared for."

Matilda made a disbelieving noise, exchanging a speaking glance with Sharp. "Just as we feared. They've clearly frightened the poor child into silence."

Sharp limped closer, tone firm. "You've no reason to fully trust any here. But there are those who can protect you, if you let them."

"I went willingly," she repeated in a monotone, the lies burning like bile. "They've treated me well."

Aesop looked unconvinced.

"The 'gentleness' of your escort tonight spoke for themselves. I doubt the higher Ministry ranks would show any more care." His eyes hardened at the memory of decades seeing the ugliest sides of those in power. "I know their ways, believe me."

Professor Weasley turned to snatch a newspaper off her desk, shaking it open and holding the front page up insistently.

"Were you part of this?"

The bold text leapt out:

Special Evening Edition

Tuesday, April 7, 1892

Apocrypha blinked at the damning headline but maintained a neutral tone.

"I've no knowledge of that. I was cared for in Ministry quarters and taught to safely harness my abilities." Her jaw tightened. "Nothing more."

Deputy Headmistress sighed, the heaviness of months-long worry and frustration weighing upon her face as she shared a wordless look with Sharp.

"We could see you fail your exams. Keep you here a bit longer," she finally continued. "Getting you back to Hogwarts' safety is all we've worked towards."

Several heartbeats of tense silence passed as Apocrypha chewed the inside of her cheek, thoughts seesawing wildly. She craved nothing more than to to see her friends again, remain here among everything she had missed dearly during her absence. Even saccharine Poppy Sweeting seemed a welcome sight after so long isolated away. But the threat of unknown consequences for disobeying Ministry's plans loomed over her like a guillotine blade. They had trained her to obedience above all else.

"I'm safest under the Ministry's guidance," she stated woodenly instead.

Sharp opened his mouth to object, but Weasley forestalled him with a raised hand. "Is there anything we can provide for you? Anything at all?"

Apocrypha glanced up timidly. "Might I access my belongings from storage?"

"Of course," Matilda assured gently. "And please — use the Prefects' Bathroom to refresh yourself before resting." At Apocrypha's instinctive demurral, she pressed on with a sad smile. "You've been granted free movement until morning. I'll inform you of your exam schedule then."

Their arrival's eyes dropped once more. "I don't deserve any privileges."

"It's decided." Weasley's tone left no room for argument. "The Prefects have been notified to allow your presence."

Sharp watched as the student departed the office with a polite nod, a troubled look furrowing his brows. Once the door closed behind her, he turned to Professor Weasley.

"Not the reception I expected after all our efforts," he admitted heavily. "The girl seems so...detached. Distant. Even for her. "

Matilda pursed her lips, smoothing a hand over her robe. "It appears the Headmaster may have some explaining to do."

Together they ascended the winding stairs leading up to the Headmaster's office. Twilight painted the windows a deep violet, though candles still burned on the desk where Phineas Black sat writing, quill scribbling furiously.

At the professors' entrance he glanced up, features creasing into a displeased frown.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?" he inquired dryly.

Professor Sharp's tone was politely blunt. "You did not seem particularly thrilled to have our most prodigal student back within these walls, Headmaster. Any particular reason?"

Black carefully set down his quill and rose with a scoff.

"And why should I be overjoyed to have the catalyst of last year's tragedy returned to us?" he challenged flatly.

Matilda bristled at the accusation. "How can you hold a child accountable for the goblin invasion Eleazar tried to warn you about? If only you had heeded him-"

"Do not speak that failure's name," the Headmaster snarled. "You persist in championing the wrong side, Professor. If anyone tried to shield this school, it was me, yet my efforts proved fruitless — especially with professors who saw fit to undermine my authority by petitioning the Ministry behind my back at every turn." His glare turned icy. "Have you forgotten the state of the caverns after the battle? The blood shed beneath our very floors?"

Sharp stiffened, unable to restrain a derisive hiss. "Need I remind you that you were absent during the actual battle? Some of us bear the scars of that day still, while you-"

Black slammed a hand on his desk, cutting off the tirade.

"I witnessed the gruesome aftermath well enough!" His voice shook with anger. "The devastation that thing left in her wake after being under our care. And now you've dragged the catalyst of the tragedy back into these halls, just as your beloved Fig did last year. Was that horror not lesson enough?"

Sharp's eyes narrowed shrewdly, personal suspicions contorting his features.

"Were you involved with the Ministry claiming power over a minor, Headmaster?" he demanded, unable to mask his outrage.

Black's response was cold and precise, gaze never wavering.

"The girl was no longer a minor by the time the Ministry intervened," he stated, crossing his arms defiantly. "She came of age before starting her sixth year. And yes, I approved their petition to intervene for the greater welfare."

"How could you-" Aesop burst out angrily, but Deputy Headmistress quickly stepped forward, interrupting him with an outrage of her own.

"Phineas, she is but a child still," Matilda implored angrily. "In no way responsible for the havoc beyond her control. And a girl with particular needs, if you recall. Special considerations in treatment-"

"I don't care how 'special' she is," the Headmaster spat, unmoved. "The fact remains, that wretch does not belong here. She does not belong anywhere. That creature barely even belongs to herself!"

Professor Sharp hissed through gritted teeth, struggling to reign in his temper. "Speak plainly for once instead of these cryptic accusations!"

Wordlessly, Black stalked around his desk and strode to his cabinet to roughly grab a folder from a stack of documents. Scrawling black letters across the top formed the student's name.

"Your judgment is clearly clouded by personal attachment," he accused coldly. "Yours, Matilda, as the girl's school mentor. And yours, Aesop, as Head of her House."

With sharp, rigid movements, he slapped the folder onto the table between them with an ominous thud.

"See for yourselves what you so blindly strive to protect."

Deep below, in the subterranean heart of the castle, a world away from the tension in the Headmaster's office, the Slytherin dungeon lay quiet and still but for the soft sounds of sleeping students in the late hour.

Olafur Arnalds — Right By You

Ominis shifted fitfully beneath his sheets, wakefulness clinging stubbornly despite the lateness. His sleep patterns had become erratic over the past months, rest often eluding him until the small hours just before dawn. The familiar drones of Sebastian's snores across the room certainly didn't help matters. But the sound had become expected by now — his friend had thrown himself into exhausting Quidditch training from dawn until after dusk ever since...

Since everything changed.

Exhaustion shadowed their faces, though they strove to mask it by scrambling to occupy themselves however possible in the aftermath. Sebastian had redoubled his efforts with the Quidditch team, daily pushing his poor athletic limits to exhaustion as a Beater and spending long hours flying drills at the pitch to keep his mind empty in the scarce hours left between training and classes. Ominis forced himself to drown in academics, perfectionist pressures from his father spurring him to maintain top marks in order to satisfy ever-escalating expectations. Anything to avoid dwelling on the hollow absence haunting their daily lives: the loss of the third in their close-knit circle.

Before last year, Ominis could hardly have imagined his longtime friendship with Sebastian fundamentally changing. Even after Anne's sudden departure in their fourth year, the core dynamic between himself and Sebastian had remained intact, the cracks not proving deep enough to fracture its foundations. Anne's shocking death halfway through the previous year had seemed to draw them even closer now, binding up the wounds her loss left behind.

Only now, looking back, could Ominis discern the subtle shifts taking root. They were still friends, but neither was quite the same person anymore. Each had holes that could not be filled, lest by one particular missing piece. They both found themselves orbiting each other warily as the absent counterbalance to their triad left them spiraling slowly out of sync. They were too connected, too codependent by now.

Ominis hated himself for this pervasive sense of hollowness, the needling knowledge that he — indeed, both himself and Sebastian — desperately missed their third part. And time proved useless to heal this. If anything, time only made things worse each passing day, filling hours with an aching void they could not reconcile nor reason away.

A particularly thunderous snore from Sebastian's side of the dorm jerked Ominis from his ruminations. He sighed, lifting his head towards the discordant sound. Half-tempted to fling a pillow at his sleeping best friend, Ominis eventually thought better of it — with how little rest Sebastian managed these days, it seemed needlessly harsh to cut even these hours short.

"Sebastian-" he hissed out softly instead, catching himself mid-phrase as a soft scuffing sound came from somewhere beside his friend's bed — the faint shuffle of a boot shifting against stone.

Ominis reflexively angled his head, attuning his senses — there was definitely an unknown presence close by.

Turning sharply, he groped for the wand on his bedside drawer and swept it over the space, probing for details. The resulting mental construct revealed a crouched figure hovering intimately, dangerously close to his sleeping roommate.

"Who's there?" Ominis whispered.

Sebastian continued snoring, dead to the world.

At the sound, the silhouette stood slowly, straightened and turned, footsteps soft and measured as it approached Ominis' bedside instead.

A hauntingly familiar voice, so painfully missed, came out of the darkness, barely a whisper.

"It's me."

In an instant, his heart had jolted.

Without thinking, Ominis scrambled and sat up, grabbing the visitor's shoulders and pulling her into a fierce embrace, heedless of how her slight form bent nearly double from his impulsive reaction.

"Kryph," he gasped in sheer disbelief, whisper coming muffled against the cloth over the crook where her neck met shoulder.

He held her tightly for long moments, heartbeat thundering in his ears. She was tensely rigid at first, as always when touched. Yet unexpectedly pliant after a moment, pressing her forehead into the nook under his ear as if striving to disappear against him, seek some kind of shelter.

"Are you alright?" he whispered, feeling hot dampness smear his skin as her breath hitched unevenly.

She managed a small headshake in denial before leaning back, quiet request coming out barely audible. "Can you come with me?"

Nodding erratically, Ominis swiftly rose swiftly from the bed, moving carefully to avoid waking their roommates.

"Sebastian," he whispered urgently, receiving only a snorting snore in response. "Sebastian, wake up-"

"No," his friend murmured in a hushed, toneless voice. "Let him rest."

Frowning, Ominis tugged a sweater up his torso and stepped into trousers.

"What? Why not?" he breathed back, confused.

She did not respond, as was her old habit, but he sensed her turn toward Sebastian's side. Her stare lingered there in the dark for a long moment, though whatever thoughts occupied her remained unvoiced.

He finished changing hastily, buttoning his trousers before following her silently out of the dungeons. The lonely corridors outside stood cold and empty, the Prefects' patrols scarcely apparent. But this odd stillness of the castle felt familiar by Apocrypha's side somehow — and Ominis followed. He was long accustomed to the ubiquitous hush that seemed to surround his friend wherever she went. Her entire presence felt different from anyone — anything — he knew.

He mused how people often described those dearest to them as 'different' or 'special' — terms heavy with romantic connotation. Yet beside her, the very meaning of 'different' seemed to morph into something alien yet still profoundly affectionate in its own right — precious, but set apart into something distinctive without needing to cross that line of romance most teens yearned to breach.

She was an anomaly even among witches, wonderfully strange, yet undeniably their friend. It was a singular feeling, this profound bond they shared with no desire to venture down the more complicated path so many their age desperately sought to pursue among themselves. Their platonic attachment, barely different from the one he shared with Sebastian, flowed naturally as breath — it was a privilege, Ominis realized, to have such a rare friendship devoid of the usual adolescent tugs towards basic needs.

"So where are we going?" he finally asked softly.

"I just...need you to stay with me for a while." Her reply was tentative, hesitant. "If that's alright..."

Ominis nodded without hesitation. "Of course. But...why did your letters come so rarely all this time?"

The question made her tense slightly, and she swallowed audibly.

"I'm sorry. I wanted to write more, but..." She trailed off, tone regretful.

Sensing her discomfort, Ominis chose to let the matter drop and continued following up the shifting staircases to the fifth floor until he felt her slow down. His wand let him perceive their destination — they stood outside the Prefect's Bathroom.

"Kryph?" he questioned uncertainly.

"It's okay," she murmured, opening the door to let them both inside the empty room.

The interior of the bathroom was marginally warmer than the drafty corridors, though no steam lingered. Water streamed quietly from the open brass taps, filling the great sunken tub that dominated the space.

Ominis hesitated. "Are you certain we should be in here?"

True to form, she did not respond. He listened to the soft sounds of her movements — the swish of a cloak being shed, the rustle of her jacket, the thump of shoes dropped to the floor. She went no further, of course — Ominis dismissed the mere thought about the implication such context usually brought before it had a chance to form into a solid assumption. Such would be foolish regarding Apocrypha — she was unpredictable by nature, but not on this matter.

Then after a weighted pause, he heard a faint splash of water as she slipped into the half-filled bath fully clothed. Fabric dragged and billowed around her as she lowered herself to the bottom and leaned back against the tiled edge with a soft exhale, sliding down until the water engulfed her completely. She resurfaced excruciatingly slowly, soaked through.

Despite himself, Ominis couldn't help a small chuckle. "What is it you are up to, Kryph?"

Her voice came out barely a hoarse whisper, hesitant. "Could you...brush my hair?"

The odd request gave him pause, but he agreed readily enough. "If you have a brush, certainly."

"The one you gave me," she confirmed quietly. "For Christmas."

Ominis' expression softened further, warm fondness swelling in his chest at the memory. "Alright then."

Kneeling carefully at the tub's edge, he rolled his trouser legs up to mid-calf before lowering his feet into the tepid water beside her wet shoulder. After a moment of patting around the tiles, his fingers tapped against something — the familiar carved handle of the comb he had gifted her. He had never tended to someone else's hair before, the act feeling strangely intimate despite their closeness. Careful not to pull too harshly, he gently parted the heavy, waterlogged strands and began working to unsnarl stubborn, intricately woven knots that felt matted from neglect.

"Do you want to talk?" he ventured quietly after a few silent minutes.

For a long stretch, Apocrypha said nothing, instead leaning infinitesimally into his careful touch.

"How have you and Sebastian been?" she deflected eventually.

Ominis exhaled slowly, concentrating on separating a particularly gnarled knot without pulling too strongly on her scalp.

"I won't lie, things have changed a lot since you...disappeared." He hesitated before posing the delicate question. "That night — are you able to discuss what happened at all?"

"No," she murmured slowly. "How is Sebastian?"

Smoothing the detangled strands between his fingers, Ominis started to brush the ends with care.

"Quieter than usual. Expected, after...well, after Anne," he said calmly, feeling her small nod of acknowledgment. "But also more aggressive somehow. On edge constantly, like he's looking for confrontation. Sometimes I worry he's trying to exhaust himself to death at Quidditch."

He sensed Apocrypha minutely turn her head towards him, the subtle hitch in her breathing betraying a ripple of concern.

After a loaded pause, she asked the inevitable question. "And you?"

Ominis forced a nonchalant shrug, aiming for an even tone.

"Just... Trying to stay distracted. Waiting for you to come back." He let out a rueful exhale. "Sebastian and I tried everything to find out where you were or why you'd been taken. But no one would tell us anything, not even Black himself."

Olafur Arnalds — I Could Have Stopped It

Small splashes punctuated the silence, along with the faint wet sounds of Apocrypha's hands fidgeting just above the water's surface — a nervous, self-soothing gesture he recognized instantly.

"I'm glad you haven't forgotten about me," she said in a small voice.

"Of course not," he reassured, carefully combing through her damp tresses from the top down. "Even Eli's been joining us to pester the professors about your whereabouts."

Apocrypha stilled abruptly at the name. "Eli?"

"Sorry, Eliza," Ominis clarified.

Meticulously working through another snarl, he failed to detect the nearly inaudible grinding of her jaw clenched tightly enough for teeth to screech. He was too distracted by the alarming amount of hair coming free and coating his hands after just a few strokes.

"Kryph..." he started carefully. "You're losing too much hair. You need to take better care of yourself."

She audibly gulped down whatever emotion had seized her throat. "Do you spend much time with Eliza these days?"

It wasn't an accusation, but Ominis understood her meaning. With Sebastian preoccupied training incessantly, he had grown somewhat closer to their other, rather insistent housemate out of necessity. Or so he believed.

"Some, yes. Sebastian is always at practice, and Eli's been struggling with mastering English," he aimed for a reassuring tone, continuing the steady, soothing motions. "But you don't need to worry about that now you're back."

For a long moment, the only sound was the gentle lapping of bathwater. Then her answer came out so low he nearly missed it.

"I'm leaving tomorrow."

Ominis stilled, comb suspended mid-stroke. "What? But you only just got back."

"I'm sorry," was her only murmur.

He processed the answer for a moment, wrestling with this new bombshell.

"Will we see you again after the summer at least?" he finally asked, dreading the answer. "It's our final year coming up after all."

"I don't know," she muttered regretfully.

Frustration crept into Ominis' voice as he sighed heavily.

"What do you mean you 'don't know'? How can you not know?" He struggled to keep his voice measured. "You're supposed to tell us — tell me at least — who or what is keeping you from giving any answers-"

"Something's wrong with me, Ominis," she spoke softly, cutting him off.

He stilled, uncertain how to process that admission. "Wrong how?"

She tapped a finger against her temple. "In here. Something hasn't felt right...since the battle for the Repository. I don't feel...alone."

Ice flooded Ominis' veins as his mind flashed back to winter after terrible Christmas — to that night she had tearfully confessed to feeling "wrong" in a way she couldn't put into words. Her behavior tonight closely mirrored that haunting memory, when fear radiated from her in waves.

Clearing his tight throat, he resumed the calming motions of combing her hair, forcing his hands to steady. "Do you have any idea what might be causing this...this sense of not feeling alone?"

Apocrypha held a weighted pause, visibly sorting through her muddled thoughts. She didn't know if she was permitted to voice such thoughts aloud — even Osborn had never suspected that something was steadily encroaching upon her consciousness.

"It's almost like I can feel-..." She started hesitantly, abruptly biting her tongue.

When she didn't continue, Ominis ventured a guess. "Isidora?"

Apocrypha's head turned sharply in his direction. "How did you know?"

"Sebastian studied Rackham's diary inside and out while you were gone," he explained evenly. "Her name featured prominently throughout. We discussed it at length. Maybe some kind of magical remnant is allowing you to sense her presence somehow?"

She stared for an endless moment before slowly facing forward again with a small, weary nod.

"Don't tell him about this," came her quiet request. "Not yet."

Immediately concerned, Ominis frowned. "Why not? He's every bit as involved in this as we are -"

"He has enough on his shoulders already," she muttered more firmly. "I don't want to add to it."

Ominis pressed his lips together, visibly restraining himself from further argument despite clearly wanting more answers. Everything he knew about the Ancient magic, the Repository, and even Apocrypha's own strange abilities stemmed mostly from Sebastian's extensive research into Rackham's diary and their many late-night recollections of the fifth year while she was gone. Excluding Sebastian from the little he now learned felt unacceptably wrong — almost a betrayal.

Yet he could not refute her reasoning. Sebastian already shouldered immense strain; adding more uncertainty on top of their friend's unexplained disappearance and the still-raw grief over Anne's death seemed simply cruel.

Changing tact, Ominis decided to shift the topic.

"Rackham documented tracking Isidora's progressive descent into instability over the years," he began. "As well as evidence of other, smaller repositories scattered across the highlands-"

"Don't." Apocrypha's soft interjection cut him off. "I don't want to know those details."

She trully didn't — the path of willful ignorance was far safer where she was concerned. If she knew nothing, then Osborn could not forcibly extract that knowledge through Legilimency, could not compel her to betray anything more than the Ministry already suspected. She couldn't rationalize this heavy need to hide information — something inside her simply implored to keep close-mouthed.

But Ominis was ignorant to her reasoning, allowing the uncomfortable silence to stretch between them.

Eventually she inhaled deeply. "Promise me you'll stay out of this...whatever this is. And keep it from Sebastian too."

By now most of the knots had been worked free, and Ominis could run the comb smoothly from root to tip despite the unsettling amount of hair he had to peel off his fingers. Apocrypha's once-thick mane felt disconcertingly thin.

"I won't tell him anything, not until you're ready," he promised tightly. "But that's all I can agree to right now."

Chapter Text

ICA — Aura Of Mutation

Her return to the Ministry compound felt abruptly, viscerally wrong. Something within Apocrypha had shifted irrevocably following that fleeting visit back to Hogwarts.

Over the next two months, memories from those few scant hours replayed with obsessive clarity. The stale air of the storage room, the sight of her scant belongings crammed carelessly into trunks. The strange, unwelcome lightness ghosting her scalp after Ominis gently brushed away tangles in her hair until first light. The poorly-veiled concern etched onto professors' faces as they all but gifted her passing marks through courses she had never actually attended, seemingly terrified that expulsion would erase any chance of the Ministry ever relinquishing custody over her.

Osborn soon made a habit of snide jokes about her naivete in hoping to ever return properly to the school as an actual student. Until the undercurrent of pressure and mounting stress finally proved too much, even for Apocrypha's seemingly stalwart resolve.

First came the tasks for Ministry researchers that she began failing with increasing frequency and sloppiness — she was unable to focus well enough to force another new wand to last even a handful of hours before shattering, lapsing into unresponsive catatonia even against mild censure, shouts or overt threats from instructors.

Then the restorative transfusion sessions stopped providing their usual rejuvenating effects — she found herself desperate for rest, and resisting the compulsion to surrender to the sweet pull of sleep became a battle unto itself. Staying awake proved nearly impossible — and she was loosing.

This comprehensive decline did not go unnoticed, but the Ministry’s instructors saw only a defective asset underperforming — not a traumatized young woman potentially suffering a mental break. Only the members of the research team and lab technicians monitoring her condition began voicing mounting apprehension — not only did her injuries fail to heal with the same alacrity, but her weight continuied to bleed away even further at an alarming rate.

Not that anyone dared broach the matter directly with Apocrypha herself — and she would not have offered any insight even if pressed anyway. She wanted to go home — to whatever feeble semblance of normalcy might remain for her. However accustomed she thought herself to this enforced leashed existence, the prospect of endless captivity was becoming unendurable.

The thoughts bordered on hysterical — why had she foolishly deluded herself into believing this predicament was only temporary? On what grounds could she possibly expect the Ministry would simply release her back into the wild now that they possessed such power? Where would she ever have a chance to see her mother again? Had Eliza already slipped too close to Ominis in her absence, affording Osborn an entree to entrap him just as easily? What if Sebastian never forgave the reality of her not waking him that night? What if she never saw Natsai's face again?

The steady trickle of letters that arrived following her return went completely ignored. She could not bring herself to respond to a single one, fearful any news from her friends might worsen her state further. She knew acutely how intolerably selfish this negligence appeared — but even the mere sight of Sebastian's looping script on a letter arriving days after her visit to Hogwarts filled her with dread. She simply could not make herself open the floodgates by confronting his surely furious words. The letter lay untouched where Osborn left it, gathering dust.

What defense could she mount to justify her silence? That paranoia constricted her throat like a noose until breathing became a conscious effort? That her spiral downward wasn't merely concern for her friends, but something far more insidious that awaited each time exhaustion claimed victory?

Her dreams had transformed into something else entirely. Never before had she experienced such visceral visions — behind closed eyes, she witnessed her own fingers split open to reveal writhing maggots beneath, heard her bones snapping with the sharp report of kindling. Sometimes she felt the skin on her face simply peel away in long strips like wet paper, sensed invisible hooks dragging against the inside of her eye sockets, endured the wet crack of her joints dislocating one by one while paralysis kept her immobile.

Blood would run thick and black as tar beneath her feet while faceless figures screamed in voices that weren't their own. Unfamiliar bodies imploded, reformed, contorted at impossible angles and shattered again in endless cycles. And always, always she was screaming as her teeth crumbled to dust.

Though lucid enough to recognize these as dreams the moment they began, she remained powerless to wrench free as she had done before through pain. The old trick of biting herself awake proved futile now — she sank too deep, too fast.

The voices evolved in clarity too, revealing distinct personalities through tone and cadence — elderly people muttering bitter imprecations, young men and women calling out in confusion, children crying out in fear. Without conscious choice, she developed aversions to particular ones that felt more invasive and dominant, usually belonging to older presences that pressed against her consciousness with greater force.

The sheer number of trapped souls haunted her. How many victims had Isidora bound within her creation? Apocrypha could sense hundreds of of individual agonies beating against the walls of their prison, each one competing for space inside her skull.

Just as they did now.

She pressed against her ear, trying to muffle their ceaseless chorus, but the gesture proved futile. London's cacophony of traffic and crowds only amplified her sensory overload and disorientation, making concentration impossible. Eyes screwed shut, she raised both hands to her ears in desperate search of silence.

"Not sleeping on the job, are we?" Osborn's low, mocking voice cut through the haze. "Even if observation and getting some air are your only tasks today, eyes open."

Apocrypha nodded mechanically, forcing heavy eyelids apart. The world tilted momentarily as she swayed, steadying herself on the roof's edge. Below stretched a wide square teeming with Muggle crowds — they were atop a bank building, if she recalled correctly.

"This doesn't look promising," Regulus muttered from his position nearby.

Lewis snorted. "Muggle politics. Load of bollocks, this is. We shouldn't even be here."

Their presence wasn't optional — they were required as backup support if needed. Down in the crowd, skilled Obliviators disguised as civilians listened intently to the conservative rhetoric flowing from Robert Gascoyne Cecil as he addressed the assembled masses.

The situation had grown delicate — while both Prime Minister and Crown were traditionally privy to magical society's existence, Lord Salisbury had proven an unreliable keeper of that secret. The Ministry possessed concrete evidence that knowledge had spread further through government offices. Everyone in positions of power who potentially knew would require memory modification, excepting the Queen herself. The Crown maintained their position as steadfast ally in this matter.

"Shut your face and look," Osborn hissed at Lewis. "These maggots brought new toys. What sort of rifles are those anyway?"

They peered down at the armed guards encircling Cecil — necessary protection given his controversial policies that regularly incited public outrage. The security detail stood ready to defend against any threats from dissenting groups.

"Bolt action," Apocrypha murmured, indicating the distinctive lever mechanism on the side that had to be manually operated between shots.

"Well, someone knows their weapons," Regulus hummed. "Suppose being Muggle-born has its uses sometimes."

Lewis let out a derisive laugh. "Quite the clever clogs, aren't you? How'd someone like you even come to know the difference?"

Apocrypha stared down at the square, voice devoid of inflection. "My father owned one."

Osborn studied her with a raised eyebrow before turning away, expression souring as he resumed watching the scene below. His disdain for Muggle weaponry was well-known, particularly their endless parade of increasingly lethal innovations.

"Be simpler to blast the whole square and be done with it," he muttered bitterly.

"And invite far more complications than necessary," Regulus countered. "The Obliviators just need to wait until Cecil and his people are isolated after the crowd disperses post-speech."

Osborn clicked his tongue, leaning back with crossed arms. His gaze returned to Apocrypha, catching her rubbing her eyes and slumping against the parapet.

"Try not to fall off, would you?" He sighed irritably.

"Yeah," Lewis snickered. "Or Ozzy's mum'll tear him a new arsehole at minimum if something that stupid happened to her pet project."

Osborn rolled his eyes, shoving his friend half-heartedly. "Shut it, you."

Their banter faded to background noise as Apocrypha continued staring downward, unblinking, until she suddenly clapped her hands over her ears with a violent motion.

"Stop," she whispered through clenched teeth, eyes squinting against the fresh, stronger wave of voices.

When the familiar rumbling joined the cacophony, she stumbled backward towards the center of the roof, sliding down the far wall to sit on the concrete.

"Shut up, shut up, shut up," she chanted in a trance-like whisper.

Osborn noticed her retreat first.

"Bit dramatic to have a cry now, isn't it?" he called, striding over.

"Shut up," she hissed, though it wasn't clear who she addressed. Her breathing came in deep gasps as she raked both hands through her hair, leaving them tangled there while struggling to regain composure.

Suddenly hesitant, Osborn knelt before her, gripping her shoulders to give her a slight shake.

"What's happening?" he demanded, firm but careful.

She raised her head, but her glassy stare seemed to bore straight through him, fixing instead on some far invisible point beyond his shoulder. Osborn turned to follow her line of sight to the adjacent building's roof, slightly taller than their position. The space was empty.

"You're acting right strange, Blackwood," he muttered, turning back to face her.

Lewis snorted. "Leave the poor lass be. Lab staff can sort her once we're through here."

"Ozz," Regulus nodded towards their charge. "Her nose."

Blood trickled steadily from both her nostrils, dark against the pallid skin. Osborn gripped her chin firmly, dabbing at the steady crimson flow with his sleeve. The blood seeped through the fabric, continuing to pour without pause. He tapped her cheek lightly.

"Blackwood? You hearing me?"

Teeth clenched so tightly the muscles in her jaw strained, she made no acknowledgment of his words or actions. Eyes wide, her stare was still locked on that neighboring rooftop — empty for them, but not for her.

She saw it clearly — a pool of viscous, blue-tinged smoke that coalesced to the concrete, emanating a deep vibration she'd recognized from both dreams and surviving the Keeper's Trials. The pulsation made her teeth ache.

There it stood amidst that roiling fog, humanoid feminine shape blotting out all afternoon light like a hole torn in reality itself. Viscous tresses of tangled mass of hair cascaded past its waist in ropes of liquefied shadow, partially covering the features bereft of definition save for two glowing crimson pinpricks where eyes should sit, and a grotesquely stretched mouth frozen in a perpetual rictus grin.

The susurrant chant pounded from everywhere and nowhere simultaneously:

Its lipless mouth widened unnaturally as their gazes locked, until the upper portion of its skull began to peel backward with a wet, tearing sound, folding over itself like a swivelling trap door. Row upon row of needle-like teeth spiralled endlessly down into its throat like an obscene flower, dripping black ichor that sizzled where it struck the concrete. Deep, almost hellish red light pulsed from within the impossible new orifice, causing the smoke pool around it to blaze blood-red. The rumbling crescendoed to an unbearable intensity.

Apocrypha pressed her palms against her eyes with a choked sound of hysteria. But it did nothing — hands or no hands, eyes open or closed, all she saw was Osborn's concerned face, the blood-drenched rooftop, and that thing with its bisected skull gaping impossibly wide, beckoning.

"No!" she screamed hoarsely. "I don't want this!"

"This is serious," Regulus said sharply. "Get her off the mission before she causes complications."

Osborn nodded, hauling her up by her arms before simply lifting her when she remained unsteady and her legs refused to cooperate. He started towards the roof access door, her weight slight but awkward against his chest.

"Bloody hell — look!" Lewis shouted, pointing down. The crowd around Cecil's podium scattered in panic as spider-web cracks raced through the adjacent building's foundation with alarming speed.

A deep groan of stressed masonry filled the air as the facade began to buckle. The building's front face abruptly dropped several meters, the uneven settlement causing multiple base floors to collapse downward as the upper floors tilted dangerously towards the bank and their position. Above, the clay-tiled roof broke free, sliding down the newly formed incline faster than the deteriorating structure beneath them.

Regulus grabbed Lewis by the collar, yanking him away from the parapet. "Move!"

Still carrying Apocrypha, Osborn struggled to match their pace towards the door. Her position against him gave her a clear view over his shoulder — she saw the cascade of tiles first, hurtling directly towards them both.

"Watch your heads!" Regulus bellowed.

As the initial impacts struck the bank roof, Apocrypha drove her weight downward, dragging Osborn with her to the concrete. Clay tiles shrieked past overhead, smashing into the access door wall like ceramic blades and slicing through brick and mortar mere centimeters above where Osborn’s head had been before she pulled him down. They fell painfully, yet his breath caught as he registered just how close the projectile had come — the impact embedded deep enough in the stone to have taken his skull clean off.

The air filled with dust and the shriek of falling debris as more of the building gave way below. Gritty particles coated Osborn's throat as he coughed, wiping powdered stone from his eyes.

The same clay slab above that nearly decapitated him had shielded them from the worst of the collapse, thin shafts of sunlight still filtering through gaps in the debris. The panicked screams from the square below seemed distant, as if underwater.

He looked down at Apocrypha still pinned beneath him. "Alright?"

She managed a jerky nod.

"Ozzy!" Lewis’s voice called out, accompanied by the scrape of shifting rubble as he and Regulus cleared a path. "You alive there, mate?"

"We need to clear off before we're spotted by Muggles," Osborn called back, voice rough with dust.

The transition from chaos to confinement came swiftly, with mechanical predictability — the Ministry's response followed protocol. The damage control operated with efficiency, carefully modifying memories and fabricating evidence — structural failure due to poor foundation settlement, they proved to the Muggles. Simple, believable, contained.

But containing her proved more complex. Initial blame fell swiftly upon her shoulders, of course — perhaps even before the debris had finished falling.

The depths of Level 9 became her new reality, where metal restraints clicked against the examination chair at regular intervals between periods of consciousness. The lab staff's footsteps echoed differently now — measured, careful, as if approaching an unstable explosive rather than a subject.

Sedative potions left peculiar after-tastes, metallic and bitter. They mingled with the lingering scent of crushed stone and terror from that day on the roof, creating a hazy blur of time that Apocrypha couldn't properly track yet again. But each time consciousness surfaced, Osborn occupied the same chair beside her restraints, his presence — a fixed point in the rotating blur of white coats and diagnostic spells. He never spoke, simply watched with an unreadable expression as various tests were conducted.

Fragments of urgent discussions filtered through the sedative-induced stupors during her brief periods of lucidity. Words like "containment protocol" and "security risk" surfaced repeatedly. Most voices advocated for permanent underground confinement — they wanted her buried deeper, locked away until she proved manageable enough to study again.

Only Cameron's strict tones argued against it — his assessment of "critical condition" likely spared her from the dungeons. But his voice carried more pragmatism than sympathy — the other departments' demands for maximum security measures brought risks that would render her useless for study.

"Further isolation risks complete psychological collapse. We cannot afford to lose our only viable specimen."

After forty-eight hours of sharp objects and questions and floating between awareness and oblivion, they finally released her back to her designated quarters. Exhaustion pulled at her bones, but sleep lurked like a predator — her hands shook at the mere thought of closing her eyes, of falling into whatever waited in dreaming.

The wall clock she was finally allowed to have ticked past midnight. She sat rigid on her bed, muscles tense with the effort of staying awake as she stared at the wall and minutes crawled past like hours. Each time her head began to drop, she jerked upright, breathing accelerated.

Apocrypha glanced at the clock again. The warm summer air she had a chance to experience several days ago made the season clear enough, but the exact date escaped her. The realization struck like lightning, jolting her upright from the bed. Bare feet made no sound as she moved towards the door and past the guard whose hand twitched reflexively next to his wand — the middle-aged man tensed, yet remained silent as she passed and progressed down the corridor.

Osborn's office door stood ajar, empty. The usual sounds of activity — scratching quills, shuffling papers, murmured conversations — were absent from the entire quarters, deserted save for her and the watchful sentry.

The living room remained untouched since morning, but it held what she sought — Osborn's morning newspaper, still lying where he'd left it folded on the table beside his preferred armchair near the fireplace. A small mercy that they'd stopped manipulating her timeline, allowing her to track days properly now.

The date on the yesterday's Prophet blazed up at her — July 3rd, 1892. The paper trembled slightly in her grip. Ominis had turned seventeen yesterday. She'd missed it by a day.

She rushed back to her room, eyes fixing on the untouched pile of letters from her friends. The stack seemed to stare back at her, mocking her negligence. Did they blame her? The thought sat like lead in her stomach as she pulled out parchment and quill.

Her naturally reserved temperament made expressing warmth difficult even before all this. Now, attempting to craft an appropriately gentle apology while concealing urgent warnings proved nearly impossible. The quill hesitated above paper, then trembled slightly as she began writing, attempting to craft something appropriately restrained yet apologetic and reassuring.

On an impulse, Eliza's name appeared on the paper, then vanished under violent cross-outs.

It materialized again and again beneath the quill, and each time her hand shook more violently as ink bled into small dots where it hovered too long. The warning screamed to be written, any implication about Eliza’s motives pressed against her teeth like bitter medicine that needed delivering — stay away from her, don’t let her close — but Osborn would never allow such revelations to pass his inspection. The wrong word choice would ensure the letter never left the building — and who knew what Osborn might do to punish her for even attempting such an impulsive correspondence.

Why hadn't she warned Ominis before, when opportunity existed? What if she had, and Osborn simply hadn't thought to check her head for such defiance? The possibilities twisted like knives.

Draft after draft met destruction, joining the growing mass of failed attempts that littered the floor around her chair — crumpled into balls, torn to strips. Each new version disappointed to bridge the gap between what she needed to convey and what she could safely write. The quill pressed harder with each try, until she dug it so deeply into the current draft that it tore through multiple sheets and left a savage groove in the wooden table beneath.

Surrounded by the carnage of failed letters, Apocrypha's breathing grew shallow and rapid. Her hands raked across her face, leaving red marks as panic began its familiar climb. The sudden bang of the entrance door jolted through her spinning thoughts.

Three distinct voices and unsteady footsteps filled the living room — Osborn's relaxed tone underlaid by Lewis’s louder speech patterns and Regulus's deep rumble. Their slightly slurred talk and the creak of settling furniture suggested they'd claimed the couches near the fireplace.

She ignored their muffled conversation, focusing instead on the urgent task at hand. With Osborn being the only one authorized to review and send her letters, this return offered a narrow window of opportunity — she couldn't afford to waste it on perfectionism.

The quill scratched hastily across fresh paper, no longer battling for perfect phrasing. An apology for the silence. A brief mention of poor health. A promise of future letters to both him and Sebastian. The perfunctory birthday wishes for Ominis, stripped down to basics. The words emerged messy but present, free from the paralysis of overthinking due to urgency.

She folded the paper with sharp, decisive movements and left the room, following the sound of voices. The three men occupied the couches next to the hearth, tumblers of amber liquid catching the flames' glow. Their conversation halted as she approached Osborn's seat with clear purpose.

"Here," she said stiffly, extending the folded letter.

Osborn set his drink on the table between the couches, accepting the parchment. "Finally decided to write, have you?"

He unfolded it, eyes tracking across the page. A low chuckle escaped him as he finished, fingers tilting the letter slightly.

"Your handwriting remains an undiscovered language. Good thing I've had practice deciphering it, " he hummed with a curt nod of approval, then called out. "Davis!"

The guard appeared in the doorway, stance alert despite the late hour.

"Handle the sending of this, would you?" Osborn passed him the letter. "Trying to enjoy a proper evening off for once."

Davis stepped forward, accepting the paper with visible reluctance. He lingered by the door, watching Apocrypha with obvious unease — leaving the subject unwatched went against protocol, not to mention dangerous.

Regulus caught the guard's uncertainty and gave a slight nod. "We've got things handled here, Davis."

The man glanced at the girl one last time and retreated with an air of professional disapproval, footsteps fading behind the door to the quarters.

The wooden planks creaked slightly as she turned to leave, but Osborn's voice cut through her retreat. "Sit down with us. You look stiff as dried dragon shite — might do you good to join some decent company instead of hiding away like a hermit."

She met his eyes with a rigid stare, rejection clear in her expression. It prompted a firmer tone from Osborn.

"I said, sit." The command left no room for argument.

She complied wordlessly, choosing the far end of Osborn's couch, as distant from the crackling fireplace as possible. The seating arrangement formed an imperfect square — Regulus occupied the couch directly across the low table between them, while Lewis lounged opposite Osborn, glass in hand. Her nose wrinkled involuntarily at the sharp scent of whiskey fumes permeating the air, but she remained silent.

Lewis leaned forward with a lazy smirk, liquid sloshing slightly in his glass.

"So how'd you manage it then? The collapse?" He took another swallow. "Trying to take us all out at once, were you?"

"I didn't do anything," Apocrypha said, voice flat.

"'Course you'd say that," Osborn commented. "But the incident started with your little episode, didn't it? That foundation was solid. People got hurt, Blackwood."

Regulus cleared his throat. "She didn't even have a wand, Ozz. And the Ministry found no trace of Ancient magic either."

"True, that." Osborn reached for his pipe on the table, taking his time to strike a match. Smoke curled upwards as he drew. "But no one found anything because no one can see it — except her."

He shifted in his seat casually, tobacco scent joining the alcohol vapours as he turned to Apocrypha.

"So what exactly did you see up there? Must've been something frightening — you looked like a child who’d spotted the bogeyman under the bed."

Her mouth compressed to a thin line, discomfort clear as day on pale face. "I was unwell. Haven't been sleeping."

Another chuckle mixed with smoke, accompanying Osborn's reach for his glass. "Oh, we're all well aware of that. Doesn't change the fact everyone's pointing fingers your way for this mess."

"Tsk." Regulus shook his head. "Operation succeeded regardless. Obliviators used the panic to their advantage and did their job. No point dwelling on it further."

"At least someone did their job properly," Osborn agreed with a sigh. "Though you might stop trying to mother me and Lou, Reggie. Being the eldest doesn't make you responsible for smoothing everything over."

"Maybe you'll grow some responsibility too when you reach my age," Regulus retorted, rolling his eyes. "In four years."

Lewis snorted into his glass.

"Don't know about Ozzy, but I for one adore our mother hen." He sprawled across his seat dramatically, making exaggerated kissing sounds while reaching for Regulus. "It's just how he shows his love!"

Regulus kept him at arm's length, palm firmly against Lewis's face. "Get off me, you drunk fool."

Osborn took a loud gulp of his drink, attention shifting back to Apocrypha.

"So," he started, pipe clicking against his teeth. "Speaking of your sleeping habits — is insomnia some Slytherin trait? You and those friends of yours never could mind your business after curfew, could you?"

A scowl crossed her features, old defiance steadily flickering to life through past submission. "So you've been watching."

"Oh, we've heard plenty about his Hogwarts stint!" Lewis's theatrical tone cut through the tension. "The prestigious prefect to the noblest of Houses!"

Osborn dismissed the comment with a lazy wave.

"Just a pack of reckless glory-hounds, the lot of them Gryffindors," he said, gesturing towards his companions with his pipe. "Now Reggie here — clear Ravenclaw material. And you, Lou? Pure Slytherin, you insufferable snake."

Lewis threw his arms wide, nearly spilling his drink.

"That's me!" He preened dramatically, bowing his head to an imaginary audience. "Thank you, thank you."

A snicker escaped Osborn at the sight as he crossed one leg over the other, studying Apocrypha with amused interest. "What about me then, Blackwood? Where do you reckon the Hat would've placed me, had I actually attended?"

She exhaled sharply and turned to face him, eyes narrowing to slits. "Azkaban."

The room erupted in laughter, Osborn's the loudest among them. Still chuckling, he stretched his arm across the back of the couch where she sat. She stiffened imperceptibly at the proximity, though her expression remained challenging.

Her insolence stirred something in him — this sharp-tongued rebel suited her far better than the compliant puppet he'd witnessed since her forced removal from Hogwarts. Osborn had grown almost bored watching his charge these past months — all wooden docility and hollow obedience. In his eyes, anger animated her features in ways that submissiveness never could. This brief glimpse of her caustic nature reminded him of their midnight game of "Hide and Seek" in the Forbidden Forest — his version of events, at least. Good times.

Drawing deeply on his pipe, he released a cloud of smoke with a curious smile. "But then, so do you belong there, my dear."

His eyes lingered on her profile, coloured by an odd mix of contemplation. She'd saved his life, after all — an irony, given she'd likely have let him die or kill him herself had she known he was the only person who actually possessed that damning vial of memory containing the evidence of Sebastian's crimes. It still remained his perfect insurance. Funny how things worked out — but she didn't need to know that particular detail.

"Oh, oh!" Lewis straightened suddenly, grin spreading wide. "Ozz is right — we all know you’re a child murderer."

Olivier Deriviere — It Was Always There

Apocrypha’s jaws clenched tightly, words carrying an edge that had been absent moments before. "I didn't kill anyone."

Lewis took several deep swallows, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He raised one finger in a mocking scholarly gesture. "Everything's in your file, love. Read it myself — we all did. Such delightful bedtime reading — hanging, drowning, all the nasty bits. Can't say I'm surprised."

Regulus leaned forward, reaching for the glass. "You've had enough, Lou."

"Piss off!" Lewis yanked the drink away with a playful chuckle, sloshing liquid over his sleeve. "You know what's funny, sweetheart? Before Ozz got sent to spy on you at Hogwarts, we had this betting pool going." He swayed slightly, gesturing at his own eyes with an ugly smirk on his face. "About what made those freakish green eyes of yours so unnatural. Nobody won that bet — who'd have guessed? Little rape-spawns, both you and your brother, conceived under Imperius."

Osborn tensed minutely, slowly setting his glass on the table. Having witnessed too many of Lewis's drunken episodes with women before, he knew exactly where this was heading. "Don't start, Lou. Not this."

"No, no — let's really talk about it!" Lewis lurched upwards and staggered towards the fireplace, gesturing wildly. "I'm curious! Since the curse is running through her veins, d'you think she still feels daddy dearest forcing himself on mummy every time she casts a spell?" His hands made wet slapping sounds as he acted out his words. "Bet he made her beg for it too — that's what Imperius does, right? Makes you want it like a whore?"

He spun in a drunken circle towards Apocrypha, pelvis moving in crude, grinding motions against the air as he approached.

"Wonder if that's why our little witch here is so special? All that violation just..." He made wet, choking sounds, hand gripping his own throat theatrically. "Soaking right into her bones before she was even born. Daddy's perfect little rape-baby."

Regulus half-rose, face tight with disgust, but Lewis was fully committed to his performance now. He mimed brutal thrusting motions, adding crude sound effects with his mouth.

"That's why she's got those eyes — glowing green like a curse! Marking her as what she is — just a walking reminder of daddy forcing mummy's legs op-"

"Shut up, Lewis!" Regulus snapped, approaching his drunken friend. "For your own sake."

But Lewis continued his vulgar display by the fireplace, each gesture more explicit than the last, voice climbing higher as he acted out his depraved scenario in graphic detail.

Osborn sat motionless, a cold weight settling in his gut as he forced himself to look to his right. He knew what he would find there. He wasn’t wrong.

She hadn't moved. Not an inch. Her jaw locked tight enough to crack teeth, tendons standing out along pale neck, shoulders perfectly still yet undeniably rigid. Only her pupils twitched and shifted, contracted to pinpoints in those unnatural green eyes that tracked Lewis's every movement with mechanical precision. The sight was identical to that night at Hogwarts — the same murderous focus she'd given Osborn while bound to that chair, drenched in her own blood and turned completely savage.

The recognition hit him with stark clarity — she wasn't just angry. She wanted to kill whatever moved.

Only this time, Osborn realized, there were no ropes. No restraints. And more critically — no visible exhaustion to slow her down.

Just Lewis, stumbling closer, completely unaware of what he was provoking.

Osborn held her fixed stare, hyper-aware of his hand position on the couch, inches from her neck. A grab at her nape would take a fraction of a second. She was quick, but he had the advantage of weight. One clean motion and he could pin her down. Probably.

Or.

A darker thought slipped in uninvited — what if he just... watched? Let her show him exactly what she was capable of when pushed this far.

His hand inched closer, testing. Her pupils twitched minutely, shifting focus — using peripheral vision. She knew. The window of opportunity was closing fast.

Before Osborn could decide, Apocrypha leaned forward in one fluid motion, reaching for his abandoned glass on the table. His arm jerked back reflexively at the sudden movement.

She rose and took a stiff sip of burning liquid before turning away. "I'm leaving."

"You should," Regulus muttered, finally wrestling Lewis's drink from his grasp. "We'll handle this, right Ozz?"

Osborn cleared his throat and nodded, frowning at the feel of unsettling mixture of relief and... something else churning in his gut. A part of him — small but undeniable — felt cheated of a spectacle. The realization made him question his own sanity.

Apocrypha moved towards the corridor, the glass loose in her hand and nearly empty. Behind her, Regulus and Osborn's heated words grew muffled as they maneuvered Lewis onto the couch. Sound warped, became distant — like she'd plunged underwater.

A sharp ping of pain behind alert eyes made her wince. She stopped, pressing her wrists to her temples — it felt like spiders were scratching inside her skull.

He deserves it. You know it.

The glass caught light as she glanced at it, then peered back around the corner without turning. Lewis's head lolled over the couch's edge, throat exposed, alcohol making him sluggish and completely vulnerable in his drunken stupor. Regulus paced nearby, lecturing, while Osborn had settled back, rubbing his eyes.

The glass felt heavy in her hand. One precise swing would shatter it against Lewis's skull if she angled it right — the impact would paralyze his alcohol-dulled reflexes. She'd have a weapon in her hand before anyone could react — one decent shard was all she'd need. Osborn was distracted, unfocused by his own state of dizziness. Regulus posed a real problem — he'd stayed mostly sober, taking measured sips she had a chance to observe. Most clear-headed. But his pacing was predictable — each turn creating a 2-second window.

A pattern.

She could cross the space in three steps while his back was turned. Grab Lewis by his hair, drag him sideways. The fireplace was close enough — she'd have maybe seconds before they reached her, but enough time to force his head into the flames. He wouldn't open his mouth willingly — but if she drove the shard through his upper lip first, into his gums and teeth, he'd scream.

The gateway to slice deeper, grip his tongue, and saw through the muscle. If the rest faltered longer, she could drive the shard deep enough to rip the tongue out. Even after they pulled her off, she'd make sure to leave Lewis choke on blood and pieces of himself.

The thought satisfied her strangely. But her lungs felt tight, hands burning — why was everything so hot?

"BLACKWOOD, STOP!" Osborn's shout pierced through the fog.

Lewis's wet, gurgling screams mixed with Regulus's yelling somewhere behind.

Reality snapped into focus: she was already there, straddling Lewis's back as he thrashed. Her hand pressed his face deeper into the glowing coals, the flesh on his cheek sizzling and blackening against embers. Blood ran hot down her fingers where the glass shard bit into both his skin and hers, grip slick with fluids. His mouth was halfway carved open, enamel scraping against glass as he kicked beneath her weight, coughing out his blood and teeth fragments. His screams turned guttural as she wedged the shard between his lips, sawing sideways through the soft tissue.

"GET HER OFF HIM!" Regulus's voice cracked with panic.

Hands grabbed her shoulders, trying to wrench her away, but she dug her knees in harder and locked her thighs around Lewis's torso, riding his convulsions and desperate bucking while working the glass splinter deeper. The improvised blade sliced through his mouth like butter, revealing more teeth, more blood.

When Regulus pulled at Lewis, she tore her bleeding hand back and raised it, aiming for the throat, but Osborn caught her wrist mid-strike, a heartbeat before she could slash. The room exploded into chaos.

Osborn wrenched her backwards, arm like iron locked around her chest, grip vice-tight on her armed hand.

"I'LL KILL YOU!" she screamed at Lewis through tears she hadn't realized were falling. "I'LL FUCKING KILL YOU!"

She kicked wildly, vision blurring as she watched Regulus drag Lewis's smoking, mutilated face away from the hearth. Gore and saliva strings hung from his ruined mouth, skin blistering where she had pressed it against coals.

"Lock her up!" Regulus shouted over Lewis's wet whimpering. "I'm getting help — Lou's face is -"

Osborn dragged her thrashing into the nearest room, wrestling her through the dark doorway and slamming it behind them. She fought like a wild animal, raw throat tearing with promises of death.

"I'LL KILL HIM!" she shrieked, still clutching the shard with her hand slippery from blood. "Let me finish it! I'll kill you too — I'LL KILL YOU IF YOU DON'T LET ME-"

"SHUT UP!" Osborn’s voice shook as he struggled to contain her. "Calm down or I'll make you!"

His grip shifted, fingers digging into her wrist until the bones ground together. The glass shard trembled but remained locked in her fingers despite the circulation he was hoping to cut off. She twisted violently in his hold, spine arching as she tried to wrench sideways and break his balance.

"Drop it!" Osborn demanded through clenched teeth, twisting her arm higher while keeping her locked against his chest.

Apocrypha writhed and kicked still, bare feet scraping down his shin. Her free hand clawed at his arm across her torso, nails leaving red welts in their wake. Each violent motion grew more desperate but less coordinated — muscles burning, lungs heaving. Osborn knew her stamina limits — he just needed to wait.

"You're already neck-deep in shite. Fancy another round of sedation?" His breath came harsh against her ear. "Or should we discuss Sallow's accommodations in Azkaban?"

"To hell with our deal!" She bucked against him, movements growing erratic. "I'll kill all of you if I have to! I'm going home-"

The splinter finally slipped from her nerveless fingers as circulation failed, and Osborn kicked it across the floor, well out of reach.

"Get this through your thick skull, Blackwood," he panted, wrestling her still. "You're underground, outnumbered. By the time you'd reach the surface, half the Ministry's finest would be here. You'd never make it past the first ward alive. Is that what you want? To die here?"

"I don't care!" Her voice cracked raw. "I want to go home!"

But her struggles grew sluggish, weakened to erratic jerks. Osborn slowly lowered her feet to the floor, maintaining his grip as he wrapped both arms around her from behind, breathing coming ragged from exertion. A grunt escaped him as he steadied their position.

"Bloody hell, what a mess you've made," he muttered after a heavy exhale, restraining her sporadic twitches of resistance. "You'll be lucky if they don't leave you to rot in the dungeons after this little perform-"

"Piss off!" she snarled and snapped her head back into his face.

The crack of cartilage was followed by Osborn's sharp intake of breath as he staggered and reeled, grip loosening just enough. That split-second of shocked pain was all she needed — wrenching free, Apocrypha pressed against the wall and spun to face him, hands raised in defensive stance.

Osborn snorted blood from his nostrils onto the floorboards, grimacing as one hand pressed to his throbbing nose. Still wincing, he stumbled backwards until his spine met the door, effectively blocking the exit. He couldn't let her reach it — not now.

"Let me out," she hissed.

"You're not going anywhere," he spat, briefly patting his trouser pocket.

A curse died on his lips when he found it empty — his wand must have slipped out during the earlier chaos outside. Brilliant. He'd have to manage without it.

They faced each other in temporary stalemate — her swaying visibly on her feet, clearly running on fumes, him slightly off-balance from drink and injury. Neither had clear advantage.

"Listen," he raised his hands in placating gesture, voice thick through the blood. "Give it up now, or they'll put you somewhere no one finds you. No visits. No letters. Your mum, your friends — they'll never see you again. You'll disappear completely."

Her aggressively defensive stance wavered slightly, but those unnatural eyes remained fixed on him, wild and unblinking.

Crimson dripped steadily from her lacerated palm, drawing his attention. The wound showed no signs of closing — blood still flowed freely without any trace of coagulation or clotting. Her unique healing abilities had completely failed.

"You're bleeding," he said carefully, taking a careful step forward. "Need to calm down."

She met his approach with bared teeth, breaths still laboured and pupils contracted to dangerous points. Despite clearly out of energy, there wasn't a hint of surrender in her posture.

Osborn watched her, duty warring with darker thoughts. His mother's orders had been clear — keep the asset intact, contained and unharmed. And while Lewis would most surely recover under Ministry’s care, Apocrypha's failed healing posed an unknown risk they couldn't afford — this alone should have been his primary concern.

Yet he found himself transfixed, pulse quickening at the sight.

Blood-spattered and feral, she held herself like a cornered beast, embodying raw survival instinct. The pure hatred in those inhuman, poison-green eyes pierced through the dim light, almost luminescent in their intensity. Shame twisted in his gut at the unwelcome thought, but the sight of her like this — devastating and untamed — stirred something he couldn't name.

She was magnificent in her savagery — this lethal, terrifying, beautiful creature who wanted nothing more than to tear him apart.

Perhaps it was the whiskey that clouded his judgment. Perhaps something worse. The alcohol, the violence, his own twisted nature — something just snapped.

Osborn lunged forward before she could react, closing the distance in two rapid strides and catching one wrist as she yanked the other free, the momentum carrying them both against the wall. His free palm found the back of her neck, fingers twisting in coal-black hair as he forced her head backwards and crashed his mouth against hers. Forcing the tongue past her lips, Osborn pressed harder, every muscle twitching as their teeth clashed. The metallic tang of blood — his own, hers, Lewis's — mixed with the taste of her.

A sudden flash of heat surged through him when she opened her mouth wider for one dizzying moment, but triumph turned to sharp, white-hot pain as her teeth clamped down on his bottom lip. Blood welled immediate and hot, copper-salt flooding their joined mouths and running down his chin. He grunted painfully yet still persisted, swallowing the mix of blood and saliva, lost to some mad impulse that wouldn't let him stop.

Then his grip shifted — he released her wrist, fingers digging into her hip instead to crush her against him. Fluids smeared between their mouths as he bit and pulled her lip in retaliation, seeking to match her savagery. When Apocrypha’s freed hand twisted violently in his hair, trying to wrench him away, he only pressed harder, refusing to break contact and keeping their bloodied mouths locked together with desperate intensity.

He missed her feet bracing against the wall until it was too late. She launched them both forward, sending Osborn crashing onto his back with a loud thud. Before he could recover, she was astride his chest, thighs clamping around his ribcage as her fingers locked around his throat with unexpected strength.

"Let me out!" she screamed, tears and crimson mingling on her face. "I want to go home!"

His chest burned as he fought for air, survival urge driving one hand to grip her forearm, trying to pry her hold from his windpipe. Dark spots danced at the edges of his vision, yet even as the instincts kicked in, that twisted compulsion remained. His free hand palmed and gripped her thigh, trying to drag her weight lower across his body. His hips shifted unconsciously, seeking contact where heat and pressure had built to an almost painful degree and the fabric of his trousers had grown uncomfortably tight.

Through the spreading fog of oxygen deprivation, a distant part of his mind registered the madness of his position — she was killing him. Yet his body betrayed a completely different urgency, preventing him from stopping seeking that contact, that friction.

When he felt his consciousness steadily beginning to slip, the self-preservation reflex finally surged through the haze. Osborn bucked upwards, hand wrenching her leg sideways as his body twisted. The world spun as the motion threw Apocrypha off-balance — just enough for him to flip their positions and pin her beneath his weight.

Her fingers still circled his throat but with less force now, the sudden shift catching her off-guard. He drew in harsh, rattling breaths, settling heavily between her thighs as his palm found her face, fingers digging into her cheeks hard enough to bruise. The pressure of their bodies aligned through layers of fabric made his head swim.

"Don't make me hurt you," he warned, voice hoarse from the strangling.

She answered by spitting a mouthful of blood and saliva directly into his face. "You’re dead, Sinclair-"

Her hands slammed up beneath his chin, shoving upward with brutal force — clearly attempting to snap his neck. Adrenaline-fueled muscles strained against the pressure as he fought to keep his head steady, barely holding.

Then they both heard it — thundering footsteps echoing through the stone corridors outside. Dozens of boots, moving fast. Regulus must have reached the Hit Wizard squadron. Their eyes met in shared understanding — her time had run out.

Chapter Text

The Daily Prophet's date was the only way Osborn could track time since that night. Everything since then felt distorted, warped by the weight of his actions. He found himself dwelling on the incident — particularly on what he'd done, what he'd allowed himself to think and feel.

Especially that moment — his first kiss, if one could even call it that — fueled by impulses he couldn't quite bring himself to regret despite knowing he should. Instead, the memory burned through him with an intensity that left him ashamed for entirely different reasons.

The doses of Draught of Living Death they kept her under were unprecedented in its potency — those would kill an ordinary person. For six days, she lay motionless in the dungeons beneath Level 9, her breathing so shallow it was barely detectable. Osborn found himself checking her cell more often than his duties required, trying not to think about how different she looked when sedated.

Ophelia's fury had been apocalyptic. The lecture still rang in his ears, yet somehow, mercifully, the full extent of of what transpired in that room remained unknown — he couldn't bear to imagine Regulus's face if the truth came out, or how quickly respect would turn to disgust in his colleagues' eyes. Lewis's recovery proved remarkably swift thanks to St. Mungo's finest, though he remained barred from the Ministry while the situation stabilized.

All three of them faced inquiry, their testimonies painting a complex web of blame — for once, responsibility was distributed rather than heaped solely on Apocrypha.

Lewis faced charges for an unauthorized disclosure of classified information and deliberate provocation of the subject. Regulus shouldered the blame for dismissing Devis, though largely through self-recrimination. Osborn's failures proved most comprehensive — not only had he failed to secure the asset, but he'd directly defied his mother's explicit orders to gain the girl's trust. Both missteps backfired spectacularly, resulting in ongoing complications — neither her hand nor lip showed signs of natural healing without constant medical intervention.

And of course, their collective transgression — the decision to drink while on duty — had condemned them all equally, albeit with varying consequences.

For the first time in his life, Osborn found himself excluded from his mother's inner circle. His customary seat at the long conference table in her office remained empty during high-level meetings. Instead, he received curt instructions befitting a junior guard — tasks deliberately distant from Apocrypha's case. The demotion stung his pride more than he cared to admit.

What troubled him most wasn't the consequence or the shame of his actions, but rather his complete inability to regret them. He knew, objectively, that what he'd done was wrong — irresponsible, violent, invasive and risky. Yet when he recalled her blood-flecked snarl, the way she'd fought him with every ounce of strength, the taste of copper between their panting mouths — he couldn't summon a shred of genuine remorse. The wrongness of it only made the memory more intoxicating.

He couldn't pinpoint when this shift occurred. The initial thrill of potentially breaking indifferent expression into one of fear had faded into disappointment when faced with that quiet compliance. Her defiance still triggered his urge to dominate, but her capacity for violence altered something fundamental. Watching her lose control, knowing she wanted and could kill — it produced a different kind of anticipation. Some part of him seemed to crave death at her hands specifically, a realization that should have disturbed him far more than it did.

The conflict gnawed at him. Emotional complexity wasn't his forte — such turmoil was rare enough that he lacked any framework for processing it. There was no one he trusted enough to voice these thoughts, to seek guidance about feelings he barely understood himself.

His grasp of relationships, particularly with women, had been entirely shaped by Ophelia's distinct brand of affection. Love, as he knew it, came with clear conditions, specific requirements and bruises. His mother's emotional absence during his formative years had left him to piece together human connection on his own, stumbling through social dynamics without a map.

Each painful moment from childhood, no matter whether mental or physical, had come with the same explanation: this was love, this was necessary for his growth. Violence and affection had never existed separately in his mother's lessons. Every harsh punishment was wrapped in claims of maternal care, until pain and tenderness became indistinguishable in his mind.

Sitting alone in his office, Osborn allowed himself a bitter smile. The distortion made perfect sense — he'd learned early that affection and aggression were two sides of the same coin, after all. Perhaps that's why Apocrypha's violence felt so familiar, so right — it spoke the only language of intimacy he truly understood, subconsciously following the blueprint Ophelia had left him. Rationally, he recognized this wasn't how it worked for others. He'd seen enough of Regulus with his wife — their easy comfort, gentle touches, quiet understanding — to know his own perceptions were misshapen.

The problem wasn't in how others loved. He was the flaw.

"Fucked in the head," he muttered to the empty room, running a hand through his hair. That was as good an explanation as any.

Another piece of chocolate found its way into Osborn's already-full mouth, joining two others in a sticky mess. The mindless chewing had left his jaw numb after countless hours in the office, surrounded by half-empty boxes of sweets and partially consumed pastries on the desk.

The pattern was familiar — an escape mechanism developed in early childhood that reliably surfaced whenever self-worth plummeted and intrusive thoughts crept in. Worthless, inadequate, disappointing. Ophelia remained oblivious to this particular habit, or perhaps simply unconcerned — his weight remained stable, and even if she had noticed, Osborn doubted she would intervene. As long as he performed his duties at the Ministry and satisfied the standards of approval, he remained in her good graces.

The comfort came from the fullness itself — that heavy, grounding sensation wrapping around his insides like an embrace, warm and encompassing. At least temporarily.

Inevitable bloating beneath his ribs would follow, bringing waves of disgust that triggered the next phase of self-destructive behaviour. This cycle had repeated throughout the years, its frequency waxing and waning with varying levels of pressure and stress. The conclusion, however, never changed.

He wiped the chocolate from his lips and pushed away from the desk, making his way to the bathroom. The same position over the bowl, fingers down the throat — automatic movements refined through repetition. Each retch emptied his stomach until nothing remained. Rising to the washstand, he rinsed his mouth thoroughly, avoiding the accusatory stare of his stubbled reflection in the mirror. He needed a shave.

The sudden sharp click of heels echoing down the corridor jolted Osborn to attention, spurring a hasty attempt at composure. With a few hurried swipes, he ran fingers through his disheveled hair and brushed the stray black strands from his eyes, trying to make himself presentable before the intruder arrived.

Exiting the bathroom, he returned to his office, only to find Ophelia already seated at his desk, a pipe clamped firmly between her teeth.

Her eyes flicked meaningfully towards the mess of sweets scattered strewn about. "Eating away the guilt, are we?"

A noncommittal huff escaped Osborn as he leaned against the doorframe, hands tucked into trouser pockets in affected casualness. "Why are you here?"

Ophelia's eyes narrowed, studying him for a long, silent moment — something in his stance, the casual defiance perhaps, seemed to disturb her. The shift in dynamic between them was unmistakable — gone was the cautious deference she'd cultivated before the Hogwarts operation. In its place now stood this new creature wearing her son's face, challenging her authority with insufferable expressions that echoed his father's worst traits. The similarity grated on her nerves.

"You'll be traveling tomorrow," she stated flatly, exhaling the smoke through her nose. "Get some proper rest, and for Merlin's sake, at least have the decency to shave. You look terrible."

"And where, pray tell, am I meant to be traveling?" Osborn asked, voice dangerously bordering on insolence. "To fetch your coffee from the other wing, perhaps?"

"Mind your tone, boy," Ophelia’s words cracked like ice, lips thinning into a disapproving line. "Remember who you're speaking to."

Osborn’s gaze slid sideways submissively, accompanied by a weighted sigh. "Where, mother?"

"You and the security detail will be moving the girl tomorrow," Ophelia replied, tapping ash from her pipe. "She's to be taken off the sedation and transported to the island."

Osborn's expression shifted to one of shock.

"You can't be serious," he protested. "You're letting her go home?"

"We're not 'letting her go' anywhere," his mother corrected sharply. "She'll be marked — restricted to designated areas with her location constantly monitored."

She rose from the chair, straightening her robes, and crossed the distance between them. The subtle tension in Osborn's shoulders betrayed his discomfort at her proximity.

"The reasoning will be explained later. For now," she turned her head back, nodding towards a thin paper stack on the desk. "Everything you need to know is in that file. Once you're done, return home. How long has it been since you've been back to Wales?"

"Since December," came the muttered response.

"Exactly," his mother nodded once more. "Get some rest. You'll be summoned when needed."

Osborn’s expression soured visibly. The sheer irony — after months of desperate homesickness, the thought of returning now left him entirely cold.

"Am I being removed from the Blackwood's case?"

"Temporarily. A few weeks at least." Ophelia’s eyes narrowed. "Your head's been elsewhere lately, not on your duties."

"I'd rather stay and work." The words came quickly, before Osborn could think them through. "Help with the case. I know the subject better than Cameron—"

"This isn't a request," Ophelia cut him off, one hand shooting up to grip his jaw and forcing eye contact despite his now superior height. "You're returning to Wales to watch Eliza — Merlin knows what trouble she'll cause without proper supervision." Her fingers tightened. "And I advise you to remember your place in the food chain, Osborn. Because next time you show such disrespect, you might deeply regret the consequences."

Silent resistance blazed in his eyes even as his body remained still under her grip — a forced submission that did nothing to mask the underlying defiance.

When the dawn had barely kissed the horizon next morning, Osborn abandoned his pretense of sleep after a night of obsessive file review. Pages of transfer protocols, extensive security measures, contingency plans and, most importantly, the strict schedule marking. Eight in the evening — the designated departure time felt impossibly distant.

Information that should have dulled his mind but instead sharpened his restlessness — even a methodical morning shave did little to settle his nerves as he dragged a straight razor across stubbled skin, nicking himself twice from uncharacteristic anxiety. Still, each stroke transformed him back into someone presentable, someone in control.

His traveling bag sat pathetically empty, collecting only a few sparse belongings accumulated during his Ministry stay — scattered work journals, a stack of annotated reports he'd been meaning to review, a half-empty box of Belgian chocolates from his desk drawer, and that expensive quill Cameron had gifted him last year. Most of his personal life remained in Wales, untouched since winter.

By six in the morning, he was already at Level 9, only to be curtly turned away from the dungeon entrance with guards’ polite but firm refusals. His second attempt at eight earned him a warning. The third, just before noon, resulted in a stern note from Ophelia herself. No clearance, no exceptions, not even for her own son.

The waiting gnawed at him, excruciating. He reorganized his entire office twice, sorting through years of accumulated paperwork and adjusting case files that were already in perfect order. Lunch remained untouched, his stomach too knotted with anxiety to consider food. The clock's steady ticking felt like a personal assault as he caught himself pacing in his office, counting steps to keep his mind from wandering to Level 9 and checking the time obsessively.

When eight o'clock finally arrived with the grinding ascend of the elevator, Osborn was already stationed by the gates. The security detail emerged as a tight formation: six broad-shouldered wizards maintaining precise positions around a cloaked figure that barely resembled the fierce creature they'd subdued days ago.

A week under the Draught of Living Death had left Apocrypha ghost-pale and unsteady, that grey unhealthy pallor making the healing bite mark on her lip stand out in stark contrast. Her usual sharp awareness had dulled to a vacant stare beneath the black hood, eyes heavy-lidded and unfocused. Deeply carved circles beneath those eyes suggested that even days of enforced sleep had provided no real rest.

Each step seemed to require immense concentration as she swayed between the escorts, movements uncoordinated and head lolling forward as if her neck lacked the strength to support it. Her bandaged hand lay limp at the side, occasional tremors running through bony fingers as her breaths came in slow, heavy pulls through her nose. The metal restraints on her wrists seemed unnecessarily heavy given her current state — she could barely keep her feet under the slight weight, let alone attempt escape.

Watching her struggle to maintain even basic consciousness, Osborn knew the impending Portkey transportation would be brutal on her system. For once, the thought brought him no satisfaction, but such concerns weren't part of the protocol. The file had been very clear — they would proceed regardless of her condition. The grim expressions of the security detail suggested they shared his doubts but were equally unwilling to voice them.

They moved away from the relatively busy corridors, finding a secluded alcove untouched by the evening foot traffic. Their destination waited in the form of a simple oaken staff bearing brass grip-marks and a modest Ministry seal — purely functional, devoid of unnecessary ornament.

One of the wizards rotated the staff horizontal, large hands guiding Apocrypha's fingers to wrap around the wood and securing the hold with unmistakable force. His own grip overlapped hers, a clear message that even in her weakened state, they anticipated resistance. The others arranged themselves along the length, maintaining their protective formation even as they reached for their designated holds. And within seconds — London vanished.

Scott Buckley — Beautiful Oblivion

The transition struck every sense at once. Ministry air — stale with parchment and polish — disappeared, replaced by an assault of wild sensations. Salt spray carried on the wind, mixing with the sweet decay of seaside vegetation and the green sweetness of rain-kissed grass bent beneath endless sky. Each breath filled the lungs with pure, ancient air that had never known the touch of city smoke. It tasted of freedom, so far removed from London's contained propriety that it felt like stepping into another world entirely.

Vision steadied slowly, drawing a sharp inhale from Osborn as the landscape materialized in stark contrast: obsidian cliffs rising from emerald hills, their severe faces softening where thick grass claimed the upper slopes. Somewhere below their position, waves thundered against the stone with rhythmic determination, all wrapped in a peculiar melancholy that seemed to drift eternal on these northern breezes.

A molten evening sun hung suspended just above the horizon like liquid metal, bleeding into sparse clouds until they glowed white-hot against the summer sky. Osborn had heard of the white nights in these latitudes — how this blazing orb would maintain its fierce radiance, refusing to yield to darkness even when night claimed his distant Welsh home. The cold air wrapped around them with unexpected gentleness, heavy with moisture yet somehow welcoming.

A muffled retch drew his attention back to their charge. Several security detail members steadied Apocrypha as she fought against post-portkey nausea, but something had changed. The moment familiar air filled her lungs, awareness flooded her previously dulled expression and she slid the hood from her head with trembling fingers, metal chains clinking softly with the movement. Her eyes snapped wide, head lifting and turning as if she were an animal reacquainting itself with its territory. She drew deep, greedy breaths of native winds, suddenly alert in a way the sedation hadn't allowed until now.

A sharp hiss of pain cut through the air as Apocrypha's hand flew to her neck, restraints rattling. The mark above her carotid artery pulsed with an aggressive glow, its light visible even in the bright day as it drew a grimace across her features. The guards reacted instantly, one moving forward with a wand while others maintained their grip on her arms. The chains fell away with a heavy clank, and they guided her towards the sweeping hill that marked her permitted boundary. Below, a village dotted the landscape with weathered roofs and smoking chimneys, while closer to their position stood a solitary house, set apart from the community.

"It's alright," Osborn spoke evenly, gesturing the security detail to ease their hold and allow her to stand independently. "I'll handle this. Give her space."

He waved a hand for them to step back, watching as they retreated precisely fifteen feet away, still maintaining their vigilant formation. Turning back towards the slope, Osborn settled his eyes on the house below. A woman sat peacefully on the porch, pipe smoke curling around her like morning mist as she gazed out at the distant horizon where sea met sky. A dog meandered around her with lazy contentment, its unhurried movements matching the languid atmosphere.

"Did you know?" he asked suddenly, voice dropping lower as if meant only for her ears. "About the Imperius?"

Her response was hoarse but simple, matter-of-fact. "I did."

He glanced sideways at her, struck by the vast gulf between their experiences. The unconditional love he'd witnessed in her memories — those brief, intense glimpses of maternal devotion he'd extracted while searching for evidence — given despite the violence of her conception, stirred something complicated in his chest. His own understanding of love had been warped by circumstance, yet here stood evidence of its persistence in the most unlikely places. The paradox fascinated and unsettled him in equal measure.

The wind rustled through the grass before he spoke again. "You have a week. Then we take you back."

Her question came raspy and slow, eyes fixed downward on her home. "Why?"

"I don't know," he admitted honestly. "But be grateful for the chance to see home. This week is... important."

Silence stretched between them, broken only by distant waves and seabirds.

"What's on my neck?" she asked plainly.

"A tracker," Osborn explained simply. "Step beyond the thousand-foot radius, try to remove it, or attempt to run — they will know and neutralize you immediately. Use this time wisely. Don't do anything foolish."

Looking at her then, he realized his words fell on deaf ears. She stood with eyes closed, breathing deep and slow — more relaxed and peaceful than he'd ever witnessed.

"Can I go now?" The question was gentle, almost distant.

"Wait." Osborn reached into his shoulder bag, withdrawing a package of medium size wrapped in plain paper. The gesture felt inadequate as an apology, but it was all he could offer. "This is... uh... for you. I’m aware you're turning another year older this week, and I assumed you dislike normal colours." He cleared his throat. "It's enchanted against fire — for when you return to work."

He shifted uncomfortably as she just stared at the package, silent.

"Take it," he insisted.

"Is that an order?"

The question gave him pause.

"Yes," he decided after a moment's consideration.

Apocrypha’s eyes shot up to his face, studying him with renewed clarity. Without a word, she accepted the package and turned away. Her descent down the hill began measured, deliberate, but each step grew longer, more urgent, until she was nearly running towards home.

From his position on the hill, Osborn watched as her urgency overcame the coordination, her feet sliding and catching in the thick undergrowth. The dog noticed her first — a blur of frenzied movement through the tall grass, barking with unrestrained joy as it circled her stumbling silhouette in joyous loops that carved paths through the vegetation. It whirled around her wildly, a furry cyclone of unbridled excitement and deep explosive barks, as she continued her breathless progress closer to the house.

The commotion drew the woman's attention from her pipe and distant contemplation. For a moment, she stared at the approaching cloaked figure, uncomprehending. Then recognition struck. The pipe clattered forgotten on the wooden slats and she lurched from her chair, nearly stumbling down the porch steps in her haste to reach her daughter with arms already stretched. They collided more than embraced, motherly arms wrapping around Apocrypha with such fierce protectiveness that it seemed she might never let go. The hound continued its celebratory circles around them both, tail whipping the air in frantic happiness.

Osborn turned away, that carefully composed expression cracking. Witnessing such devotion felt like pressing on a bruise — academic understanding was one thing, but seeing it manifest mere feet away, so raw and real and entirely foreign to his experience, was another entirely. His features settled into blankness as he faced the waiting security detail. The mask of indifference settled firmly in place as he strode towards them, back straight and professional distance restored. Time to return to Wales, to his own version of home.

"My darling girl, my precious little moth," Nadine murmured against her daughter’s hair between fervent, gentle kisses. Her hands trembled slightly as they cradled her child’s head. "My sweet, sweet girl."

Apocrypha leaned into her mother's embrace, but kept her arms at the sides — that familiar, telling gesture that had never changed since younger years. Even now, even here, she couldn't bring herself to return the embrace.

Her voice emerged small and quiet, almost child-like against Nadine's shoulder. "I'm hungry."

"Of course you are," Nadine replied softly, unsurprised.

Her daughter's letters from Hogwarts had mentioned as much — how meals in the Great Hall remained largely untouched, her old habits persisting even there. This profound wariness of unfamiliar environments, this deep-seated need to eat only where she felt truly secure, had been as much a part of her as breathing. The realization that she likely hadn't eaten properly wherever they'd kept her made Nadine's arms tighten even further.

But home was different. Home was safe.

Cetus wove between them, tail wagging furiously as he pushed his broad snout wherever he could find space, alternating between licking their hands and making excited huffing sounds. His exuberant presence drew them slightly apart, giving Nadine a clearer view of her daughter's face.

"What's this?" she asked, cupping Apocrypha’s chin and examining the healing mark on her bottom lip with motherly concern. "Are you hurt?"

Apocrypha shook her head weakly. "Just an accident. No one hurt me."

Her mother's eyes dropped to the bandaged hand that Cetus was now thoroughly investigating with insistent sniffs.

"Oh, my child," she breathed. "What have they done to you?"

She guided Apocrypha back to the house, Cetus padding alongside them. Just inside the hallway stood a familiar trunk — her daughter’s Hogwarts belongings arranged neatly beside the wall with a covered owl cage balancing on top. Though questions clearly pressed at her lips, Nadine remained silent, accepting the limitations of what she was permitted to know as a Muggle. Instead, she bustled forward to move the trunk and the bird towards Apocrypha's room along with the package her child had with her, movements quick and purposeful.

"Let me draw you a bath — you'll want to change, won't you? Or would you rather rest first?" Her words tumbled out in rapid succession as she fluttered around. "Are you ready to eat? I can make your favourite—"

A soft, exhausted huff of amusement escaped Apocrypha, the barest hint of a smile playing at her lips as she watched her mother's characteristic flurry of activity.

"A bath would be nice," she said slowly. "I'll change after."

Peeling off the oversized Ministry uniform felt almost ecstatic — the crumpled garments pooled on the bathroom floor, discarded without a second thought for protocol or property's value. The barely-warm water embraced her as she sank into the bath, allowing herself a rare moment of stillness. For precious minutes she floated motionless before taking up the soap and beginning to scrub at her body with almost violent determination.

The skin reddened under the harsh strokes as she attempted to purge every trace of the past six months — each clinical touch, every scalpel mark, every transfusion that had changed her, the weight of threats, all those calculating stares from severe faces and demanding voices of her handlers. As if the evidence of experiments and missions could be scraped away like dirt.

The bath offered minor relief, but it was something. The air in the house carried a different weight, though she couldn't determine whether it was the clean coastal winds that brought the psychological comfort of familiar territory or simply the temporary absence of laboratory chemicals and Ministry surveillance that made breathing feel less laboured.

Wrapped in towels, she stepped into the hallway, damp skin registering the house's chill immediately — a familiar cold that permeated the wooden walls, held at bay only by the kitchen hearth that Nadine used for cooking. With her mother gone to purchase additional supplies for supper, Apocrypha moved through the quiet house, unbothered by the low temperature that had always been a part of her existence after years of Scottish winters and Icelandic summers.

She paused at her bedroom door, hand resting on the handle. More than a year had passed since she'd last stepped inside.

daniel.mp3 — 3 am walk

The glass casings lining the walls still displayed her meticulously preserved collection, the specimens' colors and patterns glinting in the constant July sunlight filtering through the heavy curtains. A fine layer of dust in her deeply personal space suggested these displays had remained untouched in her long absence.

Her trunk sat beside the neatly made bed, a silent invitation to unpack and settle back into familiar surroundings. The first step was to remove the cloth from the cage and free the ash-grey owl onto the wooden perch mounted by the door where it stretched its wings with obvious relief and began preening meticulously. Returning to the trunk, she moved to lift the lid, retrieving a set of loose trousers and a simple linen shirt to change into — garments to cover the multitude of numerous small scars now marking her back and shoulders.

Inside the small trunk pocket, the comb gifted by Ominis and the dragonfly pin from Sebastian sat untouched. Picking up the comb, she stood before the small mirror on the desk, taking in her own gaunt reflection while slowly working out the tangles in damp hair. Carefully, she gathered strands from her temples, securing them in a loose knot at the back of her head with the dragonfly pin.

Involuntarily, viridian gaze drifted to the photograph frame resting beside the mirror, face down as it had been left. Apocrypha hesitated only briefly before lifting it, the pained grimace instantly evident as the monochrome portrait came into view — the gentle smile of the young man holding her, his dark, wine-red hair a minor contrast to her own coal black tresses. What Alben would have been at her age now, she could only imagine. Probably handsome and insufferably smart.

With a tightened jaw, she returned the frame to its previous position, face down to once again obscure the image from sight.

A seemingly foreign object in peripheral vision drew her attention to the bed, where a thick, dark greenish piece of clothing was draped over the headboard. She stepped closer, unfolding the heavy wool fabric. It took a moment for the memories to align — Sebastian's sweater, forgotten from the previous summer and probably found by Nadine.

Apocrypha paused, fingers tracing the familiar weave. Slowly, she lifted the sweater to her face, breathing in deeply. The scent was muted, likely washed by her mother’s diligent hands, but unmistakably Sebastian's — faint traces of Cetus's fur, a hint of ink and parchment they were always surrounded by, and the grassy outdoor aromas they had shared. Beneath it all, an undercurrent of his own natural scent — earthy, slightly musky, utterly familiar and uniquely him.

A sudden lump formed in her throat as she clutched the sweater tightly, buying her nose in the fabric and staring ahead absently. Did he still care for her, after such neglect? Would she ever have the chance to properly apologize? She swallowed hard, fighting the sudden sting in her eyes even as she kept her expression composed.

The door hinges gave a soft whine as Cetus padded into the room, claws scratching gently against the wooden floorboards. The hound approached with typical canine curiosity, nose twitching as he investigated the space around them before dark eyes fixed on the sweater in Apocrypha's hands. She lowered the wool to his level, allowing him to sniff. The hound's tail began to wag enthusiastically in recognition as he pressed a wet nose eagerly against the garment, and she rewarded his memory with a fond ruffle of those shaggy ears before placing Sebastian's sweater back on the bed.

Her attention shifted to the paper package resting beside her trunk. After a brief moment of hesitation, she reached for it, fingers working carefully at the wrapping. Curiosity won over her deep-seated hatred for Osborn — gifts were rare enough in her life to warrant investigation, regardless of their source or intention.

The paper fell away to reveal black fabric, both remarkably lightweight and substantial to the touch. She unfolded it slowly, turning the garment this way and that while attempting to decipher its complex construction. The pieces gradually came together in her mind as she recognized it as a specialized combat armour, crafted with clear attention to protection, but most importantly — mobility.

The main body was crafted from a dense, charcoal-coloured material that suggested careful engineering — a blend meant to balance durability with freedom of movement. A high mandarin collar was reinforced, transitioning into a fitted chest piece secured by a complex system of straps and buckles that ran down the front. The waist held an arrangement of adjustable clasps and panels, allowing for a customized fit. The larger layer of sleeves was tailored to the forearms, with intricate patterns of stitching and a web of metal hardware worked into the cuffs in silvery thread. Below the thick leather belt that cinched the waist, the armour opened into longer controlled panels reminiscent of a coat, yet still seemed to serve as leg guards that extended down to the mid-calf area.

Apocrypha refolded the gear, setting it aside on the table. Her own clothes would suffice — accepting gifts from Osborn felt like a surrender, no matter how well-crafted the piece appeared. Though privately, she couldn't help but appreciate its utilitarian features — the dark, full coverage that would leave only her palms and a small portion of neck exposed, exactly as she preferred. It appealed to her constant need to remain covered, contained, protected from unwanted skin exposure.

Returning to the trunk, she began transferring clothes to the wardrobe shelves, each item slowly migrating to its designated place until a small piece of paper fluttered to the floor from the folds of her winter cloak. She turned it between her fingers, immediately recognizing Sebastian's distinctive handwriting. The note was brief, direct:

The note crumpled slightly in her grip as she swallowed with difficulty. While Ominis's disapproval was something she'd grown accustomed to — his direct, sometimes explosive way of confronting issues was predictable, almost comfortable in its familiarity — Sebastian's anger was entirely different. It cut deeper precisely because it was so rare — he never wasted it on small grievances, saving that particular fire for direct wounds. It struck like lightning, precise and devastating, only when something cut close to the bone.

Throughout their friendship, even during the darkest periods at his home, with trauma layered upon trauma, he somehow maintained an unwavering kindness that wove around his characteristic impulsiveness. They had defined him, persisting through poverty, through Solomon’s negligence, through his sister’s illness, through every hardship that should have hardened him. Until last Christmas. His rage then had been transformative, raw in a way that still unsettled her. The loss of Anne had changed something crucial in him, and his current coldness carried the sharp edge of that change — it felt alien, more painful due to coming from someone who had always been her first and most forgiving friend.

Now, staring at his strict words on the paper, she realized just how gravely she had miscalculated that night back in the castle. The decision to leave without waking him, what seemed like necessary deception at the time, had carved a breach she wasn't sure could be mended.

Cetus's head turned towards the door, ears perking at sounds too faint for human hearing. Moments later, the creak of the entrance door announced Nadine's return from the village. Without allowing herself to consider the action too deeply, Apocrypha reached for Sebastian's sweater and pulled it over her shirt. The heavy wool enveloped and swallowed her, providing the grounding pressure she found comfort in despite her natural resistance to cold — a barrier between herself and the world.

She'd never paid much attention to their physical differences before, but right at that moment it was impossible to ignore — the shoulder seams hung halfway down her upper arms, the neckline gaping slightly where it was meant to fit Sebastian’s broader chest, the hem falling nearly to her mid-thigh where it should have hit at the hip. All that excess fabric made her appear even smaller than usual. The sleeves extended well past her fingertips, requiring several folds to free her hands. Where the fabric draped loosely around her thin wrists, she could imagine how it would fit snugly against his freckled forearms. In contrast, her own palms seemed almost startlingly white against the dark wool that usually complemented Sebastian's warmer complexion.

Following Cetus to the kitchen, she found Nadine already at work by the large fireplace, adjusting an iron crane arm fitted with hooks at varying heights. A cooking pot hung suspended from one of them, waiting above the flames.

"Market was rather empty at this hour," Nadine said apologetically, unpacking her basket. "Though I managed to find some fresh vegetables and haddock you like."

Apocrypha settled on the floor at a careful distance from the fire, Cetus flopping down beside her with a contented huff as she rubbed his exposed belly.

"Whatever you cook is fine," she replied quietly, watching her mother work.

Soon the kitchen filled with a symphony of familiar sounds — knife blade rhythmically meeting wooden board, water bubbling and splashing against iron pot sides, root vegetables hitting the hot broth with a satisfying sizzle, the gentle scraping of a wooden spoon against pan bottom. Steam carried the briny scent of seaweed mixing with fresh fish, mingling with earthy undertones from chopped winter roots and herbs softening in the heat. Nadine added ingredients with motions she seemed to know by heart, each one contributing to the hearty broth that spoke of home and northern seas.

The moment the half-filled bowl touched the table, Apocrypha was already settling into her chair, drawn by the scents that existed nowhere else but here.

"Careful now," Nadine cautioned — the same gentle reminder she'd given since childhood when her daughter's appetite proved such a rare and fragile thing. It needed careful managing to avoid overwhelming her delicate stomach. "Nice and slow."

Apocrypha nodded distractedly but ignored her spoon entirely, lifting the bowl to her lips and drinking directly from it despite the scalding temperature that made her wince. The rich broth burned sweetly down her throat.

"I see those fancy meals at Hogwarts couldn’t tempt you properly," Nadine observed with fond exasperation. "Nor the Ministry's fare either."

"You know I can't eat proper anywhere but here," Apocrypha muttered, fishing strips of dark seaweed from the soup and finally using the spoon to shove it in her mouth.

"Mm," Nadine hummed knowingly, laying fresh fish in the deep pan over the flames and scattering crimson algae across it. "Got the char too, in case you're still peckish after."

Breaking apart tender chunks of white flesh and mixing it with the rest of the broth, Apocrypha glanced to the kitchen walls. The shelves around them were surprisingly well-stocked — jars of preserved vegetables, dried herbs, smoked fish.

"I didn't think you cooked much while I was away," she said carefully, knowing her mother rarely bothered with proper meals when it was just for herself.

"Been keeping busy," Nadine replied absently, shrugging and wiping her hands against the towel. Her attention caught on the oversized sweater drowning her daughter. "That's new, isn't it? Don't remember getting you this one, love. When did we buy it?"

Apocrypha paused mid-chew, one eyebrow lifting as she glanced down at her chest.

"Um... it's Sebastian's." The words came out hesitant as the memory of an empty bed she'd found despite Nadine's insistence she'd made it up for their guest flickered uncomfortably through her mind. "From when he stayed last summer?"

A fleeting uncertainty crossed Nadine's features before she looked away, attempting a light laugh that didn't quite succeed.

"Ah, must have slipped my mind." She turned back to the pot above the fire, movements just a touch too precise. "Were they good to you, then? At the Ministry?"

"Well enough," Apocrypha lied smoothly, though her stomach clenched at the memory. "What exactly did they tell you?"

Steam rose from the fresh bowl of soup Nadine set at the empty place beside her own chair with eerily normal movements, eyes never meeting her daughter's. "They came here. Said you have unique abilities. That I should be proud — a position at the Ministry, at your age. It's quite the privilege."

"Lucky me," Apocrypha murmured, clearing her throat. "Sorry, I can't tell much about the work. But it's important."

Nadine shook her head, hands rearranging ingredients and shifting plates on the counter.

"No work is important enough to excuse them sending my child back wounded," she muttered without turning, hands stilling briefly. "Did they do that to your brow?"

Apocrypha's fingers found the small scar above her eye reflexively. The mark was already well-healed, new growth of dark hairs beginning to mask even the faintest trace of that months-old injury.

"Just an accident. Nothing dangerous about the job itself."

A scoff met her obvious lie as Nadine reached for more vegetables to chop. "We'll need to put a fresh bandage on your hand once we're all finished with supper."

Apocrypha nodded absently, eyes fixing on the still-steaming extra serving at the empty place setting. "Are we... expecting someone else?"

Her mother’s reply was simple, too normal.

"Oh, Alben will be hungry when he gets back from his walk." She gave a light, almost teasing smile while tipping the chopped vegetables into the sizzling pan with the char. "You know how he gets after being out in the cold — not as hardy as you are."

The fish in Apocrypha's mouth suddenly felt like lead. Her throat constricted as nausea — her body's faithful response to anxiety — surged through her stomach sharp and swift. She stared at her mother, the memory of that letter she'd received at Hogwarts last year striking full force.

What little food remained in her mouth found its way into her trembling palm, the broth she'd craved moments ago now threatening to return entirely.

"Mama... Alben’s dead. Remember?"

Nadine froze half-bent over the pan, cutting board suspended in her hands. She stood motionless for a long moment before turning, eyes avoidant and fixed somewhere past the edge of the table as she settled heavily into the chair opposite her daughter. The board clattered softly against the wood as she pressed her fingertips to the corners of her eyes, rubbing at the nose bridge.

Several shaking breaths escaped her before she managed to open her mouth, lower lip trembling with the words.

"Is he?"

Apocrypha swallowed past the tightness in her throat and rose, circling the table towards her mother. She hesitated, caught between her instinctive aversion to touch and the sight of her parent’s pain — the latter proving stronger than her own discomfort and usual barriers for once. Carefully, she wrapped her arms around Nadine's shoulders, drawing the woman’s head against her chest.

Nadine's composure crumbled visibly, voice breaking into high, fragile notes.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," she gasped, arms clutching at her daughter from her seated position as she pressed her face against the borrowed sweater. "Sometimes it's easier like this — pretending he never... forgetting that he..."

Apocrypha sniffed quietly against the pinching in her nose, hand moving in slow strokes over her mother's hair. Her own method of coping had always been the opposite — pretending Alben had never existed at all. The pain of living without the other half that made them one being was too vast to contemplate otherwise.

Existing incomplete felt wrong on an inherent level, like trying to breathe with one lung or pump blood with half a heart — every moment a reminder that she wasn't meant to exist this way, separately. In those first months after his death, continuing living had seemed impossible, even offensive — as though she was violating some natural law by drawing breath when the other half of their shared being had stopped. The urge to correct this wrongness, to fix her betrayal of what they were meant to be, to follow him, had been overwhelming and immediate.

Like twin stars locked in an orbit, one could not live normally without the other — their gravitational pull and interaction were crucial for mutual stability and existence. So following him had always felt as natural as water finding its course downstream.

"You don't have to do this," Nadine shifted, trying to pull away and wiping at the few tears that had escaped. "I know how this troubles you, touching. I should clear away that bowl—"

"Stay," Apocrypha muttered, tightening her arms slightly. "I'll eat it."

Her mother fell silent, settling back into the embrace without further protest. After a long moment, a quiet question finally escaped her, muffled against the fabric.

"Do you ever miss Scotland?"

"Hogwarts is in Scotland, mama," Apocrypha reminded calmly. "Can’t say I miss the school. But I have Ominis there. Sebastian. Natsai."

"I meant Skye," Nadine breathed softly.

Apocrypha paused at the mention of her birthplace — the isle where she'd spent her early years before what remained of their family fled to this colder place and the forgotten house of her long passed great-grandfather. It had been their only safe haven after what happened on Skye.

"I miss wherever you are," she whispered finally. "And my friends."

"Hmph." Nadine let out a gentle huff of laughter against the sweater. "I feared you might never form meaningful bonds after your brother. But those three managed the impossible, didn't they? How did they even do it? You were always so wary of strangers. Not to mention the ill-tempered thing you are."

Apocrypha’s shoulders lifted in a slight shrug, arms still loose around her parent. "They're stronger than I am. Braver. I'm lucky to have them."

She didn't voice how particularly true this was of Natsai. For half of their fifth year, Apocrypha had maintained careful distance from the girl's gentle warmth, bright smiles and soft initiative — too reminiscent of Sebastian's past enthusiasm, though less cloying than Poppy's flattery. Those very qualities sparked less immediate suspicion, raising fewer questions about ulterior motives, but the mild caution remained. Then came the day Natsai used herself as a living shield against Harlow's Cruciatus, throwing herself between them without hesitation. Such absolute selflessness had finally cut through the defences, earning what Apocrypha rarely allowed herself: trust. From that day, she found genuine contentment in thinking of Natsai as her friend.

"I'm glad you have friends now." Nadine's voice softened. "Though I’m sorry, love — sometimes can't recall clearly who Natsai is. Things slip away these days."

Her daughter nodded slightly, fingers moving with deliberate casualness through her mother's black hair, long streaked with premature grey. "It's alright. But perhaps... do you think your memory is well? We could see a doctor."

"I'm fine." Nadine's eyes drifted closed. "Not that our village has a proper physician anyway. Just age catching up, I suppose."

"You're only thirty-three, mama. That's nonsense." As she spoke, Apocrypha's careful fingers finally cleared enough hair concealing what she'd been searching for — a smooth, bald patch of scarred skin atop her mother's head.

"I'm sorry," Nadine whispered, oblivious to her child's movements. "I didn't want you to worry."

Her daughter studied the scar through hooded eyes for a long moment before releasing a quiet sigh. "I didn't want to worry you either. With all this Ministry business."

Nadine's fingers found her left palm, rubbing around the wound there with gentle care while maintaining their embrace.

"I'll always love you, remember?" she murmured softly. "No matter what you become."

The sun still hung high and hot in the sky when the late hour approached, a peculiarity of Icelandic summers that made time feel suspended in amber. The supper ended on a calmer note, with Apocrypha managing small bites after her nausea subsided. Now, while muffled clattering and shuffling sounds drifted up from where Nadine busied herself in the kitchen behind the neighbouring wall, she sat at the desk in her room, needlessly warming her hands around a cup of plain herbal tea. The sour notes of dried berries cut through its earthiness, the taste almost soothing despite the dreaded writing implements before her. Cetus shifted beneath her chair with a sleepy snort, his bulk brushing against her bare feet in a drowsy reminder of his presence.

She rubbed at her temple, staring at the empty letter. What could she possibly tell Sebastian that wouldn't sound hollow or defensive? The excuses that had seemed so reasonable before now felt inadequate — he had changed too much for such simple deflections to satisfy.

Finally deciding that truth, however painful, would anger him less than the sweet deceptions that had driven him away initially, she let her quill move across the parchment.

Her sharp handwriting scattered across the page with little order or grace, scratching out that she was sorry. That she had been afraid to open his letters, dreading the disappointment she would find there. That she still cared for him deeply and hoped he was well. That he forgot his sweater at her house. That Cetus still perked up at any mention of his name, and that Nadine said how often he now slept where Sebastian used to sit. That she missed their time at Hogwarts, and that she hoped to see both him and Ominis again, somehow, someday.

Apocrypha drew back from the letter, shaking her newly bandaged hand to ease the ache from gripping the quill too tightly. Taking the paper, she folded it in two, swiping her fingertips across the crease to sharpen it when a sudden sting made her wince. She pulled one finger to her mouth instinctively, sucking away the blood from the shallow paper cut, then examined the split skin. To her surprise, the small wound slowly sealed itself before her eyes, leaving only a faint itch behind.

Raising an eyebrow, she pulled aside a portion of the bandage, peering at the deep gash across her palm. The glass cut there also showed similar signs of accelerated healing — tissues slowly knitting together in a way they hadn't for months. Why had her regenerative abilities suddenly renewed themselves after so much time of dormancy?

Not wanting to dwell on the implications, she slipped the letter into an envelope before rising — and halted, caught in uncertainty of old habits. The first instinct was to take it to Osborn for inspection, as she had done without question these past six months. She lingered, glancing around her room hesitantly. Was independent correspondence permitted now? And if she bypassed approval, who might discover it?

Her sharp tsk sounded almost annoyed as she approached her owl and offered the envelope, watching the bird carefully taking it in its beak. The owl then repositioned itself on her extended wrist, and Apocrypha carried the messenger to the window — the letter contained nothing revealing, so it should be safe enough.

Olafur Arnalds — I Could Hear Water

The owl steadied itself against her skin before pushing off, wings unfurling as it passed through the window frame. Its first few wingbeats came hard against the cold northern winds that perpetually swept these heights, but the bird soon adjusted its course, each beat carrying it higher and further until it became merely a dark speck against the molten sun.

The glowing sphere followed the messenger’s path across the North Atlantic expanse, its light caught differently in each stretch of the sea below. Near Icelandic coast, steely waters churned against dark volcanic cliffs, throwing up sprays of icy foam that carried the sharp scent of salt and stone. The bird's wings cut through air that hovered just above freezing, riding thermal currents where the icy breath of the ocean met warming skies.

Hours passed as water replaced land, then land replaced water. The ocean beneath changed its character with each league crossed, revealing deeper waters that shifted from steel to rich azure. The harsh winds gradually softened and lost their Nordic bite, no longer carrying the edge of glacial chill. The stark white of northern summer softened into proper dusk as the journey continued southward, the sun finally permitting its descent in more southern latitudes.

When the Scottish coast finally emerged from the sea mist, it presented a stark contrast to the harsh terrain left behind — rolling hills of endless green reaching towards purple-tinged mountains, slopes dotted with heather and gorse. Here, the sun of golden quality actually deigned to set, painting the sky in shades of amber and rose that white nights rarely achieved. The air grew heavier, carrying the aromas of hawthorn and peat rather than Iceland's crisp mineral clarity.

Below, Inverness showed from the gloom, its lights beginning to twinkle against the deepening purple of true night approaching.

The owl banked westward, following the dark waters of the Great Glen. Past Inverness's busy harbor and merchant ships, the terrain opened into wilder country — ancient woods and misty hills framing the deep waters of Loch Ness. There, nestled in the glen's shadowed folds Drumnadrochit still cautht the last warm rays of sunset.

The graveyard was already shrouded by the late hour, but the letters remained stark against the stone before tired hazel eyes. Anne Sallow.

Fresh flowers rested beside dried ones at its base, mere inches from Sebastian's feet where he sat hunched, arms crossed over bent knees and face buried in the crook of his elbows.

"I'm so damn tired of hurting without you," came quiet and fragile, voice cracking as he sniffed quietly against his sleeve.

He'd tried so desperately to drown mental anguish in physical exhaustion these past six months. While athletics had never been his strength, it seemed the only solution when reading and studying lost their comfort — his mind was too scattered to focus on pages anymore. His shoulders and arms constantly ached from swinging makeshift bats at charmed rocks, chest burning from countless running the steep Highland paths until his legs gave out. But nothing dulled the pain — not even the kind smiles of his distant relatives or their eight-year-old's infectious energy.

Being here was a small mercy, he couldn't deny that — as far from Feldcroft as one could get. Yet there was no corner of earth remote enough to escape the guilt of losing Anne to his own impulsiveness and selfishness.

He flinched at the sudden sound of approaching wing-beats, lifting his head from his arms to locate its source. A small dot against the last sunlight quickly grew larger until an owl appeared, feathers ruffled from long flight. The bird landed atop Anne's gravestone and shook out its plumage, tilting the small head with the letter in its beak.

Sebastian leaned forward to take the letter, not immediately recognizing the messenger — he'd seen this particular bird deliver mail so rarely he could count the occasions on his fingers. The Northern Hawk Owl's distinctive appearance slowly registered — compact body and long tail, ash-grey feathers marked with white spots, those intense yellow eyes set in a sharply defined face that lacked the typical flat disc of other owls. Only one person he knew owned a bird bred for northern climes.

"Kári," he murmured, a ghost of surprised recognition touching his voice as he absently stroked the owl's head with a bent knuckle. The bird responded with a soft click of its beak before releasing the letter.

Sebastian paused briefly at the seal. With a sigh, he broke it open and unfolded the paper, lips moving slightly over the words as he read. A scoff escaped him as he looked away, only to turn back moments later to read it again. Her behavior had stung since learning she'd been at Hogwarts without seeing him, speaking only to Ominis who remained frustratingly tight-lipped about their conversation.

Yet here she was, circling back after her mistakes, even if this time had taken longer than most. That, at least, hadn't changed.

"'Bastian!" a childish voice called from somewhere behind. "Come home, mama says supper's ready! It's late!"

Sebastian grimaced and tsked, rising to survey the small graveyard before glancing towards the path leading back to the village. The very thought of calling this place home made his chest constrict. Despite their kindness in taking him in, he remained an outsider here — just a child still clinging to grief. How could this ever be home?

On the other side of England, near Little Hangleton, night had fully claimed the decaying grandeur of Gaunt Manor. Moonlight caught in the old walls and creeping ivy, peering into tall windows that hadn't seen proper cleaning in years. The weathered stone facade held perched serpentine gargoyles, their once-sharp details softened by decades of rain and neglect. The building wore its age like a badge of fading nobility — grand but deteriorating, much like the family it housed.

Inside, the dining room maintained a pretense of former glory. Candles burned in tarnished silver holders, their flames reflecting off the dark wood paneling and casting long shadows across worn Persian carpets. The heavy velvet curtains remained drawn despite the summer evening, as if to guard against prying eyes. Ancient portraits of Gaunt ancestors lined the walls, their painted faces stern and watching. The long table, polished to a desperate shine, bore the weight of ancient silverware and crystal glasses that had grown cloudy with age. The room smelled of beeswax and old wood, underlaid with the sharp scent of wine and roasted meat with herbs.

A house-elf had just finished laying out the evening meal, steam rising from covered silver dishes that couldn't quite mask the mustiness pervading the room. Each place setting sat in perfect alignment, not a fork or knife out of position, while various snake motifs watched from corners and cornices with eternal, empty eyes.

The family arranged themselves according to long-established hierarchy. William Gaunt occupied the head of the table, his presence announced by the soft creak of the carved chair and the sharp ring of his signet ring against crystal. To his right sat his wife, her sharp perfume — heavy jasmine and amber — drifting across the table as she shifted with the sound of a bracelet chiming softly against her glass. Marvolo occupied the place of honor at his father's left, while Cassiopeia sat beside her mother, straight-backed and still. Ominis, positioned furthest from the head of the family, kept his face carefully neutral as two house-elves moved about the room in silence, their bare feet barely whispering against the carpet.

"The wine needs warming," their mother announced, voice carrying that particular sharpness reserved for servants.

"Y-yes, Mistress," the older house-elf stammered and hurried to comply, hands trembling slightly as it reached for her glass.

"Useless scum," Marvolo muttered with a sigh. His leg moved suddenly — Ominis heard the sound of a kick that followed, then the elf's muffled whimper. "Can't even serve properly."

The clink of silverware filled the initial silence as they began their meal. Ominis's wand rested against his fingertips, providing subtle guidance to each dish. He had nearly made it through the soup when his brother’s voice disturbed the quiet again.

"I noticed something interesting today," Marvolo started with that usual hint of cruel amusement in his tone. "Another owl for our dear Ominis. Strange how much correspondence you maintain while away from school, brother. Though perhaps not strange at all, considering your choice of company these days."

Ominis remained silent, all too familiar with Marvolo's calculated attempts to undermine him in their father's eyes. He guided his hand steadily to the wine glass, betraying none of the tension building in his shoulders — he refused to give his brother the satisfaction of a reaction.

Cassiopeia's low chuckle echoed against her glass.

"How sweet," she drawled, wine swirling slightly. "Our little brother keeps collecting blood traitors like lost puppies. Growing rather attached to them too, aren't you, Ominis? Do they fetch for you when you can't find your way around?"

"At least they don't need to marry their cousins to maintain their worth," Ominis muttered, tone revealing just enough edge to make his point while staying within the bounds of supper etiquette — in his opinion. "Unlike some present company."

William scoffed at his son's words. The audacity.

"Your tongue has grown rather sharp this past year at Hogwarts," he said, cutting his meat as the fork clinked sharply against fine china. "Your mudblood friends' influence, no doubt?"

He placed a bite in his mouth, chewed, and swallowed before continuing.

"Keep this new temper to yourself — especially tomorrow. Given the inconvenience of your existence, accepting your duty is the least you can do to maintain worth and compensate for the limitations your condition has brought upon this house." He put down his knife, tone holding its ever-present, cold authority. "You might find it easier to realise what's required to uphold our name, rather than continue disappointing us. Your siblings understand this perfectly well."

Ominis set down his spoon with an irritable sigh, fighting to keep his breathing even. His father's presence still frightened him, but the constant pressure had grown exhausting, particularly throughout the past year. His family never missed an opportunity to remind him of his shortcomings, yet his father's demands seemed to exceed even those placed upon Marvolo and Cassiopeia. The irony wasn't lost on him — his parents expected more from the blind son than from their two perfectly normal — save for that mental derangement, Ominis thought bitterly — siblings. Even without sight, he knew his brother and sister were drinking in this tension, grinning.

William’s words stoked a deeper anger — this arrangement with the Malfoys wasn't merely about compensating for his blindness, but a desperate attempt to prop up their family's declining wealth. Ominis was simply a mean to an end.

"Your father is right," his mother touched the napkin delicately to her lips, the rustle of fine linen punctuating her words. "You're meant to maintain your worth somehow. But you seem ill-disposed to proper manners tonight. No one keeps you here — you may return to your room and rest. Tomorrow is important — the Malfoys will expect to see you at your best, particularly their daughter."

"With pleasure," Ominis said tightly, rising from his chair. He made his way around the table and out of the dining room, heading for the stairs that led to his chambers.

The door shut behind him with more force than decorum allowed. Ominis sank onto his bed, elbows pressed against his thighs as he ran his fingers through fair blonde hair. Only half a summer had passed, and the walls of his own house, the company of his own blood, were driving him to the edge of sanity already.

After a deep, calming breath, he got up and made his way to the window. His fingers found the neat stack of letters on the sill, each envelope already broken open. His family undoubtedly counted each arrival — though few in number, they were still too many for his parents' liking. Keeping his "questionable associations" discreet proved nearly impossible even back at Hogwarts, with William's influence extending into the school through his relationship with Black. It was maddening.

Ominis collected a few of the topmost letters and returned to his bed, first reaching for the wooden box on his bedside table — his last year's birthday gift. He opened it first, reaching for the collection of northern treasures inside — shells, herbs, stones and seaweed pieces that carried sensations of a different world. It grounded him, in a way.

Being blind since birth shaped his entire perception of reality through textures, scents, and sounds that most took for granted. Where others relied on sight for recognition, Ominis built his world through careful exploration of surfaces and spaces — the smoothness of wood grain beneath his fingertips, the subtle differences between similar fabrics, the small shifts in air temperature near windows, the way sound bounced differently off stone versus tapestry, or the varied textures of the castle's stone walls that, along with his wand, helped him to navigate Hogwarts corridors.

He needed these constant points of contact, to touch things repeatedly and reconnect with objects to maintain his sense of space and presence. This endless reacquaintance with his surroundings wasn't just a habit — it was how he maintained his grip on the world, how he made sense of what others simply saw.

Perhaps it was mercy that he'd been born blind — some forces deciding to spare him from witnessing the atrocities his family committed.

Omfeel — Trust

He lifted a larger shell to his ear, letting the hollow, ambient sound fill his awareness. Sebastian had described it as "the ocean's echo" to him. Ominis often tried to imagine his friends hearing this very sound for real during their journey on those wild shores last summer. The thought pulled at something in his chest — not envy, but a quiet longing to experience what they'd tried so hard to bring back for him.

Ominis set the shell back among its companions and reached for the letters he'd collected. The topmost one bore multiple creases — he took a moment to smooth them out, fingertips following each fold with gentleness.

Eliza's letters arrived like clockwork, more frequent even than those from Sebastian and Apocrypha. There was something disarming about her unrestrained energy that spilled onto the pages in long, meandering stories and chaotic flow of thoughts — each sentence radiating an earnest enthusiasm that tugged at something familiar in his memory. She shared Sebastian's natural warmth, that same unguarded way of experiencing life that characterized his best friend's happier years, before circumstances had tempered him.

The same openness, the same genuine curiosity about everything, the same inability to contain excitement over the smallest discoveries. That same refusal to let the world's weight dim her spirit. Her latest letter practically vibrated with it, just like Sebastian used to bounce on his heels while sharing some new academic finding.

Eliza was... nice. Sincere in her wonder at the small things in a way that made guarded responses feel unnecessarily cold. Her joy in simplicity was refreshing. Tempting, even — a glimpse of what letting someone new past his careful walls might feel like.

Ominis pressed the tip of his wand to the parchment, letting her words surface again in his mind. The contents brought a slight upturn to his lips — at least someone was having a proper summer holiday.

"Dear Ominis,

I am learning English more and more! My brother helps me with letters sometimes — when he’s not working, he corrects mistakes and explains why I was wrong. Is not it wonderful? Now I know difference between "their" and "there" (I think). Soon we can talk better, yes?

Weather in Wales is amazing this days. Sun all the time! Bought new skirt in town, is purple and very nice. It has pockets! Can you believe it? Always wanted skirt with pockets. But most important — I practice to fly every day (well, almost). Maybe next year I will be Keeper! I must be Keeper. Life without Quidditch has no sense.

I miss you and the school very much. How is Sebastian? I write to him sometimes but he doesn’t responds. I worry little bit.

Oh! Yesterday I try to make pierogi like mama. They got little burnt but still good! Texture was nice too — you would like it, I think. Maybe I teach you some polish words when we back at school? You have such good memory for languages. Like "przyjaciel" - means friend. Though can be hard to say.

Also! Very important! I need your help to practice divination — will you let me read your hand when we back? Found interesting book about it and want to try! Please?

And speaking of interesting things - I want parrot! They are very clever birds, and they can speak! Would be nice to have someone to speak with. The house is very quiet. Imagine having talking bird at home!

Write me when you can! Your letters make me happy.

— Eliza

P.S. Did you know parrots can live more than 50 years? Amazing!"

Eliza leaned back in the chair, adjusting her glasses before shaking out her cramped writing hand. She stuffed the last of her strawberry jam pastry into her mouth with a free hand, then leaned forward to blow gently across the fresh ink. A few crumbs escaped her lips, scattering towards the parchment. She jerked forward with a muffled yelp of alarm, managing to snatch the letter away just before jam-covered debris could mar her careful writing.

The sudden slam of the entrance door made her jolt. Tea and pastry went down the wrong way and caught in her throat, triggering a bout of coughing as she scrambled up from her chair, nearly knocking over the inkwell in her haste to reach the door to her room. Usually, it would be one of the Ministry guards who'd been watching over her and the house all summer, but the morning owl from Ophelia meant only one person could be home this late at night.

Eliza burst out of her quarters and flew down the hallway, wiping jam from the corners of her mouth on the run. Sure enough, Osborn was already in the living room, removing his coat. His angular features remained impassive as azure eyes flickered to her appearance in the doorway.

"Behaved yourself while I was gone?" he asked, hanging the coat with that usual cool detachment that always followed his movements. "Managed to stay out of trouble?"

Eliza nodded vigorously, face splitting into a wide, happy smile before she darted across the room and launched herself at him. Her arms wrapped around his middle, face glued against his chest while the top of her head barely reached his shoulders.

"No more work?" came out needy and almost childish.

She held on tightly but with visible caution, tensing slightly as if bracing for a shove or a blow for this outburst. Still, she couldn't help herself — never could. She loved him too much for her own sake.

Osborn rolled his eyes but let his hand rest briefly on her head, ruffling the already messy, wild nest of copper-red curls. The gesture contained a fraction more warmth than usual — so much time without his sister's constant chatter and chaotic energy had been... different. Not that he'd admit it.

"Yes," he said simply. "For now."

Chapter Text

ICA — The Ascending Moon

Phineas Nigellus Black had never been fond of visiting the Ministry of Magic — at forty-five, he considered himself too old for such visits. The stern faces, rigid protocols and the general atmosphere of this place made his skin crawl more than they should have, even for a man of his position.

The elevator gates screeched open at Level Two, revealing the stark corridor of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. The air hung heavy with official tension as interdepartmental memos fluttered overhead like mechanical birds, their paper wings cutting through the cool air. Signs on various doors indicated specialized units — "Hit Wizard Headquarters," "Improper Use of Magic Office," "Investigation Department." Everything gleamed with an almost surgical cleanliness. He passed the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office, then the Auror Training quarters, before reaching the main corridor where wanted posters lined the walls in neat rows. The Auror Headquarters sprawled ahead.

He made his way to the central office, boots echoing against the floor. The brass nameplate on the door read "Head Auror" in severe lettering. Black hesitated before knocking in three sharp raps, knowing full well he wouldn't enjoy what was to come.

"Enter," came the crisp response.

The office was larger than the others, though no less austere. Ophelia sat behind a substantial desk, her Auror robes immaculate as she worked through a stack of papers. Smoke from her pipe created a thin haze near the ceiling. Her eyes shot up, quill pausing mid-stroke.

"Headmaster Black. How nice to see you. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Let's dispense with pleasantries," Black said, jaw tight. "Your letter this morning — you cannot be serious, Sinclair. I won't allow it."

Ophelia's brows furrowed as she set down her quill. "You misunderstand, Headmaster. I wasn't asking. Those were orders."

"This is madness. Spavin would never—"

"Faris," she cut in, voice level, "is perfectly aware of the situation. This was his directive in the first place."

Black let out a sharp scoff. "No doubt you helped him reach this decision. Can't you see how dangerous this is? Returning the girl to Hogwarts after what happened?"

Ophelia leaned back in her chair, regarding him with something close to pity. "You don't even know what you're talking about, Phineas."

He advanced towards her desk, breaths deepening. "This wasn't our arrangement. I allowed the Ministry to interfere so you would take Blackwood as far from my school as possible."

A sharp, almost surprised smile crossed Ophelia's face.

"Allowed us?" She took a long draw from her pipe. "Curious. Last I recall, you were in this very office after the goblin attack, practically begging us to take control of the situation."

"The child will NOT return to Hogwarts," Black snapped, colour rising in his face. "Not while I'm Headmaster."

Ophelia exhaled a stream of smoke with a weary sigh.

"Why must you always complicate matters?" She rose from her desk, gesturing to a chair by the window, positioned near a small side table. "Sit."

Phineas tsked. "I'm not in the mood for a lengthy discussion. My word is final."

Ophelia's smirk turned bitter.

"Is it really?" She held his gaze, unblinking. "I said, sit."

Black faltered under her stare. Ophelia had always unsettled him, though he'd never admit it aloud. He scowled irritably yet still complied, crossing to the chair and lowering himself into it while watching her retrieve a glass decanter from the table. The golden liquid caught the late afternoon light like trapped sun as she poured it into two glasses.

"For your nerves," she said, sliding one glass towards him.

Black stared into the amber liquid, hesitating before taking a small sip. "You cannot force my hand in this. The agreement was clear — her expulsion this summer. I even allowed her to complete examinations — for the Ministry's appearance and to quiet the staff's questions."

Ophelia rolled her eyes, taking a sip from her own glass. Rather than sitting, she began a slow circuit of her office.

"Have you heard of the new spider species discovered in Southeast Asia?" She drew from her pipe, pausing by a filing cabinet. "Fascinating creatures, these Cyclocosmia."

"I have no interest in Arachnology," Black said impatiently. "What is this about?"

Ophelia exhaled the smoke though her nose, falling silent as if lost in thought for a brief moment. Then continued as if he hadn't spoken.

"Do you know why they're so remarkable? They're rather complex. Extraordinarily patient, territorial ambush predators that cannot — under any circumstances — survive captivity. Impossible to domesticate. Unyielding." She paused. "Rather like the Blackwood girl."

"How exactly does that compare?" Black frowned. "As far as I remember, the child cooperated. And she's hardly aggressive."

"Cyclocosmia aren't aggressive — unless threatened. I've observed similar patterns in her." Ophelia traced a finger along the edge of the cabinet. "But the crucial similarity is their inability to survive when forcibly removed from their territory. Like the spider, the girl needs her 'ecological niche' to remain stable."

Phineas scoffed into his whiskey.

"I don't care about the her stability. Perhaps it's better if she dies. Or had never existed at all — her or her brother." His lip curled. "At least the problem is singular, thank Merlin."

Ophelia's eyes narrowed as she watched him, then shifted away as she resumed her pacing.

"We attempted to force-feed her. Her system rejected everything, as if fundamentally refusing to accept displacement and function outside her proper environment. No regeneration, rapid weight loss, inability to contain magic, increasingly volatile temper." She exhaled a stream of smoke. "The parallels are striking, wouldn't you say?"

"Is that why you placed her back on the island? To stabilize her?" Black asked.

Ophelia nodded.

"Precisely. One week in her natural habitat — and her injuries healed to scarring. She began eating, if sparingly, with no signs of magical disruptions. Round-the-clock security reports complete stabilization."

"Then why return her to Hogwarts? If your strategy is working?"

She circled back to the table, replenishing their glasses. "Because Hogwarts serves as the perfect cage. A familiar ecosystem where sufficient social interaction will keep her occupied, therefore stable enough to be studied and contained — without harm to herself. Or others."

Phineas cleared his throat, taking his refreshed drink. "What do you mean by that last part?"

Ophelia paused, considering her answer while methodically restuffing the pipe with fresh tobacco. The first deep draw made her wince at the sharp bite of smoke in her lungs.

"What do you imagine would happen," she began carefully, "if one created an entirely new species and raised a single specimen in isolation, with no others of its kind?"

Black's eyebrows lifted in confusion.

"Let me rephrase," she continued, exhaling smoke. "What would be that specimen's first action if released from safe isolation into the wild? With no inherited instincts, no understanding of natural laws?"

Phineas took a thoughtful sip of whiskey, not entirely understanding where this conversation was leading. "I suppose... it would try to find its place—"

"In the food chain, correct," Ophelia finished for him, nodding. "A creature with no concept of environmental rules, trying to carve out its position in the system. Now add 'impossible to domesticate' to those traits. And classify it as an apex predator."

Black stared at her, lips parting in dawning comprehension.

"Yes," Ophelia nodded once more, noting his realization. "That's precisely what we're preventing. The last thing any of us needs is for the girl to discover her place in this particular hierarchy — not until it's time, at least."

Black stayed silent for a long moment, simply staring back with the hint of shock etched across his expression. He swallowed audibly in the suddenly silent office.

"Why not kill her?" he whispered. "She shouldn't exist."

Ophelia sighed heavily, finally settling into the chair beside his and placing her glass on the table.

"This is classified, but if it's what's required convince you..." She paused, weighing her words. "Large-scale Muggle wars are coming, Phineas. World wars. When the girl discovers where she belongs — and she will, eventually — we cannot afford to be her enemies. For the sake of Britain at minimum, for the United Kingdom at most."

"But we—"Black stammered. "Our kind doesn't interfere with Muggle wars."

"We don't," Ophelia agreed. "Unless the Crown demands otherwise. And it will this time. Our worlds are co-dependent — I don't need to remind you of that."

He looked at her in prolonged silence, then slowly shook his head with another swallow. "You cannot expect me to allow... this... back into my school."

Ophelia's lips curved into a bitter, almost apologetic smile. "Neither of us appears to have a choice. The Ministry won't risk her health by locking her in here. I'll take personal responsibility for her stay at Hogwarts. My children will return as well, infiltrating as they did last year — watching the subject alongside additional Auror patrols. You'll have my best people."

"Children?" Black asked absently. "You have only a son."

She leaned back in the chair, inhaling more smoke. "I've been Eliza's guardian long enough to consider her my property. Blood relation or not." A slow exhale through the nose followed her words. "The girl possesses remarkable seer abilities — she'll prove valuable to the Ministry when she turns of age next winter."

Phineas fell silent, eyes darting around the room as he struggled to accept his position. "I have over two hundred students to protect. The staff as well. Do you realize what you're asking of me?"

Ophelia nodded, expression turning unexpectedly somber before her lips twisted sourly. "You should have considered protecting the school before giving Fig free rein. Let's not pretend you didn't know he wasn't clean from the start. Had you watched him closer, he might never have found the girl again after all those years."

"The Ministry hardly did better at monitoring Eleasar's activities," Black retorted.

A scoff escaped Ophelia.

"Ministry work involves more than giving feast speeches and announcing term dates. We can't track every suspicious individual without evidence of wrongdoing." She drew another stream of smoke, suddenly thoughtful. "But yes, you were right to suspect Fig from the beginning — he's at the centre of this mess."

Phineas sighed, finishing his drink in several quick gulps. "You've found something new on Fig, haven't you?"

"Yes." Ophelia's voice hardened. "He was neck-deep in this — deceiving a child who didn't remember him, playing mentor throughout her fifth year. It was our mistake, not being there first. We should have prevented him from finding the girl four years after the Blackwood boy's murder."

Her visitor's eyebrows rose. "Murder? Who would kill an eleven-year-old? I thought the boy died in the fire."

Ophelia leaned forward, pressing her elbows against her knees, posture heavy with fatigue. "One thing led to another — we found it in their mother's memories. Thankfully, Osborn sorted really neatly through them — he has quite the gift for Legilimency. Fig appeared in what we extracted, but the woman didn't seem to recognize him at all. And while my son worked cleanly, as did our Obliviators, we suspect that Eleasar got to her first and really fucked up her head — everything either torn apart or distorted, buried so deep even someone as gifted as Osborn struggled on the first attempt. Perhaps that's why she let her daughter leave with a 'stranger'."

Phineas winced at her crude phrasing — Ophelia Sinclair rarely descended to such language, maintaining that characteristic rigid propriety even in private. He leaned forward to pour himself a fresh drink.

"Nervous?" She smirked, eyeing his glass. "You should be. What we're dealing with hasn't seen light since Morganach's death four hundred years ago."

Black shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "Am I allowed to know more? I must, if I'm to keep the child in my school for another year."

She eyed him for a long moment before pouring herself a fresh glass in silence. "Tell me, Phineas. What do you know of the magic Morganach created during her lifetime?"

"As far as I understand, it was created out of human emotional pain," he replied tersely.

"Correct." She swirled the liquid in her glass. "Do you understand the fundamental difference between Isidora's creation and the original Ancient magic?"

"Not particularly," he admitted. "They both create and destroy, like any other magic."

"Unfortunately, even in our world, not everything can be explained by conventional magic alone." Ophelia's voice took on a distant, analytical tone. "Everything follows rules — fundamental laws that govern all existence. Ex nihilo nihil fit — 'nothing comes from nothing'. The origin manipulates matter, yes, but that matter must come from somewhere. It appears here," she gestured to one side of the table, "only by disappearing there," she pointed to the other. "Even if we're talking about mere particles in the air."

She swallowed, absently pressing her lips around the pipe. "But what Morganach created... it operates outside these constraints. Emotional pain, Phineas — raw human suffering — isn't bound by physical laws, because it isn't matter. It's force. Pure, unrestrained force that doesn't need to reappear elsewhere because it never truly disappears. It's self-perpetuating, infinite. And that infinity can suppress even something as powerful as the origin itself."

"How does this connect to Fig's business?" Black asked, expression slowly darkening.

"No one knows how Isidora managed to extract something so intricate. Or how ancient magic passes to its next host," Ophelia replied. "The lab staff is still trying to determine if it can be inherited, but it's rather complicated when we don't know the whereabouts or identity of the Blackwood children's father. The girl's hostility and wildness don't help matters. And we won't force her to reproduce — we cannot allow ourselves to repeat Fig's mistakes."

"What are you implying?"

Ophelia sighed heavily, regarding the liquid in her glass with detached scrutiny.

"It's a common trait among researchers of all kinds — having this obsession with a single idea, pushing further and further until it consumes them entirely. And Fig..." She paused, mouth twisting into a disgusted grimace. "There were others in her mother's memories. Eleasar and his circle... they developed an unhealthy fascination with Isidora's creation." Her fingers drummed once against the desk — the only visible break in composure. "With forcing something entirely new into existence — a species capable of channeling both the origin and the corruption simultaneously."

She turned to face him, unable to mask a hint of nervousness in her eyes.

"Do you understand what that means, Phineas? This was literally playing God," the last word came out sharper than she intended, her academic tone faltering slightly. "Even from a purely scientific standpoint, introducing an artificially engineered magical species into the natural order... This could never end well."

Black's face contorted in a frown of mingled confusion and disgust.

"That sick bastard..." came out breathy and quiet. He continued staring back at the Auror, suddenly unsure if he wanted to know the answer to his question. "So... How did it end?"

"All we know is there was fire," Ophelia shook her head slowly. "And the boy got strangled to death."

Phineas fell silent, fingers tapping against the armrest as he processed the information. "You mentioned the circle. Fig wasn't alone? How many were there? Anyone else from the school?"

Ophelia placed her pipe back on the table, making a small smacking sound with her lips at the ashen taste on her tongue.

"We counted four, aside from Fig. Could only identify George Osric." Her mouth tightened at the name, a flicker of professional indignation entering her otherwise strict expression. "A high-ranked Ministry official, of all people. The other three were unfamiliar — not from our research circles. We couldn't trace them." She paused, then sighed, straightening in her chair. "However, we're in a much fortunate position than we could have been."

"Fortunate?" Black scoffed. "None of us seems to be in a particularly fortunate position, especially with so many questions still unanswered."

Ophelia bit the inside of her cheek, her gaze distant.

"The girl doesn't ask questions, Phineas. Shows no interest in understanding her nature — likely a defence mechanism, since she tends to shut down when faced with anything traumatic. She neither seeks to rid herself of these abilities nor seems eager to use them. The child is remarkably passive, focused on basic needs, extremely down to earth. Like any social creature, she wants to belong somewhere — and she's found her niche at Hogwarts."

"I understand why what you're telling me is important, but-"

"Imagine," Ophelia spoke over him, clinical tone sharpening, "if we were dealing with a perfectly adjusted individual whose social needs were met. People naturally grow curious about their unusual traits. They study themselves, seek knowledge — become hungry for the opportunities power like this brings. Those born with unique abilities typically follow one of two paths: either they play hero, offering their gift to society, maintaining order, saving others... or they pursue their own interests, pushing ideas regardless of consequences. You know where this leads in most cases."

She turned azure eyes to her visitor then, exhaling a soft, almost relieved huff.

"Fortunately for us all, the Blackwood girl wants nothing more than to simply exist."

Chapter Text

Hello there.

If you've read this far - please accept my sincere gratitude for sticking around and my apologies for being inactive lately. I constantly switch between writing BaS and creating animations/illustrations for it. Drawing is time-consuming, and my free time is limited due to work and living in a country at war. Even when I do have time, I don't always have the proper motivation to create - frankly, I've never felt fully part of the fandom since my story diverges from what the general audience prefers. It has no direct romance, jealousy drama, teenage squabbles, or dynamic appearances of our beloved Slytherin boys. I understand why it doesn't attract widespread attention/engagement - though this understanding doesn't make it less frustrating. I remain motivated thanks to the attention my work receives and, of course, the thoughtful comments from my most active readers across different platforms.

Special thanks to those who use the playlist while reading. You've got no idea how much I'm sweating whenever I'm choosing those soundtracks.

This AN exists to clarify some details I felt needed direct explanation, and also includes my small rant.

Yes, I sacrificed some historically appropriate speech patterns to demonstrate certain emotions the way I intended. Therefore, though not historically accurate, characters may use strong language and cursing.

Yes, I directly implemented aspects of my worldview into Ominis's character - particularly regarding the degradation of friendships into romantic pursuits. I believe today's world is overly romanticized and sexualized. In my opinion, life isn't solely about relationships, and relationships aren't exclusively about romantic love. Throughout my experience with fandom content, I've rarely seen love portrayed as anything but romantic - which I find concerning. Everyone needs a partner, everyone is hormone-driven, everyone experiences jealousy, some even make public love confessions - it's embarrassing to me. So yes, Ominis might sound harsh to some readers, but this is intentional. You don't have to agree with this.

Yes, I intentionally created a protagonist who isn't entirely likable - I wanted her to be relatable, realistic, and therefore complex. I openly despise the concept of main characters who are inexplicably powerful, achieve mastery without effort, are universally liked, and succeed at everything on their first attempt. Your first potion lesson? Naturally, you'll brew something of exceptional quality. Your first duel? Of course you'll defeat the experienced duelist. New to school? Don't worry - everyone will either respect, adore, or think you're cool. And of course, everyone just dies to become your friend. Especially the pretty ones, right?

Avalanche had an immense potential for some of the most emotionally heavy plot twists and still left them all unexplored - for example, all signs pointed to Fig using us for something, and I could almost anticipate his betrayal of the main character in the final quest during my first playthrough. The secrecy, conveniently alligned events (even Weasley questions why we were brought to school by carriage while everyone else took the Hogwarts Express), a naive main character with unique abilities who stays beneficially silent about everything Eleasar makes us do, and of course - why would a professor have an already brewed potion to impersonate the Headmaster? Man was prepared, he knew what he was doing. Avalanche created a Mary Sue protagonist and sold us the plot which was a mile wide but an inch deep. Prove me wrong.

This is precisely why Apocrypha (or KJ, as I call her) was designed as someone you rarely encounter as a primary character in fiction. She makes mistakes, misjudges situations/people, and has an authentic temper that drives her actions. I know I'm currently moving her through plot lines like a puppet, but this dynamic will shift significantly from this point forward.

Regarding Sebastian - you may not appreciate his fiery or sharp nature in this story, but I believe it's more authentic than portraying him as either a flirtatious, hormone-driven teenager shouting declarations of love in the Great Hall, or as a puppy-eyed character constantly seeking attention from our MC. Sebastian attracts, he doesn't chase - he's too proud and cunning to moon openly over someone or follow them around (Anne being the exception). He's certainly not the type to chase after romance while dealing with his twin sister's death or declining health.

Osborn isn't the villain. His character may be uncertain, but it serves a specific purpose - I can't stand the notion of pure evil or pure good. Even Eli, despite her bright and kind nature, isn't free from wrongdoing and guilt. I've ensured every character has clear motivation and reasoning for their actions, especially when those actions are harmful or wrong. This characterization will remain consistent throughout the story.

Regarding the conclusion - the 7th year will be more concise than the 6th. The previous 23 chapters served as groundwork, establishing character backgrounds and motivations to ensure their future actions feel justified and meaningful to readers. Hopefully, you, dear reader, will feel the same way.

To celebrate the end of what we might call 'season 2,' I've brought you some illustrations.

Also, the beginning of the chapter 'The Interrogation' got an illustrated video. You can watch it here:

https://www.tiktok.com/@kryph.a/video/7464741267432410373

In the future I plan to animate more scenes - preferrably once I finish writing the entire story, since I'll have more time to focus on drawing only.

See you in the next chapter.

Chapter Text

Max Righter — Return 2 (Pt.1 — Pt.7)
(sadly there's no full version in one track, so I just listed them one by one in the playlist)

The torchlight cast familiar shadows across the ancient stone as the empty corridor stretched to the right, its cold walls no longer pressing against the consciousness like they used to. The scents of magical residue and wood polish filled the nostrils — but her nose didn't wrinkle at the fuzzy feeling anymore. Now, after months of heavy Ministry air and the harsh glare of examination rooms, even the way the flames flickered in this empty space felt like a peculiar sort of homecoming. The floors beneath her feet held centuries of magic, its steady presence seeping through the soles of her shoes — no longer threatening, but grounding.

The suits of armour stood silent guard, their metallic surfaces reflecting distorted fragments of torchlight. Small breaths echoed softly against the walls that had witnessed countless generations of students pass through. The prospect of navigating through crowds of students still made her fingers twitch, but the fear felt distant, dulled by months of worse experiences — her lengthy stay in London had redefined her understanding of suffocating spaces and unwanted company.

She wouldn't voice it, not even to herself, but the realization that Hogwarts had become more of a sanctuary than a threat caught her in a mix of surprise and reluctant acceptance — though she kept her face blank at the thought. No labs. No observation rooms. No handlers watching her every twitch. Well, maybe just two.

Four towering hourglasses dominated the left wall, crystalline surfaces gleaming slightly — empty yet, awaiting the first points of the term. Emerald, sapphire, ruby, and amber diamonds waited in their upper chambers — untouched, uncounted, unmarked by House rivalry. Who won the House Cup last year? She turned her head slightly, neck muscles stretching after maintaining the same position for too long.

The low rumble of Headmaster Black's voice penetrated the gaps of two sets of heavy oak doors to the Great Hall, his words indistinct but the cadence unmistakable. Her stomach tightened — not from the usual anxiety his presence induced, but from the enforced separation from the welcoming feast. Being relegated to the corridor like an afterthought, kept outside during the ceremony, away from the familiar faces she'd been denied for months, bore Osborn's distinctive touch — a final display of control wrapped in reasonable-sounding concerns about "disruption" and "unnecessary attention". The rational part of her mind acknowledged the logic — her return would inevitably draw stares. Yet the instruction to wait felt like a collar, albeit one she'd willingly wear for the privilege of return.

So she remained where she was told to. Still, the knowledge that Sebastian, Ominis, and Natsai sat just beyond those doors made the wait almost painful.

Apocrypha shifted against the wall, arms crossed tightly over her chest in a habitual defensive posture. The school uniform felt foreign against the skin after so long in Ministry-issued clothes. The cotton shirt was softer than she remembered, the collar less restrictive. Her fingers worried at the crisp white sleeve, rubbing the fabric between thumb and forefinger in an absent gesture. The Slytherin tie hung loose and slightly askew — a small, subconscious act of defiance she privately allowed herself against months of control.

The green and silver patterns caught the dim light — colours she hadn't realized she'd missed until now. The trousers were a small mercy she hadn't needed to fight for; the thought of standing here in a skirt would have been a humiliation, though she found herself acknowledging, with some surprise, that she would have done it. She would have worn whatever they demanded if it meant standing in this corridor, waiting to rejoin the only people she dared to call friends.

The waiting felt even more unbearable with the knowledge that they were informed about her return. Each letter she managed to send in the past week of freedom, however restricted, carried the news with an almost desperate thoroughness. She'd written them immediately after Osborn had delivered the information the moment she was unexpectedly granted another seven days at home — supposedly to rest from weeks of rigorous training in England. The Ministry's sudden leniency remained suspicious, but she'd learned not to examine their mercy too closely.

The prospect of return to Hogwarts had awakened something in her that even chronic insomnia couldn't diminish — a restless internal excitement that her outward demeanour — tired eyes and stone-faced expression — refused to betray.

The abrupt silence that followed Black's voice hit her like a physical force, making her pulse accelerate sharply. The feast was ending. They would be coming out. Her fingernails dug into shoulder through the fabric, the pressure painful but grounding. Suddenly hesitant, she felt questions cascading through her mind, each one feeding into the next with increasing urgency.

What if seven months was too long? Would they look at her differently now, knowing where she'd been? Would Sebastian still look at her with that same cold, angry distance his letters carried? Perhaps she'd misread their meanings entirely. Why had Ominis's responses, though kind, felt so carefully measured? Had he grown tired of maintaining their friendship through written words alone? At least Natsai's warmth seemed genuine — unless that was pity? But would her enthusiastic letters translate to genuine warmth in person?

Would they notice how she flinched at sudden movements now, how she'd learned to lower her eyes at the right moments? Would they recognize what remained of their friend after the Ministry's modifications? Would they ask questions she couldn't answer? Did they even want answers anymore?

What if they'd formed new bonds, stronger ones, during her absence? What if they'd learned to function without her? What if they preferred it that way? What if there wasn't space for her anymore? What if-

Her heart stuttered, then began hammering against her ribs as benches scraped against stone floors beyond the doors. The approaching sound of footsteps and voices neared like an advancing tide, snapping her back to physical awareness, and she found herself pressing harder against the wall, as if trying to merge with the stone.

The second set of doors groaned open, spilling light and voices into the previously silent corridor. The familiar flood of black robes swished past in a blur of house colours as the excited chatter filled the entrance hall, prefects' voices rising above the general din.

The Hufflepuff prefect emerged among the first, leading a line of wide-eyed first years who glanced around with undisguised wonder. Osborn appeared in their wake, moving with that insufferable confidence of someone who seemed to know exactly where all the pieces stood on his board. He led the young Gryffindors past, treating her to a knowing wink as he passed. A reminder, a warning, a claim of ownership over her presence here — casual yet deliberate.

She tracked his movement without tilting her head, focus briefly interrupted by curious glances from passing first years. Their attention slid over her like water, more captured by the animated portraits and castle's more obvious wonders.

A flash of familiar chocolate curls framing a warm expression caught her attention among the Gryffindor colours — Natsai, walking alongside Garreth through the crowd. Her friend's chestnut eyes swept past her at first, then snapped back with the characteristic upward jump of eyebrows that preceded her brightest smiles. Apocrypha shifted her weight forward, hesitating at the barrier of bodies between them, but Natsai was already weaving through the mass.

"You're here! Finally!" Her voice carried over the general noise as she approached. "Where were you during the feast? We kept looking at the entrance!"

Apocrypha's posture stiffened slightly.

"Just arrived. Had time to change and..." She gestured vaguely at the doors.

Garreth appeared behind his partner, copper hair glistening in the dim light as he offered the arrival a warm nod and a slight smile, as if seven months hadn't passed at all. "Blackwood."

"Hold on-" Natsai stepped closer, raising her hand above Apocrypha's head in an exaggerated measuring gesture. "Merlin's beard, when did you get so tall?"

The observation wasn't wrong — where they had once been of similar height, Apocrypha now stood a good four inches above her friend. The school robes hung differently on her altered height, making the change even more apparent.

Natsai looked around briefly and leaned over, lowering her voice to a careful whisper. "What in Merlin's name were they feeding you at that place?"

"She's right, you know," Garreth chimed in with playful pride, puffing his chest slightly and drawing himself up to his full height. "You might have outgrown Natty, but you've still got a way to go before catching up to me."

"Oh, stuff it, you great ginger tree," Natsai elbowed him playfully. "Not all of us can be a walking lamppost."

Apocrypha stood motionless, watching their exchange with an intensity that bordered on unsettling staring, expression caught between disbelief and something harder to name. The rhythm of their interaction felt impossibly normal, devastatingly unchanged. Almost surreal.

Natsai's smile faltered slightly as she caught that look. "Are you alright?"

A slow nod preceded words that came out barely above a whisper. "You have no idea how glad I am to see you two."

Natsai's motion froze mid-gesture, lips parting slightly at the uncharacteristic sentiment from her friend. She recovered quickly from this brief moment of confusion, raising her hand in a hovering motion near Apocrypha's forehead, careful to maintain an inch of space between them in order not to make actual contact.

"Are you ill?" A soft chuckle softened her question. "You're not usually like this..."

"Maybe. Yes," Apocrypha muttered, eyes dropping briefly. "Sorry."

"Oh, stop that." Natsai waved dismissively, her smile brightening as she turned to Garreth, dark curls bouncing with the movement. "We're glad to see you too. Both of us. Aren't we?"

Garreth's nod came smoothly enough, and though his smile remained, the politeness in his posture carried an edge of barely perceptible caution, a slight adjustment in how he positioned himself behind his lover. Almost protectively.

"You look good," Apocrypha stated, the observation directed at Natsai with characteristic bluntness. "Really good."

The assessment wasn't wrong either. Seven months had transformed Natsai's figure into something more womanly than last year, in subtle but noticeable ways. Her school robes settled differently now, following more pronounced curves. The uniform skirt draped over fuller thighs, and her delicate waist only emphasized the changes in the bust that filled out in a way that certainly drew admiring glances. Despite being shorter in comparison now, she carried herself with the same fearless courage that had always defined her presence, shoulders back and chin lifted in perpetual challenge to the world. The summer had deepened her complexion to rich mahogany, making her warm brown eyes appear even brighter.

"So do you," Natsai responded with a gentle huff of amusement that didn't quite mask a hint of concern. "Though you've gotten a bit thinner, haven't you? Or is it just because you've stretched up like a garden bean?"

Apocrypha's shoulders lifted in a slight shrug as she glanced down at herself uncertainly before looking up again.

"How have you two been?" She asked, though her attention wavered past them towards the Great Hall doors, scanning the continuing stream of students.

A familiar shade of red hair caught her eye — Leander passing by with his classmates and the crowd. Her throat worked silently, the involuntary swallow small but sharp. He'd simply been in the wrong corridor at the wrong moment, and Osborn's memory modification had been unnecessarily thorough. Something tightened in Apocrypha's expression, guilt mixing with pity as she watched him move past without a glance, unaware of being briefly observed.

"We've been alright," Natsai was saying. "Though there was quite a stir when you were reported missing in the Forbidden Forest. The whole school was—" She paused, following her friend's line of sight towards the doors. A knowing sound escaped her as she glanced back, lips curving slightly. "Ah. I've just seen who you're looking for. They must be here soon."

She saw the way viridian eyes forced themselves to settle on her face.

"Sorry," Apocrypha cleared her throat. "Nervous."

"I can tell," Natsai said, humming with knowing warmth. "But it's going to be alright, you know. We should talk properly tomorrow — there's so much to catch up on. I'll find you after classes?"

A sharp female voice cut through the corridor's din.

"Blackwood!"

Imelda appeared behind Garreth's shoulder, her grown figure now almost matching the arrival's.

"Well, look who's back!" She called out, brows lifting slightly as the corner of her mouth quirked upwards. "Thought we'd seen the last of you. I'll be seeing you in the dorm tonight then?"

Apocrypha managed a tight nod while Imelda passed by, raising her hand in a weak farewell as Garreth guided Natsai away. Her attention immediately shifted back to the entrance, throat constricting at the sight of fair blond hair rising above the dispersing stream of people — unmistakable in its sandy shade. Slightly below, a mess of walnut-brown strands betrayed the presence of a second figure, some locks standing at odd angles as always. The way their heads bobbed and tilted suggested an ongoing conversation, though their faces remained hidden in the crowd.

They emerged with the last stragglers, settling against the wall beside the doors. The general clamour swallowed their words, but Apocrypha remained frozen in place, muscles locked as she studied them both from across the corridor.

Ominis had grown startlingly tall — or had that height been there during their last conversation, unnoticed in her distraction? The memory felt uncertain now. His additional inches now made him the tallest of them three, despite being the youngest. Time had carved away one of the last traces of softness from his features, leaving sharp angles where roundness had been. His jawline had lost its childish curve completely, Adam's apple prominent above his loosened tie, and his features carried a new gravitas that made him look older than his seventeen years. That casual tilt of his head carried a new maturity, reflected in the composed set of his shoulders.

Sebastian's changes were equally evident. The white uniform shirt, once comfortably loose, now stretched across his chest when he folded his arms. His shoulders had broadened noticeably, filling out the fabric in a way that suggested regular physical activity. More dark hair dusted his forearms where his sleeves were rolled, matching the slight shadow of stubble along his jaw. As he gestured while speaking to his best friend, veins traced prominent lines across the freckled skin on the backs of his hands and forearms, visible even from this distance. The overall changes weren't dramatic, but appeared completely undeniable - he'd developed from his former lean build into something more solid, more defined. Even the way he held himself seemed different, more grounded.

She remained motionless against the wall, barely breathing, not daring to shift or blink, as if they might disappear if she did. The corridor's noise faded as students filtered away, making their conversation increasingly distinct, but she barely registered the actual words. They seemed to hold less importance than watching Ominis absently turn his wand between his fingers, while slowly nodding to Sebastian's statements.

A sudden halt in Ominis's fidgeting silenced Sebastian mid-sentence. His friend's head turned sharply in her direction, sightless eyes angled downward. Sebastian's own head followed with casual interest, hazel eyes sliding past her before darting back with almost violent recognition.

Apocrypha released a breath she hadn't registered holding. Her weight shifted forward as she pushed away from the stone, hesitant steps carrying her towards the centre of the corridor between them. They mirrored her movement with more decisive strides, closing the distance between opposite walls until all three stood in the middle of the now-quiet space.

Her pulse thundered in her ears as they faced each other in silence. Viridian eyes lifted to their faces, dropped to the floor and rose again only to fall once more. Each breath felt like an effort.

The quiet stretched as they studied each other, none seeming to know how to break it.

"So," her voice came out barely above a whisper as she lifted her hand in a weak gesture between her friends. "A tower and a wardrobe, then?"

Another beat of silence passed before Sebastian's scoff broke it. "I'm hardly a wardrobe."

Ominis's answering snort escaped before he could contain it.

"I'll apologize for this later," he said quickly, stepping forward to wrap his arms loosely around her shoulders.

The initial contact remained careful, tentative, before his palms spread across her shoulder blades and drew her firmly against his chest. He felt her immediate tension, arms remaining motionless at her sides exactly as anticipated. Still, Ominis maintained the embrace, bending slightly to accommodate their height difference and maintain the connection for another heartbeat. A subtle shift of her head pressed it against his cheekbone — the barest acknowledgment, but present nonetheless.

After a short moment he stepped back, raising his hands in mock surrender. "Sorry about that."

"It's fine," Apocrypha cleared her throat, gaze shifting to Sebastian.

Hazel eyes met hers with careful restraint as he pushed both hands into his trouser pockets.

"When did you get here?" He asked with uncharacteristic neutrality. "We were looking for you before the feast."

"I arrived after it started," Apocrypha replied, fingers flexed briefly at her sides. "Didn't want to create another scene like fifth year, barging in uninvited."

Sebastian's lips pressed together as he looked away, a noncommittal hum his only response. Apocrypha watched him for a moment before averting her own eyes. The coldness from his letters had manifested in person — was this what grief did to someone? Or had her own neglect broadened this distance between them? Probably both.

"Now that you're here," Ominis interjected, "we have quite a bit to discuss. Are you alright?"

Apocrypha shifted in place, discomfort evident at the prospect of the impending conversation. "Yes. I'll explain everything once—"

A flurry of movement from the Great Hall interrupted her words as something collided with Ominis's back.

"Oh!" A feminine voice squeaked in surprise.

"Careful," he stated calmly, turning halfway.

A clear, merry pitch carried through the surprised sound. Eliza's smaller frame appeared behind Ominis, red curls swirling as she adjusted her glasses.

"Sorry, sorry," she added with a light laugh, her accent still audible.

Her Hufflepuff companion patted her shoulder.

"Maybe you need better glasses, Eli," the younger girl teased. "Come on, we should go."

"Yes, yes." Eliza nodded, smile brightening at the mere proximity to Ominis as she waved at him. "I'll see you in common room, Ominis."

She moved to pass the group when her gaze met two piercing twin points of viridian intensity. The smile vanished instantly. She turned away, fingers closing around her friend's elbow as her steps quickened noticeably, practically pulling the other girl along in her haste to escape that stare. There were no secrets between them now — they both knew what the other was.

Apocrypha's head rotated with mechanical focus to Eliza's retreat, neck craning until the position became uncomfortable. The Polish girl hadn't changed significantly — still infuriatingly diminutive, still barely reaching shoulder-height, like some yapping terrier, still radiating that manufactured sweetness with every giggle and nauseatingly saccharine gesture. A walking contradiction of innocent smiles and calculated moves — all squealing laughter and wide-eyed innocence behind those glasses.

Like a Puffskein, Apocrypha thought — deceptively cute and harmless on the surface. The comparison only fueled her disgust.

The changes in her figure only amplified the deception — time had shaped Eliza differently than most. Rather than stretching upwards, she'd softened outward — her previously average figure now carried some gained weight that conveniently settled in calculated places. Her waist maintained its gentle curve, but her chest and hips had filled out in ways that only enhanced her deliberately soft appearance, giving her an almost fruit-like quality. She resembled nothing so much as a ripe peach — round, soft, tender-skinned and sweet-looking.

Apocrypha's mouth watered briefly before she swallowed, a sharp image flashing through her mind uninvited — that same peach split open, juice running red. Eliza's skin would likely share that same delicate quality, that same velvet-soft textu—

"Don't start," Ominis sighed.

Apocrypha's head snapped back towards him. "Did she sit with you during the feast?"

"Well, obviously-"

"Where?" She demanded sternly. "In my seat?"

Sebastian's quiet snort cut through the tension. "Should've kept that to yourself, Ominis."

"Both of you, stop," Ominis hissed. "She's just our classmate, Kryph. She's done nothing wrong."

Apocrypha drew a sharp breath, then caught herself. If they only knew just how much Eliza's done wrong — how she deliberately manoeuvred closer to Ominis, how she'd nearly helped her sick bastard of an older brother murder Sebastian. The thought of Osborn forced a harsh exhale. He would know if she revealed anything.

"Calm down," Sebastian sighed before his eyes narrowed slightly. "We have more pressing matters than Kochanowska. Like whether you spent these months with Sinclair, and what his business with the Ministry was."

Apocrypha stared at him, shock bleeding through her attempted mask of confusion.

Sebastian seized the opening. "We're not idiots, Kryph. Osborn vanished right after you were reported missing in the Forbidden Forest."

Her eyes slid away, darting across the floor as visible calculations played across her features. The prepared story about London — constructed under Osborn's guidance — scattered in the face of such direct questioning. Sebastian and his damn tactics.

"Did he force you into anything?" He pressed.

"Sebastian," Ominis attempted to intervene. "This isn't the place, you know tha—"

"Look," Apocrypha cut in defensively, employing the very manipulation techniques she'd learned from Sebastian himself. "After everything that's happened, that's the first question you choose to ask while we're clearly still in an argument?"

A small smirk touched Sebastian's lips as he recognized his own strategy being used against him.

"We are indeed still arguing," he conceded. "That will resolve once you explain everything."

"I'll explain what I can, when I can," Apocrypha pushed her hands into her trouser pockets, mirroring Sebastian's stance to match his body language. "But everything that happened before I left is more important."

"We could've had this conversation when they smuggled you back here in spring," Sebastian shot back. "If you'd bothered to speak to me."

Ominis rubbed the bridge of his nose with a resigned sigh, recognizing the familiar pattern when his friends' tempers ignited off each other. Once they started, there was no stopping them.

"We've only just reunited and you're already fighting," he attempted to interject, but his words fell on deaf ears.

Apocrypha's finger jabbed towards Sebastian's chest, stopping just short of contact. "What would you have done? You'd had enough after Christmas. Ominis said you needed time—"

"Was that Ominis's idea then?" Sebastian's head snapped towards their friend.

"It wasn't like that—" Ominis started.

"It was my decision not to speak to you that day," Apocrypha pressed on. "I couldn't — not after fifth year, after Solomon, after Anne, after you nearly died in that lake."

Sebastian's face turned aside, a slight scowl forming as his lips pressed together.

"So did you," he said tightly. "Or in the Forbidden Forest. I know that much, even if I don't know why you were there. Yet."

"My life was never threatened," she scoffed.

Sebastian's gaze dropped to meet hers, their eyes locking in a prolonged stare before his lids lowered slightly.

A small, bitter smile crossed his face as he shook his head. "You've never been good at lying, Kryph. Not to me."

She held his stare, jaw muscles working visibly beneath her skin until she finally broke eye contact with a heavy exhale. Her fingers rose to scratch at her brow. "Almost forgot how insufferable you are."

"You're no better," he replied, still watching her through half-lidded eyes.

Ominis remained carefully still beside them, recognizing the delicate balance of the moment. Their reconciliation needed to happen on its own terms, without his intervention.

The silence stretched between them until Sebastian cleared his throat.

"I suppose," he began in a carefully disinterested tone, "the Black Lake incident used up my lifetime allowance of physical contact when you pulled me out?"

That forcefully constructed indifference in his voice betrayed the weight of the question.

Apocrypha's eyes returned to his face, studying his features as if searching for something beneath his deliberately casual expression. Sebastian maintained his performance, though his stillness suggested he was already anticipating her confirmation. He'd never possessed Ominis's natural gentleness with her boundaries.

"Yes." The word came out clipped and definitive.

Sebastian's expression didn't change. Of course.

She glanced aside, shifting her weight forward slightly. "Be quick about it, then."

Sebastian's eyes widened before he forced them back to neutrality, though surprise remained evident. His mouth opened, closed, then his brows pulled together briefly — a rapid succession of uncertain emotions crossing his face as he tried to maintain his composed facade.

Unexpected. She'd turned his own strategy against him again. Perhaps he'd taught her too well.

"Right," he cleared his throat, lifting his hands with uncharacteristic hesitation.

He watched her arms hanging motionless at her sides — the same variation he'd observed twice with Ominis. She never returned the gesture, whether by choice or inability. Something in him rebelled against accepting that pattern before he could fully process why.

His palms felt suddenly damp. Instead of mimicking Ominis's approach, he swallowed and slid his hands under her arms instead, wrapping them around her ribcage until his palms spread across her spine from behind. The granted permission made him inexplicably nervous, and he carefully moderated the pressure to hide his rapidly accelerating heartbeat. Her immediate stiffening suggested this deviation from the expected script had caught her equally off-guard — leaving the victor of this silent contest unclear.

Sebastian heard her answering swallow as her arms lifted involuntarily, trapped awkwardly above his own until she lowered her elbows onto his shoulders — the position left her no other option. At the first contact, he pressed his palms more firmly against her back, pulling her tightly to him. She would likely regret allowing this — but he couldn't deny himself this moment, this first physical touch he hadn't stolen.

Merlin, she was so thin beneath those baggy clothes that made her look deceptively normal — even through layers of fabric, his fingers could count her ribs. Had she always been this underweight? No, she'd felt slightly fuller the last time he'd held her. Next to Fig's grave.

Her head reached his eye level, prompting him to lower his own as he exhaled slowly. Now with clear view of her back, he noticed how long her hair had grown — stretching all the way to her waist. His other hand shifted higher, pausing briefly before cradling the back of her head, when his fingers brushed against something cool and metallic. Hazel eyes slid sideways — the dragonfly pin he'd given her last year now secured small sections of black hair pulled back from her temples.

"You're wearing it after all," he muttered.

She didn't respond, instead remaining motionless, as if not even breathing.

A quiet exhale through the nose drew Sebastian's eyes to the opposite side, where Ominis stood with folded arms, wearing an expression suspiciously close to satisfaction. The barely-suppressed knowing smirk on his lips made Sebastian roll his eyes — not that Ominis could see it.

Her slight movement to withdraw made Sebastian's arms twitch, ready to release her — but impulse took over. Instead, he tightened his hold, shifting the palm from her head to the neck and pressing against the vertebrae through thin strands of hair. Logic dictated he should let go, but the feeling was too raw to relinquish just yet. His selfishness won out — taking what she offered, and more.

Words formed and died before reaching his lips, each potential phrase sounding wrong even in his head.

"I'll apologize for this later," he borrowed Ominis's line. "Promise."

"Better be a long apology then," Apocrypha said quietly.

Sebastian nodded, pressing his cheekbone against her temple as he stared absently into the darker section of the corridor ahead. The space beyond their well-lit section had fewer torches, but his roaming eyes still caught something out of place — a figure leaning casually against the wall, hands tucked in pockets. It took him several heartbeats to focus properly and register the Gryffindor colours — first the red vest, then golden stripes on the tie.

Sebastian squinted, recognition settling in as the pieces aligned — he knew that face too well, had spent too many hours obsessing over it. Osborn's irritatingly easy smile, appearing the moment he realized he'd been spotted, made Sebastian's jaw clench.

Their eyes locked in a prolonged stare for what felt like an eternity, neither looking away.

In that extended moment, the same thought crossed both their minds simultaneously.

This one is going to be the problem.

ICA — Yoth

Across the castle, far from any unwanted attention, Eliza's strides lengthened and quickened, driven by rising fear. She'd known Apocrypha would be here, but seeing her after so long, after everything she'd done — it made her chest constrict painfully. Questions raced through her mind in a frantic loop — how much could Apocrypha know? Her brother must have shared every plan, every detail about their true purpose at Hogwarts. Did she know about her involvement in Sebastian's attempted murder? About luring her to the Forbidden Forest? About the orders regarding Ominis? What if Osborn had revealed even those details? What if she was just waiting for the right moment to strike?

The sole warning Osborn had given her before the school year didn't help Eliza's nerves.

"Watch our asset, but keep your distance — just in case."

This wasn't the same Apocrypha from sixth year, who'd merely been hostile and dismissive. Eliza felt it — she'd become something worse, something that made her skin crawl with instinctive dread she couldn't quite put into words. Her stare had altered, her expressions had changed, her movements had become almost predatory — sharper, more alert, like an animal on the hunt.

Even with whatever leash Osborn held her on, Eliza couldn't suppress the visceral fear her presence now induced. Were Sebastian and Ominis truly blind to it? Or had their friendship clouded their judgment too thoroughly?

Eliza wanted to run from her as if she were wildfire incarnate. And she did — towards the safe place, where her housemates gathered, where she wouldn't be isolated, where witnesses would be present if someone decided to act. Her heels clicked rapidly against stone as she nearly ran for the stairs leading to the Slytherin dungeons, breath coming in quick bursts as she fought to maintain her pace. She needed company, needed proximity to others, needed anything to avoid being alone.

She descended the short stairs in a near-flight, rushing towards the wall where the metallic snake should emerge from the floor and rise, revealing the common room entrance. Eliza approached until she nearly touched the stone, but no door materialized — the floor remained motionless and solid.

Her palm pressed against the cold surface, tapping with increasing urgency as a fresh wave of nervousness crept in — why wasn't the door appearing? Drawing deep breaths, she glanced around, suddenly aware of the unnatural silence that surrounded the castle. Had she been too panicked to notice it during her run? Surely the students couldn't all be in their common rooms so quickly.

Turning gentle blue eyes back to the wall, she jerked with a startled sound as the torch columns flanking the would-be doorway extinguished simultaneously, leaving the space dimly lit by only the chandelier's candles above and the distant torch columns near the stairs. Eliza backed away with small steps and looked up, watching as the chandelier candles began winking out one by one without any discernible cause or breeze. Fear gripped her ribcage like a vice — darkness was the last thing she needed right now.

She retreated to the short staircase, witnessing the second pair of torch columns go dark, and climbed back up towards the warm light still flickering around the left corner. Reaching it quickly, she turned — and a gasp tore from her throat.

Fire. There was fire behind the door.

Eliza tried to still her trembling hands. What was burning? She needed help, needed to alert the professors about the danger, needed to—

Her turn was cut short by another jolt. Hogwarts wasn't there — no walls, no floors, no columns remained, all of it replaced by dense forest that stretched in every direction. Cold wind whipped through the branches, carrying the distant groan of an angry sea somewhere nearby. Ahead, flames devoured the darkness, their orange glow spreading between the trunks.

A sickening crack of collapsing timber made her flinch, but it was the shriek that followed that turned her insides to ice.

"OMINIS!" Sebastian's voice shredded the night air, raw and desperate.

Eliza bolted forward, barely registering the thin blanket of snow beneath her shoes, dead leaves breaking under each hurried stride. Her breath escaped in pale clouds as she ran, the bitter cold pinching her lungs as the trees began to thin, revealing the burning skeleton of an old house next to a shoreline beneath.

"OMINIS, GET UP!" Another agonized cry from Sebastian fractured closer now.

Her dash halted abruptly as she spotted a figure standing near the inferno around 70 feet away from the treeline — not Sebastian, whose voice came from a different direction entirely. The silhouette stood unnaturally dark against the blazing light behind it, like pure void cut into the night.

Instinct screamed at her to hide — she knew this feeling. A half-burned oak loomed nearby, its scorched trunk thick enough to conceal her. She pressed herself against the blackened bark, forcing herself to peer around it despite her rapid breathing.

The figure's movements made her squint behind her glasses — it stood facing the burning house, wrapped in a hooded cloak with its posture marked by subtle, unsettling twitches and spasms. But what froze her blood was the dark mass sprawled at its feet — long and still, stretched across the ground like... like a body. Someone lay there, surrounded by scorched blades of grass, blackened by ash and soot.

Her lips parted soundlessly as she leaned forward, desperate to make out details through the harsh contrast of flame and shadow. As her eyes adjusted, details emerged with horrifying clarity. Blood-streaked skin. A face was turned slightly towards her, with dark blond strands partially obscuring the clouded, sightless eyes — eyes that had never seen the world. She watched desperately for any rise and fall of his chest, but found none. Her stomach plummeted.

Before the terrified sob could escape Eliza's throat, a frantic rustling drew her attention right. Her lower lip quivered as she recognized Sebastian, dragging himself through the grass and struggling to wipe away blood that poured from his forehead across one eye. His breathing bordered on sobs — hoarse, raw sounds that tore from his lungs as he pushed himself into a sitting position near the treeline, and twisted towards the house with a pained grunt.

An old rifle in his hands groaned as he raised it, steadying his breath to aim at the figure by the fire. The gunshot cracked through the night like thunder, making Eliza convulse against the trunk, eyes squeezed shut in terror. When she forced them open again, she saw the bullet had missed — and the figure froze, then straightened. Slowly, deliberately, it turned its head back, towards Sebastian — and Eliza saw it. The face beneath the hood.

That pale, exhausted face with hollows under eyes that rivalled the smouldering coals scattered across the ground. Those eyes blazed crimson through wet tangles of black hair — savage yet unnervingly steady. Focused.

It advanced on Sebastian with slow but decisive steps, each movement declaring intent. Sebastian's bloodied hands wrestled with the steel handle protruding from the rifle's side, but the mechanism groaned, refusing to cooperate as the figure advanced. When he finally forced it back into place and pulled the trigger again — only a hollow click answered. Depleted, he scrambled backwards across the grass, his elbows scraping the soil while his feet pushed weakly against the ground, desperate for distance.

Every fibre of Eliza's being screamed to help him, save him, do something — but terror had her muscles locked in place as she froze against her hiding spot. That ancient, animal part of her brain recognized death when it saw it — prey-instinct forced her to stagger back, spine pressing into rough bark. She couldn't watch this, couldn't bear to see Sebastian die.

Her hands clamped over her mouth, failing to contain the rising hysteria — childlike, panicked sobs that sent scalding tears down her freezing cheeks. She had to stay silent. If it heard her, she'd be next. Her trembling fingers pressed harder, desperately muffling each whimper while she strained to listen past her own terror. Why hadn't she heard Sebastian's death? Unless—

The blur of her peripheral vision proved too uncertain as she gathered what remained of her courage for one final glance around the trunk. She turned—

—and found it there, mere inches from her face, mirroring her peeking position from the opposite side of the tree. A single blood-red eye pierced her from behind hanging strands of hair, while half of its mouth twisted into something inhuman — unnatural, impossible, wrong. A smile that shouldn't exist.

Eliza's body convulsed in her bed, a strangled scream ripping from her chest as violent sobs shattered her breathing into fragments. Her attempts to calm her breaths dissolved into fresh tears. This was what Apocrypha's proximity did to her — after her disappearance from Hogwarts, Eliza's Sight had gone dormant. No visions. No prophecies. And certainly no nightmares like this. Now they crawled back like poison seeping into her mind, dragging her gift back to the surface only after mere hours under the same roof.

Fumbling through the quiet sobs, her fingers blindly found her glasses beside the pillow, though tears still warped her vision as she slipped them on. The reassuring shapes of her dormitory slowly showed through the darkness — the quiet, still room where Imelda and Nerida's calm breathing marked their sleep to her right.

Her head began to turn left, towards the bed that housed the source of her torment, but movement stopped her — a subtle shift in balance on her four-poster.

A weight. Something that shouldn't be there, pressing into her mattress.

She swallowed hard, turning with agonizing slowness towards the disturbance. The same animalistic fear locked her body when she saw it — two pinpricks of nearly luminescent green fixed on her from a shadowy mass sitting motionless beside her.

Before her lungs could draw breath to scream, a cold palm slammed over her mouth, muffling her shriek to a pathetic whimper. She thrashed against the weight suddenly bearing down on her, but another hand, just as icy, sealed her nose shut, cutting off her air supply completely.

Apocrypha's body pressed her down into the mattress to immobilize her movements, grip cruel on Eliza's jaw to keep it locked while maintaining the suffocating hold.

"Must've been a nice dream," she whispered.

Eliza's struggles grew weaker, fear and oxygen deprivation making her movements sluggish. Her attempts to scream escaped as nothing more than weak mewls — far too quiet to wake the others.

"Shhh," Apocrypha tightened her grip until pain shot through Eliza's jaw, fresh tears spilling down her temples as her lungs burned. "Listen carefully, because I'll only say this once. If I see you near Sebastian, or especially Ominis — I will kill you. That's a promise."

A desperate whine escaped Eliza as she jerked her head sideways, making Apocrypha's fingers, slick with tears, slip just enough for one shallow gasp before she violently clamped her nose shut again.

"I will kill you," she whispered through clenched teeth. "I'll keep you conscious while I tie a rock to your feet. Then I'll stand on that same dock where you tried to murder Sebastian, and watch you suffocate in the Black Lake. No one will ever find your body." She pressed harder, as if trying to burry Eliza's head in her own pillow. "Not that anyone would look. Even fleas wouldn't mourn you."

Eliza's resistance turned frenzied — desperate mewling sounds escaping through Apocrypha's fingers as her nails scraped uselessly against the hands cutting off her air. Her legs kicked weakly against the sheets.

"Am I making myself clear?" The whisper came out as a hiss.

Eliza's head bobbed in rapid, panicked nods, her tear-filled eyes flying open to meet the steady look of viridian in front of her. Those green eyes stared down at her from beneath heavy lids, set in a face that showed nothing but exhausted focus while watching her suffer.

"Good."

Apocrypha maintained her grip, watching Eliza's silent struggle for several more endless seconds without air. Then she drove her weight down one final time, crushing Eliza into the mattress before abruptly releasing her.

Once free, Eliza gasped for breath — but before she could recover, cold fingers slid under her nightshirt's collar. With deliberate slowness, Apocrypha drew out a delicate golden chain. A small cross dangled from it before she placed it to rest on her palm while studying the pendant with open revulsion.

A bitter, barely-there smirk twisted her features before she tossed the cross back on Eliza's panting chest. Without another word, she rose and turned away from the bed.

Chapter Text

The Album Leaf — Spiral of Memories

"So, your mother approved of Garreth then?"

"You know him," Natsai shrugged with a warm smile on her lips. "All charm and smiles and that sweet awkwardness of his. Who wouldn't fall for it?" She glanced sideways at her friend. "Well, except for you, of course."

They sat on the soft grass of the flying class lawn, watching the descending sun paint the sky in deep oranges and purples. The warm autumn breeze played with Natsai's hair, golden rays catching on her beautiful dark skin. Around them, students dotted the vast grounds in small groups — some first years practising basic wand movements near the edge of the field, others sprawled on the grass with their textbooks, enjoying their rest after classes.

"What is it about the tactile thing, anyway?" Natsai asked after a moment. "I've always respected your boundaries, but you never explained."

Apocrypha looked at her questioningly, then twisted the corner of her mouth, uncertain how to process such a direct question.

"I don't know. It's just... feeling someone touch me makes me want to crawl out of my skin." She made a peeling motion with her hands, then mimed hanging up clothing with a light hum. "Just take it off and hang it somewhere to dry, like a wet suit."

Natsai's soft chuckle carried no judgment. "It's unusual for people our age, but it gives you some uniqueness."

"I'm hardly unique," Apocrypha huffed. "More like being defective."

"Don't say that," her friend protested gently. "What's wrong with being a bit different?"

Apocrypha offered her a bitter smile. "I'd rather be normal."

"You are normal," Natsai said firmly. "Maybe you just need some more time — you only turned eighteen this summer, right?"

Her classmate nodded, absently plucking at the grass.

"Plenty of time to catch up then." She shifted to face her companion. "Did you get anything nice for your birthday?"

"We don't celebrate it." Apocrypha shrugged simply. "Haven't since I turned eleven. Family rule — we don't mention it."

Genuine surprise flickered across Natsai's face as her eyebrows bent upwards. "Is it okay to ask why?"

Apocrypha shook her head, then seemed to catch herself, consciously forcing her tone to lighten. "I'm the one who doesn't like it. Mother and I have an agreement — I'm just a bit more tolerant to being held then. She can hug me, just like when I leave for Hogwarts or come back home. On some special occasions too."

Natsai pressed her lips together mutedly, noting how even Apocrypha's own parent faced such strict boundaries around touch.

"Well, it's good to know you're not completely untouchable," she said instead.

"Of course I'm not. I even let Ominis hold me." Apocrypha straightened, chest puffing with unexpected pride as she triumphantly held up two fingers. "Twice! And willingly. Sebastian too — one time and a half." She waggled her fingers to emphasize the count.

Natsai laughed at this uncharacteristic display. "Should I be jealous? We've never shared anything like that."

Apocrypha fell quiet, suddenly thoughtful. Her eyes darted upwards, then side to side in that familiar way they did when she was deep in thought.

"No, I don't think you should be jealous," she said finally. "I think... after being away so long, I wouldn't be too uncomfortable if you touched me a bit."

Natsai made a small surprised sound, tilting her head curiously. "Really? You mean that?"

At Apocrypha's nod, she lifted her hand slowly, making sure her friend could track the movement. Her palm hovered near Apocrypha's forearm, but seeing her mouth twist into a tight, telltale line, Natsai redirected to her shoulder blade instead. The touch was gentle, careful — she felt her friend's muscles tense for a moment before gradually unwinding under her palm. Encouraged, Natsai smiled and pressed more firmly, rubbing soothing circles across her back.

"Not too much?"

Apocrypha smacked her lips, letting out that rare, awkward chuckle of hers. "Almost... nice, actually. You're very warm."

Natsai's smile twisted adoringly. "You're making good progress."

It was true. Watching Apocrypha now, Natsai could hardly believe this was the same girl who'd stumbled into fifth-year Charms, hovering at the edges of the classroom like a cornered animal searching for escape. Or at least melt into the stonework. Back then, she'd barely managed eye contact, let alone conversation — even basic interaction seemed to overwhelm her. She'd flinch at sudden noises, dodge questions with terse nods, retreat into herself at the slightest hint of attention.

Now here she sat in the open, steady and present, voluntarily discussing something as personal as her aversion to touch, maintaining dialogue and showing those brief flashes of genuine emotion. The change was remarkable — especially in how she'd learned to form connections with others, however cautiously. The wary distance that used to surround her like a shield had softened, the constant undercurrent of suspicion — faded, at least around Natsai, replaced by something closer to trust. Even these tiny displays of emotion — the small laughs, the occasional pride in her voice — would have been unthinkable two years ago. Small steps perhaps, but in this specific case, they were massive leaps forward.

Apocrypha cleared her throat awkwardly.

"I really appreciate it," she mumbled. "You being so patient. Never rushing me into anything."

Natsai continued the gentle strokes along her spine. "Not hard when it's about a good friend. And you really are one, you know."

Her classmate caught her upper lip between her teeth, pulling it inward in that self-conscious gesture she sometimes made when praise made her uncomfortable. "I'm glad you're my friend."

"Me too," Natsai said warmly. "And hopefully I'll see more of your progress this year. Maybe even with some boy — if you want that someday."

Apocrypha exhaled a thoughtful noise, shoulders lifting in a slight shrug. "Never really thought about it."

"Really?" Natsai's eyebrows lifted. "You've never felt any of that natural pull towards the opposite gender?"

Another uncertain shrug answered her.

"Girls, perhaps?" She ventured carefully.

Apocrypha's eyes performed their familiar dance, darting side to side as she considered the possibility. She shook her head not long after.

"I don't get along with most girls anyway. Or people in general." She paused. "You, Sebastian, and Ominis just happened to be the exceptions I got lucky to have. I don't think I need anything else." Her voice grew quieter. "I'm content with where I am right now."

"There's always more to life," Natsai said, shifting away. She settled cross-legged in front of her friend, head tilted with a sly smile as she clicked her tongue. "I want to decipher you."

Apocrypha huffed, mirroring her head tilt with curiosity. "Decipher me?"

"Mm-hmm. Might uncover things you haven't realized yourself." Natsai rubbed her palms together with visible anticipation. "Let's start from afar — I've noticed you're alright with back touches but tense up about forearms. Is it because they're too close to your hands?"

Apocrypha considered this, looking down at her palms and turning them over thoughtfully. "Yes. Hands feel very intimate — too personal. Especially the centre of the palm. It... tingles when touched."

"What about shoulders then?"

Apocrypha's fingers drifted unconsciously to her left shoulder, a slight frown twisting her brows at the thought.

"Too close to the neck. That's intimate too. And vulnerable — lots of important arteries there, main blood supply to the brain—" She stopped abruptly, hand moving to touch the back of her neck beneath her hair. A small swallow followed as realization dawned — Sebastian had cupped it just yesterday during their embrace. She blinked rapidly, composing herself. "Trust this place to a wrong person and you're dead. Even pressure points there could—"

"Oh, come off it!" Natsai threw her hands up, laughing. "You can't just categorize your body parts by mortality risk! Touch is meant to comfort you, make you feel safe. Sometimes it can make your heart race a bit."

Apocrypha's face settled into those familiar lines of scepticism, though her hand lingered briefly at her nape before dropping.

"The idea of comfort clouds people's judgment too much. Makes them careless." She straightened, shoulders squaring. "They let their guard down, expose themselves... Next thing you know, they're wondering how they missed all the warning signs."

"That's true, there's always a risk," Natsai said carefully. "But those thoughts shouldn't have room when it's about people you trust, should they?"

Her friend offered a rueful smile, nodding despite her obvious reluctance to concede the point.

Natsai brightened at this small victory and leaned forward. "Now, what about your face? I reckon that's out of bounds?"

"Yes," Apocrypha confirmed. "Though the sides of my head are fine. When Ominis held me, I used them to respond. Saved having to use hands."

"That's quite clever, actually." Natsai rubbed her own temples thoughtfully. "Guess I won't even bother asking how you feel about kissing."

Apocrypha's face scrunched up immediately, shoulders hunching as if she was trying to make herself smaller. A visible shudder ran through her body, accompanied by an uncomfortable grunt that only made Natsai laugh harder.

Behind that theatrical reaction, however, lurked a darker memory of the incident back at the Ministry — Osborn's teeth, blood mixing between their mouths, his unwanted hands forcing themselves where they didn't belong, gripping what they shouldn't have. The recollection felt like a stain she could never wash away, something to be buried deep and never spoken of. Her shoulders tensed further as she fought the urge to physically withdraw from the conversation, that familiar impulse to hide rising up like bile in her throat.

"Right, let's drop the kissing topic — bit extreme for you, I can see that," Natsai said quickly, the shift in Apocrypha's demeanour making her change tactics. "What if we discuss something gentler — theoretical scenarios? Since hands can be considered the least 'vulnerable', as you put it — maybe we could explore small touches there? Away from the palm centre?"

Apocrypha wrapped her arms around herself defensively. "Like... how Garreth intertwines your fingers with his when you walk together?"

"Oh no, that'd be too much — palms touching and all. But what about just..." Natsai demonstrated with her own hands, gently taking the top joint of her index finger between her other fingers. "One finger? Like this? Could you imagine someone doing this to you without too much discomfort? In a quiet moment, with someone safe — not family, mind."

Apocrypha looked away, her eyes returning to their characteristic pattern of movement, darting side to side as she processed imaginary scenarios. She squinted at some thoughts, let out soft grunts at others, gaze bouncing between invisible options. Then suddenly, it fixed on a spot in the grass, and her expression gradually settled into that usual neutrality.

Natsai stared at her friend's face, focus narrowing on her body response visible in the black dots framed by thick viridian. The telltale dilation of Apocrypha's pupils made her smile fade slowly, soon replaced by lips-parting shock.

"Merlin help us all," she breathed. "You do fancy someone that way." She shuffled closer, dropping her voice to an excited whisper. "Is it someone from the Ministry?"

"What? No." Apocrypha's face twisted with disgust. "You're being ridiculous."

Natsai laughed, clearly having anticipated this defensive response. "Eyes never lie."

"I've already told you what the Ministry was about," her friend sighed. "Training. Stabilizing my magic. There wasn't time for any of this nonsense then — and there isn't now."

"You seem plenty stable to me." Natsai shrugged. "Honestly, you should enjoy your last year with friends. And perhaps relax more — you've been grimmer since coming back, even if you're a bit more sociable now."

"That's an advantage then." Apocrypha's shoulders loosened slightly. "I can interact more freely now, without so much fear. And I'm more skilled, thanks to the Ministry's care."

It was the same story she'd given Ominis and Sebastian in the Undercroft earlier, the one she'd repeated to Natsai several times after lessons. The rehearsed tale: lost in the Forbidden Forest, luckily found by Aurors securing the grounds, then willingly taken under Ministry supervision, and now being safely and generously returned to complete her studies. Sebastian hadn't believed a word, Ominis even less so — but they'd stopped pressing for the day after seeing how the topic visibly pained her. At least Natsai hadn't voiced any suspicions about Osborn's involvement — or chose not to.

"Tsk." Her friend clicked her tongue good-naturedly. "So who is it then? Someone from school? Is he nice to you?"

Apocrypha rolled her eyes evasively. "Hard to say for now."

Natsai chuckled at that. "See? I was right — told you you'd catch up with the rest eventually. Now, what about—"

"Natty!" Garreth's voice cut across the grounds.

They turned to see him waving by the castle gates, Deputy Headmistress standing beside him with a serene smile and hands clasped behind her back.

"We need to finish this chat next chance we get alone," Natsai said quietly, waving back at her partner. "He's gotten dead clingy since we got back to Hogwarts — won't let me out of his sight for some reason."

Apocrypha nodded absently, not focusing too closely on that detail. "I understand. We'll catch another moment to talk."

They both rose from the grass, brushing off their robes.

"And you're telling me every single detail about this mysterious someone next time," Natsai said, already stepping away and giving a final wave before heading towards Garreth. "See you later!"

Apocrypha lingered, watching the couple for a moment before turning to see Professor Weasley approaching her.

"Miss Blackwood," the Deputy Headmistress said once she'd reached her. "Are you adjusting back well?"

"Yes, thank you, professor." Apocrypha replied politely. "It's good to be back."

Matilda gestured for her to walk alongside, and they began a slow circuit of the grounds.

"I know it would be too much to press you for answers to all our concerns right now," she said after a short moment of silence. "But you should know, the professors — myself included — are here if you need support or help, just like last year. Professor Sharp, as your Head of House, has taken extra responsibility for your welfare."

"I appreciate that, professor," Apocrypha replied evenly. "But there's no real need. I'm quite alright, and I'll try to keep my marks up this year."

Weasley let the pause stretch between them before speaking again. "We both know your marks don't truly matter anymore, don't we?"

Apocrypha cleared her throat, eyes dropping to the ground as they walked. Matilda knew the truth — passing marks or not, her expulsion wasn't possible now. The Ministry would claim her after graduation regardless.

Weasley continued, "Since we can't change what's to come, I'd advise you to make the most of this final year. Keep close to your friends — both the ones you have, and potential new ones. People who might help you feel more at ease."

Apocrypha considered this. "Anyone in particular you're implying, professor?"

Matilda nodded. "Perhaps you should consider someone similar to yourself. Miss Kochanowska, for example. She's had to undergo a difficult adaptation as a foreign student, not to mention the language barrier. But she's shown great resilience and kindness."

Apocrypha lifted her head, studying the professor's expression. The woman's cognizant look made it clear — she knew. But how much? Long, tense silence stretched before she finally spoke.

"Kochanowska and I have nothing in common." The words came out sharper than she intended, bitterness and instant distrust worming their way into a previously polite tone. "Are you involved in this as well?"

Weasley sighed, guiding them to walk at a slower pace, away from potential eavesdroppers. "I don't know all the details, but I'm certain of one thing — there can be allies in the most unexpected of places. Even in the darkness of the Ministry."

The thought gnawed at Apocrypha — what kind of allies was Matilda even talking about? Implying she befriend Eliza, just to make her own future more bearable after Hogwarts? Absolutely not. She refused to even consider it, not after everything that harpy had done to her and her friends. Every one of Eliza's bright smiles irritated her nerves, that sweet high-pitched voice grated on her, and those seemingly innocent eyes and soft, feminine movements made her want to retch.

And what business was this of Weasley's? Was she on their side now? Or was this all a carefully constructed plot to try and slowly distance her from the tight circle of people she trusted? Was the professor in league with the Ministry, looking to isolate her further before the inevitable?

The questions chased her through the rest of the day, but she didn't dare voice them — nor to Sebastian when he returned from his Quidditch training that evening, nor during her library visit with Ominis.

Even her return to the dungeons not long before curfew did little to settle the nerves, but something else distracted her — the strange, unsettled feeling. It wasn't quite the anxiety, but something different – almost natural but still foreign, persistent yet beckoning. An odd pull — towards the ground, the floors. Her feet seemed to detect occasional subtle vibrations from the stone, yet she seemed to be the only one who noticed them. The vibrations would come and go, but that strange pull remained whenever she was in the Slytherin dungeons. Strangely, she couldn't sense it anywhere else in the castle.

In the girls' dorm that evening, however, the feeling went suspiciously quiet.

Imelda stretched, beginning to unbutton her uniform shirt. "So, Blackwood, how's it feel being back? You've missed out on loads — the gossip's been flying about after you did a runner."

Apocrypha's face soured as she looked over at Imelda from her bed, already nestled under the blankets. "What kind of gossip?"

"Oh! They said you were kidnapped!" Nerida piped up, eyes wide with excitement. "Was that true? And what about the Ministry bit? The professors spun us all the same yarn — that you were taken away because of what happened last year."

"The kidnapping part's rubbish." Apocrypha shook her head calmly, practised lie coming out with no resistance. "The Ministry bit is true, though — but nothing bad happened, so the previous rumours can finally die out." Her eyes briefly flickered to her roommates as she mimicked Imelda's words from last year. "No more 'victims' of my 'weird magic', right?"

Imelda scoffed, pulling on her pyjama shirt. "You should've twigged why we had our concerns — all that destruction beneath the school at the end of fifth year, professor Fig's death, and then the Aurors swarming the place."

Apocrypha nodded, staring at an empty spot on her bed. She couldn't really blame any of them. It was human nature — being wary of things that seemed unsafe, unexplainable, unpredictable.

"You can sleep sound," she said simply. "I'm not dangerous."

Nerida looked at her sympathetically. "What did they do to you then? Take away your magic? Haven't seen your wand anywhere, even in Defence today."

Their roommate shrugged, tone evasive. "Something like that. I'm not allowed to do magic for now."

Apocrypha scratched her ear absently, mouth twisting as her eyes drifted from one side of the room to the other, not settling on anything in particular. The low vibration she'd felt before returned — starting faint but gradually intensifying until she covered both ears to focus on the sensation more closely. It felt as if something was beneath the floor, something low-pitched but loud. If it could travel through so many layers of stone, whatever it was had to be enormous.

Nerida's voice broke through her concentration. "Is something wrong?"

Ignoring the question, Apocrypha slid off her bed, dropping herself to the floor and pressing her ear against it.

Imelda peered from behind the four-poster, uncertain. "What are you doing?"

"Shh!" Apocrypha hissed irritably, pressing half her face harder against the cold stone and straining to listen.

Nerida glanced uncertainly between them before questioningly looking at Imelda, who merely shrugged.

"Blackwood's being weird again," she whispered. "Nothing new."

Just then the door burst open and Eliza stormed in, freezing at the sight before her — Imelda perched with a raised eyebrow, Nerida hovering at the edge of her bed, and her least liked roommate sprawled on the floor.

Apocrypha's eyes snapped to Eliza and she rose slowly, maintaining intense eye contact while brushing off her nightshirt.

"See something interesting, do you?" she asked tightly.

"Ah, n-no, I just— I had lovely time with Eleanor f-from Hufflepuff today," Eliza stammered, breaking eye contact and hurrying to her bed. "We were in library, studying Charms."

"Oh, Eleanor Quinton?" Nerida chimed in, sensing the sudden shift in the mood. "She's quite good at Charms, isn't she?"

The conversation quickly faded to the background and Apocrypha crawled back into bed, watching Eliza change from her pillow. The neat bowtie came off first, then those dainty boots beneath her uniform skirt. The vintage shirt unbuttoned to reveal a full bra above the smooth skin dotted with freckles.

Out so late — where had she been? Probably running to her precious brother to tell about last night's confrontation. No doubt whinging about how Apocrypha had threatened her. The thought made her roll her eyes privately — she'd undoubtedly hear about this from Osborn himself tonight.

Max Richter — Space 17 (Pt. 1 — Pt. 10)

Unlike previous nights when Eliza's annoying chatter had kept them awake until the early hours, tonight their room fell into an unnatural silence, all lamps extinguished well before midnight. Time slipped by too quickly for Apocrypha's liking — she despised how the stillness and darkness lulled her towards sleep, though she managed to keep her mind alert enough to resist. Mostly by watching Eliza's face across the room, though she doubted the girl was truly asleep.

When the time came, Apocrypha slowly sat on her bed, bare feet touching the cold floor. She tried curling her toes against it, searching for that earlier sensation, but the stone remained unnervingly still. Nothing. Even in the deafening quiet.

She twisted her neck to ease the stiffness from lying still so long, and then abruptly turned her head towards Eliza's bed, catching the briefest glimpse of her barely-open eyelids before they snapped shut with a tiny, involuntary jerk. Watching her — must have heard the rustle of fabric as their asset rose.

Standing, she located her old sweater and basic trousers, then hesitated at the sight of her boots. An ugly thought surfaced uninvited as she glanced back at Eliza — the boots would be too noisy for what she planned. So she left her feet bare before starting to slowly stalk towards Eliza's bed, observing the slight twitches of her eyelids as she feigned sleep.

She couldn't quite identify the source of this feeling — this somehow welcome desire to hurt her, to hurt Osborn, to hurt everyone in this room if it would only fill the strange emptiness that had settled in her since returning to Hogwarts. It was a necrotic, ominous urge — to select the weaker target, one who couldn't fight back effectively, one she could easily overpower. Someone as weak and naive as a child.

Reaching the bed across the room, she leaned over the girl's head, holding her breath as she brought their faces uncomfortably close. When she eventually exhaled, Eliza's eyes flew open before squeezing shut with a squeak, muffled by the blanket she clutched to her mouth like a child hiding from monsters.

For some reason, Apocrypha couldn't suppress the twisted smile this reaction provoked — it was exactly what she'd hoped for. The part of her that harboured such raw hatred for Osborn's sister seemed insatiable and craved more: more of those terrified, gentle blue eyes, more of those small choking mewls from the previous night, more of that rabbit-quick heartbeat hammering beneath fragile ribs.

She leaned closer still, lips nearly touching Eliza's ear. "Going to be good and not follow me this time? There's no need — I'm just paying your dear brother a visit."

At Eliza's trembling nod, Apocrypha withdrew slowly and turned away. She made no effort to mask her footsteps now, sliding her boots on before quietly opening the door and slipping behind it.

The destructive urge followed her beyond the dungeons, persisting uncomfortably. This feeling was familiar somehow, this pattern felt known, this instinct to prey on weakness, taking advantage of it, didn't feel foreign to her mind or muscle memory. But why?

The corridors and staircases lay hushed and drowsy, broken only by occasional heel-clicks against the marble floors — Aurors making their security rounds. They paid her midnight walks little mind now, save for stern looks from faces she recognized from London. No stops, no questions about her wandering after curfew — just silence.

By the time she reached the upper levels, crossing the Central Hall staircase towards the DADA Tower, her thoughts had gradually shifted to Osborn waiting in Professor Fig's classroom. She hesitated briefly at the door before entering, passing between the short rows of student desks and ascending the stairs to the office where the door stood open.

Osborn glanced up as she appeared in the doorway. He leaned back in Fig's chair, fingers absently adjusting his rolled sleeves before he returned to drawing on his pipe. The unbuttoned collar of his black shirt showed a casual disregard for the formality of school uniforms — a habit he'd eagerly adopted since finishing his Gryffindor Prefect duties for the day.

The office had transformed entirely from Eleasar's tenure. Gone were his trademark chaos — the towering stacks of books and research journals that once created a maze across the floor while threatening to topple, scrolls spilling from every drawer, runic diagrams coating the walls, and the perpetually overflowing desk where he'd spend nights scribbling his notes and theories. Even his beloved collection of carved runes and ancient artifacts had vanished from their previous perches.

Now the room stood stark and clinical, almost austere with half-drawn heavy curtains at the windows — books standing at rigid attention on the shelves, arranged alphabetically, documents in perfect stacks precisely aligned on the desk beside a solitary lamp. The dying fireplace behind Osborn cast weak shadows, completing the mirror image of his Ministry office.

He exhaled a perfect circle of smoke into the air between them, breaking the silence. "Not going to tell me 'how dare you sit where he sat' or anything like that?"

Apocrypha shook her head simply and closed the distance to the desk.

"Let's get on with it so we can be done for the day," she said woodenly.

The occasional memory checks were part of the bargain for her return to Hogwarts. Though she loathed them, they were inevitable — Osborn, shrewd and calculating as he was, would eventually discover if she let any significant information slip. Especially to her friends.

Osborn stretched theatrically and gestured to the chair before his desk.

"Have a seat," he said casually while restocking his pipe with tobacco. "Word has it you've given my little sister quite a fright."

Apocrypha dropped into the chair with a scoff. "Has she snitched on me to you already?"

Osborn placed the pipe between his lips, touching the match to the tobacco.

"Mm-hmm," he hummed playfully around the stem. "Left quite an impression on her, you did. Even brought her stutter back. Took us years to help her overcome that."

"I won't have her poking about in my business," Apocrypha muttered bitterly.

Osborn took a long drag, shrugging. "Never asked you to put up with her — can be bloody irritating sometimes, I know. Just don't go overboard with the scaring bit."

"That wasn't part of the deal," his charge stated flatly.

"Ah ah ah," Osborn wagged his index finger softly. "Eliza's safety is always part of the deal. I'd hate for things to get complicated if anything happened to her."

Apocrypha huffed with clear annoyance. "Your precious sister can stay safe enough if she keeps her long nose out of—"

"Anything where Gaunt is concerned?" Osborn finished knowingly.

Her mouth tightened and she looked away, the reaction telling enough. Osborn chuckled at her discomfort.

"There's no standing order for Eliza to stay close to your precious Ominis anymore — that ended the moment you were brought to the Ministry." He exhaled the smoke through his nose. "So whatever attachment they share now is quite genuine. Their summer correspondence was rather prolific — so many letters..."

He cut himself off, yet couldn't quite suppress a small laugh as he watched those green eyes widen in confusion before darkening with anger. Before she could argue, he raised his hand.

"Murdering Eliza isn't an option — unless you'd prefer dear Sebastian to take the fall. Best accept it."

Apocrypha exhaled slowly, staring back at him with pure disgust written plain across her face before finally looking away again. Osborn observed her while taking shallow puffs from his pipe, then clicked his tongue.

"Speaking of attachments — had the pleasure of witnessing your little display of affection by the Great Hall yesterday. Tactile already?" His lips formed an exaggerated pout. "I'm jealous."

Truth be told, the statement wasn't entirely theatrical — not that he wanted that level of trust from her, yet watching her with her friends tugged at something within him. He harboured no particular interest in whether she developed deeper-than-platonic feelings for anyone, nor did he care if she felt the same inexplicable way towards him. Reciprocity wasn't part of this equation — he understood that clearly, knowing it would fundamentally alter the entire dynamic between them, no matter how deviant it remained. What he knew with absolute certainty, however, was his desire to prevent anyone else having her like this, anyone else seeing her the way he did.

It was an intangible, twisted, but clearly developing feeling — one he still couldn't quite define.

He cleared his throat and clapped his hands, rising to circle the desk to where Apocrypha sat. "Right then, we've work to do."

Osborn watched as she reclined in the chair, as had become routine, her eyes hooding while she stared vacantly ahead. Resting his free hand on the back of her chair, he raised his wand with the other as the incantation left his lips even and clear. "Legilimens."

Images surfaced and twisted, melting together without resistance until Osborn could disentangle the necessary memories from the swirling chaos of scenes, voices, and sensations. He observed her evasive answers and a rehearsed story told to Sallow and Gaunt in their hiding place — the secret room with an entrance on the ground floor of Turris Magnus, according to his sister's report. He noted the suspicions and blurry accusations Sebastian threw his way, caught fragments of their frustrated exchanges, before the memories shifted to focus on a dark-skinned girl with a bright smile.

While this was meant to be a quick, careful check for any breach of classified information — which he was fairly certain hadn't occurred — another part of him couldn't resist delving deeper. He knew lingering too long in her mind risked safety complications, but he found himself unable to keep this temptation at bay, craving to witness first-hand Apocrypha's display of that precious violent emotion while threatening his sister. Eliza's story wasn't sufficient enough — he needed to see it himself. And there it was, visceral and raw, almost tangible — his sibling nearly suffocating under Apocrypha's palm, terrified wet eyes staring upwards, the sound of feet scuffling in desperate struggle.

The satisfaction it brought him was troubling, yet he recognized these violent recollections with the Ministry asset were rapidly becoming his addiction. More and more frequently, he caught himself fixating on them, meticulously cataloguing every brutal detail about her until these memories morphed into elaborate daydream scenarios. Specifically, scenarios of what she might do to him. He couldn't deny how the mere thought made his blood rush south, though this particular reaction remained his closely guarded secret.

Curiosity drove him deeper into her recent memories from the passed day's events, searching for fresh material to feed this strange hunger. A subtle resistance gave him pause — she'd been trained never to fight the process, yet this barrier felt different. It wasn't coming directly from her. Oddly, he found certain memory fragments, specifically concerning her time in the Slytherin dungeons, incomplete or conspicuously empty, blank — not torn away completely, but rather selectively erased, like some redacted text.

The discovery was unexpected and strange. Apocrypha had absolutely no skill in Occlumency, and certainly couldn't have mastered it under the strict supervision of the past six months. As far as he knew — and his knowledge was extensive — she possessed neither the ability to change or erase her own memories to such blankness, nor had any talent for concealment. Someone else's work?

Deciding further probing would be too risky, he withdrew from her mind, expression thoughtful. He lingered behind her chair for a brief moment before slowly making his way back to the desk. "Had any interactions with suspicious characters back in London? Or more importantly, anyone questionable here?"

Apocrypha rubbed her temple, clearly dizzy from the intrusion. "No. Just classmates, some professors, and the Deputy Headmistress."

Osborn hummed softly, giving a small nod. He settled into a contemplative pose, elbows resting on the desk with fingers interlaced before him and chin balanced atop them as he stared absently ahead.

"Yes, I've seen Weasley in your memories," he muttered. "Perhaps you ought to heed her advice. Insufferably stubborn and dreadfully nosy about Ministry affairs, that one, but wise nonetheless."

"Don't start with that 'allies' rubbish," Apocrypha scoffed, then looked at him with a raised eyebrow. "Something wrong?"

Osborn shook his head, still lost in thought yet choosing to keep his suspicions to himself. "Your head's clear. Well done."

In private reflection, he concluded that Weasley couldn't — and wouldn't — have done this. It didn't align with her interests, and moreover, the blank spaces in Apocrypha's memories were too brief, mere moments scattered seemingly at random throughout her consciousness like missing puzzle pieces.

Too absorbed in analysing the possible causes and scenarios of this strange breach, Osborn failed to notice his charge hadn't left. Typically, she requested permission to leave the moment they finished, but now she sat watching him, clearly expecting something else. Several minutes slipped by in silence before he finally registered her waiting presence.

"Hmm?" He glanced up at her face, quickly shifting his demeanour back to its characteristic sly, snarky state. "Staying because you enjoy my company, are you? Because I do enjoy yours."

Apocrypha's expression transformed into a mixture of defiance and clear confusion at his words.

"I need permission to access the Map Chamber," she stated as if it should have been obvious.

Osborn's eyebrows rose.

"Why?" he asked bluntly.

She blinked at that, then glanced aside thoughtfully. She'd been certain Osborn had seen it in her memories — her evident distress whenever she felt those vibrations from beneath the floor. Her request to enter the Map Chamber should have made perfect sense, despite her expecting it to come from Osborn himself. Hadn't he seen anything? How could that possibly slip? Was this why he never mentioned anything about her dreams? About the thing she'd seen, even after the incident on the bank rooftop? Her memory had been examined by several skilled Ministry Legilimens that day, Osborn included, yet the questions she'd been prepared to deflect never came.

Apocrypha weighed her options carefully: a lie would be detected instantly, while complete honesty might label her unstable, ensuring permanent removal from the school and everything she held dear. She needed middle ground — something that would grant her access past the heavily guarded gates to the lower levels of the castle, now impossible to infiltrate. Unlike last year, sneaking through with Sebastian and Ominis wasn't feasible given the increased security.

She cleared her throat, preparing a half-lie. "I believe I've sensed the remains of Ancient Magic beneath the castle — smaller storages, perhaps. Ones the Ministry might have overlooked during the previous sweep. With access, I could confirm their location for extraction."

Osborn studied her face while leaning his cheekbone against his fist, searching for deception in her expression.

"Why so cooperative all of a sudden?" he smirked.

The suspicion in his voice prompted her to retreat to a safer territory — bluffing, a skill she'd apparently absorbed from Osborn himself.

"If you don't want my cooperation, who am I to insist?" She shrugged, rising from her chair and turning away. "May I go now?"

"No," Osborn stated simply, watching her still obediently.

He leaned back in his chair once more, retrieving his forgotten pipe from the desk and relighting it before taking quick puffs while considering the situation. The girl clearly had ulterior motives, but what? Simple curiosity? Then again, if additional storages did exist beneath the school, it would benefit the Ministry considerably — more research material meant more potential information to supplement their existing knowledge. Additionally, they'd never searched with her assistance before, and given she was the only known specimen capable of detecting this particular magic, refusing to utilize her abilities could be considered scientifically negligent. Osborn wasn't the one to ignore such an opportunity.

"I'll grant you access to the Chamber," he finally said. "But on one condition — I'm coming with you."

Apocrypha remained facing away, concealing the nervous swallow that betrayed her anxiety. Osborn's presence hadn't been part of her plan. But what had she expected, offering information so impulsively? That he wouldn't follow? That he wouldn't investigate personally?

But what if something significant happened at her contact with the Chamber and he discovered something he shouldn't? Her stomach lurched at the thought — refusing now would only heighten his suspicions, likely triggering another official investigation of the area. And who knew what — or who — waited there, calling to her so insistently?

Squeezing her fingers behind her back, she forced steadiness into her voice. "Agreed. When?"

Osborn stood, drawing a few deep inhales from his pipe before leaving it on his desk again. "Why wait? We could go right now."

He crossed the room to where she stood and stopped in front of her, eager to witness the expected hesitation on her face. As anticipated, it was plainly visible. He leaned down close to her, smiling as she bent backwards to maintain distance with his taller figure. A satisfied huff escaped him.

"What's the matter?" he asked playfully. "Not eager to go now? Or perhaps you haven't properly prepared your excuses for accessing restricted areas yet? If you simply wanted private time with me, you need only ask. I so hate denying you anything — quite the advantage you have there."

Apocrypha's face contorted in visible disgust at that.

"There's no reason not to go now," she stated, deftly sliding sideways to circle around him before moving to the door.

Osborn's answering chuckle followed her as he shrugged and fell into step behind her. They traversed the castle in silence, passing patrolling pairs of Aurors who offered polite nods that Osborn returned with casual acknowledgment. The security presence grew denser as they descended — Ministry personnel populated nearly every corridor, their numbers increasing with each level down.

The most formidable security detail — four men cloaked in strict Ministry robes — spotted them quickly from their position by the rusty gates. Even as the distance closed, their expressions remained stern and impassive, yet notably hostile when regarding Apocrypha.

Osborn's manner shifted to exaggerated politeness as his arm circled Apocrypha's shoulders in a dramatic side-embrace, pulling her against him with theatrical flair.

"Our colleague here claims she can provide something of value to the Ministry," he announced with rehearsed cheerfulness. "We'll need access through."

The two guards nearest to the gates moved in perfect unison while another produced the charmed key, unlocking the entrance before stepping aside with military stiffness.

"After you," Osborn offered with an insufferable flourish, extending his arm in an exaggerated gentleman's gesture.

He watched as his charge slipped past him with visible annoyance, and paused next to the gates. His playful demeanour vanished for just a moment, that feigned levity dropping away to finally show cold professionalism beneath the act as he leaned to one of the guards.

"Be ready," he muttered strictly before slipping through the gates as well.

ICA — Monstrous Doom

Osborn caught up with her as they silently made their way through the wide stone corridor, eventually reaching a spacious, seemingly empty chamber. The floor responded to Apocrypha's nearness, and the stones shifted to reveal a spiralling staircase that descended into the gloom with a low, resonant rumble.

As they made their way down, Osborn broke the silence. "Did you, Sallow, and Gaunt discover anything of interest during your unsanctioned expedition here last time?"

Apocrypha faltered mid-step, keeping her eyes forward. "Why ask? You must have seen it all in my memories — that one couldn't have escaped the extraction."

Osborn huffed softly as they reached the bottom of the stairs where the passage opened into a narrower corridor, stretching straight ahead towards a sealed door.

"You're right — but I didn't learn about this particular visit from your memories," he stated calmly, as if this too should have been obvious. "I was the one who allowed it. Practically authorized it, you might say."

"What?" Apocrypha stopped abruptly, turning to stare at him with a deep frown. "How the bloody hell was this your doing?"

He halted and turned to face her, tilting his head with a satisfied grin. "The gates weren't locked last time, were they? Didn't you find it odd how ridiculously easy someone as professional and experienced as Aurors allowed your little group to distract them and reach the entrance?"

She swallowed hard, confusion evident in her parted lips. "They knew. You knew. Why?"

Osborn nodded and resumed walking. "Back then, we weren't certain what you were. I was curious to see if anything would come of it. Rather fortunate nothing did — had we known your nature earlier, I would've never let you attempt this little stunt. Who knows what might have happened?"

Apocrypha followed in silence, eyes fixed on the approaching door while her mind raced. What did he mean, 'nothing did'? If that memory was extracted, surely he'd seen everything they'd discovered — the additional room beneath the balcony, the Keeper's belongings, Rackham's diary, those rusty sewing shears embedded in the strange canvas.

"Open the door," Osborn's voice cut through her thoughts.

She blinked, finding herself already standing beside it, and hesitantly pressed her ear against the cold metal first to listen for what she'd heard before — that low rumble, the vibration that reminded her of a massive beehive buried somewhere deep below. But no sensation came.

She swayed uncertainly beside the door, gaze fixed on the prominent emblem. The metallic insignia of Ancient Magic that dominated its surface seemed to stare back at her with an unsettling intensity. Beckoning.

Open it. Nothing bad is going to happen.

An abrupt, inexplicable sensation of safety and confidence arrived from nowhere — as if she was welcome here. Was this place already messing with her mind?

Though she couldn't see Osborn's face, she felt him lean near with uncharacteristic silence — or what might've been his analytical patience, this scrutiny while he was watching and waiting for her next move. Driven by sudden impulse, she pushed the door lightly. It yielded and swung open without resistance, revealing a tall chamber illuminated by mounted torches. Four massive empty portraits hung on the far wall, while a vast spectral floor stretched below their elevated position.

Apocrypha entered slowly, eyes darting around frantically as she searched for anything Osborn shouldn't witness. Moving ahead of him with deliberate quickness, she opted for distraction through conversation — anything to secure at least a few precious seconds.

"How did the Ministry manage to search this place without my assistance?" she asked, keeping her voice steady while continuing forward.

Osborn sighed good-naturedly.

"You're becoming rather curious lately," he noted, yet started explaining nevertheless. "After some trial and error, we discovered that nearly any contact with Ancient Magic could open these doors. Used the samples recovered from Isidora."

As he spoke, Apocrypha descended the balcony, feigning casual observation while actually checking for any trace of the hidden room they'd discovered before. The space underneath the balcony remained solid wall — nothing. Good.

Osborn meandered around the chamber with his hands tucked into his trouser pockets, gazing up at the ceiling with affected disinterest. "Sensing anything? Any other storage areas?"

Apocrypha shook her head, staring down at the spectral floor with a slight frown. She shifted her weight from one foot to another experimentally, as if testing the surface beneath her.

"No," she said. "That's the problem. Perhaps we need to go deeper?"

Osborn strode slowly to the centre of the room where she stood, scanning their surroundings.

"The only place deeper than this is the Repository — and there's nothing left there. They turned every stone while clearing the destruction from the cavern collapse." He stopped, looking directly at her. "Expect something new might have appeared there?"

Apocrypha stared back at him for a moment, noting how one of his hands seemed to be balled into a fist inside his pocket. He was holding a wand.

"Nervous, are you?" she asked, deliberately mimicking his earlier head tilt.

A smirk crossed Osborn's face as he withdrew his hands from his pockets, displaying them in an exaggerated gesture of surrender. The handle of his wand indeed protruded visibly from his trouser pocket while he observed her with a mixture of fascination and unease — it was both intriguing and somewhat unsettling to witness his own mannerisms reflected in her movements. The way she'd replaced her previous lack of social navigation by adopting selected behavioural patterns from those around her, collecting, copying and integrating them into her own personality, excited him as much as concerned. She was learning to mirror social dynamics far more quickly than he'd anticipated.

"Should I be?" he asked smoothly.

She held his gaze steadily. "Not if the Repository is truly empty."

Osborn's chuckle echoed in the chamber.

"Perhaps we should verify that as well, while you're feeling cooperative. Accessing it will be rather complicated, though — Ranrok's drill damaged the structural integrity of the Keeper's Caverns quite severely during the invasion, and the Hogwarts foundations suffered just as much. Safety protocols restrict all access unless we discover an alternate route." He gestured towards the empty wall space to their right, beside San Bakar's portrait frame. "The door appeared there previously, didn't it?"

Apocrypha glanced where he indicated. "I won't be able to summon it. Not without a wand."

"Tut-tut," Osborn clicked his tongue, beginning to circle the space with measured steps as his tone gained the soft patience of an adult addressing a difficult child. "You do want a wand rather badly, don't you? But you know the rules — no magic until you demonstrate good behaviour."

"In that case, I can't help either of us," she responded flatly. "No access — no information."

A grin spread across Osborn's face as he recognized his own tactics of indirect pressure reflected back at him. The inflection in her voice, the calculated phrasing — it was precisely how he would have delivered such an ultimatum. But he hadn't maintained his position by allowing others to best him at his own game.

His expression shifted to an easy, almost gentle smile.

"In that case, we can all wait," he stated simply, lazily making his way back to the balcony. "We have plenty of time, don't we?"

Chapter Text

ICA — From Beyond

The memories always came in fragments — fractured, shattered, dispersed pieces waiting to be reassembled and put together. It never mattered who they belonged to: high-ranking Muggle officials who witnessed the forbidden, murderers bound for Azkaban's depths, or children hiding crucial imformation. The process remained constant. Gather the shards that intrusion had scattered.

Each attempt made the aftermath more difficult to process. Details began to blur and twist, melding together in unwanted combinations, and if not for the rigorous documentation habits instilled since early childhood, his sanity might have slipped away entirely by now. Yet even meticulous record-keeping couldn't stop the fragments from seeping in, targeting the dreams they seemed to experience specific interest for infiltration.

"Shut your trap and stand still. Nothing bad's going to happen to them."

The sound of a deep, rumbling male voice materialized through the fog as if dragged from underwater, bringing the images along with it — a woman's face, half-hidden behind trembling hands, shoulders quaking with suppressed sobs. A man's hand, marked with prominent veins, gripped her forearm with unmovable force.

"Please," she begged through tears, "I need to be with them. How can you not understand?"

The man seized her face with one large hand.

"We know what we're doing, woman. Now calm the bloody hell down before ye make it worse," he growled, harsh Scottish brogue vividly impatient.

The picture splintered and reformed like broken mirror shards, sharp-edged and reflective, before settling on a doorway where figures began receding into distance.

A small boy, no older than four, calmly clasped an adult's hand. He turned back towards the voices, brushing away a lock of deep auburn hair that fell across his hooded eyes — that same unnaturally bright viridian, peering out from beneath the falling strands of mahogany sheen. The adult beside him glanced back as well — grey, wrinkled eyes set beneath equally grey brows, wearing an expression of disconcerting gentleness. Fig.

"Where are you taking them?" The woman thrashed against the hold, her voice rising to a hysterical pitch as she clawed at the restraining hand. "What are you doing to my children? They're too young for this — you can't do this to them!" Her voice cracked as she tried to reach the doorway with desperate, uncoordinated movements, hair whipping across her tear-streaked face.

The man's fingers closed around her throat with sudden violence. He drew in a sharp breath, clearly preparing to shout, when a small voice cut through.

"Mama?"

Next to Fig, where another adult stood guard, a tiny figure showed up cautiously. Long dark hair, black as coal, fell in messy strands around a small face, and beneath them, the same otherworldly viridian watched the scene with a deep, instinctive distrust — so markedly different from her brother's more composed, though clearly distressed demeanour. The wariness in her eyes appeared ingrained, as though she'd never known how to look at the world any other way. That familiar apprehensive, searching look that would remain unchanged through the years.

"Get them out of here before this stupid wife of mine ruins the entire bloody process," the man snarled, wrestling to contain the woman as she renewed her struggles.

"Mama?"

"Take them away!" he bellowed. "I'll handle this myself!"

Fig leaned back to ease the door closed while the other unidentified adult reached towards the little girl, attempting to shield her eyes with his palm. She ducked away from the touch, pressing herself against her brother's arm and wrapping her small fingers around it while drawing sharp, irregular breaths. The boy's composure finally wavered at the contact, his lower lip beginning to quiver as he swallowed and stared fixedly at their mother.

Two sets of identical green eyes tracked the diminishing slice of visibility as the door swung shut, desperately clinging to the last fragments through the narrowing gap until the final sliver disappeared. The heavy, decisive click of the latch was followed immediately by an unmistakable sound of a body being slammed — a heavy thud, then a series of dull impacts of repeated strikes punctuated by muffled screams. The violent commotion continued, growing more frenzied, until the choked sobs began to grow weaker like the rest of the memory.

Osborn's eye cracked open, vision struggling to focus on the canopy above. He lay still for a long moment before rubbing his other eye, allowing it to adjust to the pre-dawn darkness as well.

This was proving more challenging than expected — the inevitable cost of his gift making itself known. Being a Legilimens carried its own particular burden, one that had begun manifesting itself more prominently in recent years — the boundaries between others' memories and his own experiences had begun to blur alarmingly. There were moments when he'd catch himself recalling events he couldn't possibly have lived through, while genuine memories of his own life felt foreign, as though borrowed from someone else's mind. The sheer volume of extracted memories stored in his consciousness made it gradually more difficult to distinguish which experiences were genuinely his own. More often than he'd like he felt left adrift in an ocean of strangers' lives, struggling to locate his own shore.

He propped himself up on his elbows, scanning the dormitory. His Gryffindor housemates remained soundly asleep — rather fortunate, really. The clock face showed five in the morning, but returning to sleep held no appeal, not when he could work without disruption. Besides, he'd grown rather fond of the prospect of spending time in his new office, though he'd never admit it aloud.

Rising quietly, he collected his uniform and made his way to the bathroom. The cold water helped clear the remnants of uneasy sleep as he washed his face and refreshed his mouth. His fingers worked through the dark strands of hair, attempting to brush them back from his face, but they fell stubbornly forward again, settling in their usual pattern around azure eyes. The morning routine complete, he returned to button his shirt, leaving the gold and red tie draped carelessly across one shoulder and cloak folded over his bent arm. His preparations went unnoticed, allowing him to leave his dormmates undisturbed.

The corridor leading to Gryffindor Tower was manned by two Aurors — a new sight that he welcomed. With prefects relieved of their night patrol duties for the term to accommodate Ministry operations, the castle possessed a markedly different atmosphere — one that Osborn found particularly reassuring. The entire place felt more secure now, at least from his perspective.

"Mr Sinclair," the woman in Ministry garments acknowledged him with a curt nod.

He raised a hand in greeting as he passed. "All quiet?"

The pair's synchronised nods followed him as he made his way through the castle towards what had once been Eleazar Fig's office. Work had always provided him with stability, means of settling his thoughts and maintaining focus. Even given a choice, he'd remain with the Ministry — though perhaps in a different department, closer to the laboratories and Cameron.

The office door clicked shut behind him. First priority — tobacco.

While his position afforded considerable liberties within reasonable bounds, even he recognised the impropriety of smoking where students might witness it. A supply of Honeydukes' lollipops stored in his desk provided some relief from tobacco cravings during required appearances outside his workplace, yet nothing quite replicated that satisfying pinch in his lungs.

He lit the lamp and reached for the wooden box next to it, its honey-sweet herbaceous aroma escaping as the lid lifted. The tobacco inside had been properly soaked in honey, lending it that characteristic flavour preferred throughout Scotland. His fingers worked swiftly, packing the pipe before striking a match. He sank into his chair and drew the first deep inhale of the morning.

Still puffing, he extracted a small key from his trouser pocket and unlocked one of the lower desk drawers. His hand moved purposefully through the papers until his fingers confirmed the presence of the important box — there it was, precisely where it should be, its enchantments still firmly bound to a specific key. The lock on the unbreakable container required feeding — literal blood tribute — to grant access, making his bloodline practically the sole means of entry. The security measure remained essential — the memory vials inside were far too precious to risk falling into unauthorised hands.

Osborn left the box undisturbed, reaching beneath it to extract an old journal he'd nearly memorised by now. The name "Eleazar Fig" was barely legible on the diary's worn cover. Pipe still clenched between his teeth, he thumbed through to the middle section, searching for a specific entry among Fig's cramped handwriting.

And here it was, staring back at him from the yellowed pages despite Osborn having reviewed it countless times:

January 9th, 1878
Subject Analysis - Twins Study
Age of Subjects: 3 years, 5 months, 26 days

Observations:
No detectable magical instability present in either subject. Concerning, given previous hypotheses. Current theory suggests that the magical disruption during embryonic gestation may have resulted in complete suppression of expected reactions to brought samples. Further testing required at later developmental stages.
Note: Consider adjusting proximity parameters of containment vessels during next observation period.

January 22nd, 1878
Progressive Observation Report

Subject A (Male):

— Displays heightened curiosity towards sample containers

— Cognitive development exceeds age-appropriate parameters

— Demonstrates remarkable mnemonic capabilities

— Verbalises complex inquiries regarding sampling procedures

Subject B (Female):

— Maintains consistent oppositional behaviour

— Exhibits strong aversion to research personnel

— Zero measurable response to sample proximity

— Refuses all attempts at standard testing procedures

Additional Notes: Consider implementing modified approach for Subject B

February 12th, 1878
Critical Development Notice

Breakthrough in subject handling protocol:
Physical proximity between subjects directly correlates to compliance levels. Blood-bound connection appears to be strengthening beyond initial predictions. Separation proves increasingly counterproductive to research objectives.

New Protocol Implementation:

— All future testing to be conducted with subjects maintaining close proximity

— Monitoring of blood-bound manifestations to be prioritised

— Environmental conditions to be standardised for concurrent observation

Addendum: Review protective wards around testing chamber. Current configurations may require strengthening given observed bond intensity.

March 3rd, 1878
Progressive Testing Report
RE: Sample Exposure Analysis

Subject A (Male):

— Measurable physiological responses to sample proximity

— Heart rate elevation: 15-20% above baseline

— Heightened investigative behaviour

— Zero signs of physical distress

— Maintains steady cognitive engagement

Subject B (Female):

— Continues displaying heightened vigilance

— Maintains close proximity to Subject A

— No measurable physiological response to samples

— Complete absence of expected reactions

— Behavioural patterns unchanged

Note: Consider reducing Subject B's involvement in primary testing phase. Peculiar developmental disparity given subject's status as primary fetus. Requires further investigation.

April 17th, 1878
Theoretical Analysis RE: Gender-Based Response Patterns

Working Theory:
Paternal magical lineage may directly influence gender-specific manifestations. Male subject's heightened responsiveness potentially correlates with patrilineal magical transmission (refer to ancestral charts, section 4B).

Supporting Evidence:

— Non-magical maternal genetics

—Subject A's consistent positive response patterns

— Subject B's complete developmental deviation

— Historical precedents in patrilineal magical inheritance

Further investigation of male subject recommended. Maintain current testing protocols.

May 30th, 1878
Behavioural Analysis Report RE: Subject B Anomalies

Physical Contact Response:

— Severe aversion to tactile interaction

— Exception noted only with Subject A and maternal figure

— Complete withdrawal from research staff

— No determinable cause for observed behaviour

Additional Observations:
Subject's total developmental pattern suggests possible failure in initial enhancement procedure. Compare with previous trial results (Subject C, terminated study).

Urgently review early stage documentation for potential causation indicators.

Osborn tapped his pipe thoughtfully against his lips, drawing another breath of honey-sweet smoke. The pages turned beneath his fingers as he searched, finally landing on the section that had confounded him repeatedly. The events blurred together, resisting clear interpretation. Essential pieces remained elusive to put the picture together.

Fig's handwriting had grown more assertive over the years, though his scientific notations had become less refined:

Feb 15th, 1886 Primary Subject Development Report

Magical Manifestation Analysis:
Subject A demonstrates delayed magical emergence — significantly outside projected timeline. Comparative study with historical cases (P. Rackham; I. Morganach) suggests pattern irregularity. Both documented carriers exhibited late-onset abilities, yet current manifestation falls neither within early nor late acceptable ranges.

Subject B maintains physiological stability. No magical indicators present. Continue observation protocol without direct testing involvement until manifestation occurs.

April 2nd, 1886> Breakthrough Observation Record

Ancient Magic Response Patterns:

— Subject A reports visual phenomena when exposed to goblin-forged artifacts

— Claims observation of "movement" and "luminescence" undetectable to research team

— No measurable reaction from stored samples

— Strong affinity for Ancient Magic signatures confirmed

Miriam [M. Fig, Lead Researcher] suggests immediate protocol adjustment:

— Procure a suitable wand

— Transfer the subject to controlled environment

— Begin preliminary practical training

Note: Sample non-reactivity requires further investigation.

April 29th, 1886
Critical Theory Development RE: Hereditary Transmission Patterns

Concerning Observations:

— Father figure displaying progressive magical deterioration

— Suggests single-vessel theory of Ancient Magic inheritance

— Potentially explains historical isolation of carriers

Alarming Development:
Subject B demonstrates unexpected resistance to paternal Imperius influence. Behaviour deviates from conception parameters — original curse should ensure complete compliance. The subject shows oppositional tendencies.

Personal Note: Strong unease regarding female subject's behavioural patterns. Exercise increased caution.

Osborn wrinkled his nose, letting smoke drift slowly from his lips as he studied the text. This particular section had always left him puzzled — nothing else appeared near these dates. Flipping the page revealed the sight he'd witnessed dozens of times before: paper remains stuck to the binding where several pages had been torn clean away.

He had spent considerable time contemplating who might have removed these pages and for what purpose, but eventually settled on Fig himself as the likely culprit. Throughout the earlier entries of the diary, similar removals appeared, alongside passages violently crossed through with ink. So whatever these missing pages had contained, Fig had seemingly wanted it either forgotten or destroyed.

The conclusion seemed sound, particularly given the deep scoring marks visible on the subsequent page — pressed-in lines from Fig's quill where he'd crossed out the missing notes with such force that the indentations remained embedded in several sheets that followed.

The page before Osborn's eyes was otherwise blank, save for a short note with its precedence lost with the torn-out section:

July 1st, 1886

Both subjects lost. Experiment terminated.

Osborn tapped the pipe stem against his teeth, smacking his lips as he stared at the final note. The gaps in information were maddening — just a few missing pages that brought their entire investigation to an impasse. Everything was too intertwined, every event — too crucial to dismiss.

His thoughts circled through the same questions that had plagued him for months: Why had Fig declared both children dead when only the boy was killed? Who was responsible for the murder, and what sparked the fire? 'Subject C'​​​? Most crucially, what exactly had they managed to create on the Isle of Skye?

He drew another lungful of smoke and turned the page. The next section marked a distinct shift in Fig's documentation style. His scientific notation had given way to a more personal hand, finally giving the journal its diary-like nature.

October 10th, 1889

Located Subject B today. Still cannot fathom how the girl survived — the fire reduced everything to ash, including what we presumed were both bodies. Nadine proved cleverer than expected, hiding the child in such an isolated location. Her memory modification will be necessary. The woman won't release the girl otherwise.

The subject's continued existence changes everything, yet the situation cannot spiral further out of control. Cannot allow further child casualties — the death reports and magical disturbances in the region were what led me here, but Ministry interference becomes increasingly likely if this continues. The girl's involvement is clear.

George remains the only trustworthy contact. He'll ensure Ministry involvement remains minimal. Cannot risk them discovering her existence — a subject of this nature must remain outside their jurisdiction.

Note: Begin memory modification process tomorrow. Time is of essence.

"Lucky you," Osborn muttered dryly to the note, setting his pipe down on the table with a soft click. He cleared his throat, the smoke having left it raw and burning. The subsequent entries were as familiar to him as his own handwriting, yet they'd done little to illuminate the broader mystery.

October 12th, 1889

Nadine's memory modification completed successfully. A fortunate development, better than anticipated — the girl shows no recognition of me whatsoever. Perhaps our previous decision to exclude her from testing whilst focusing on Alben was inadvertently beneficial — it likely prevented formation of strong memory impressions. Given my limited Legilimency skills, this simplified matters considerably. While Nadine's mind is expendable, Apocrypha's requires delicate handling.

The girl maintains her original temperament — marked distrust of others, clear hostility, violent tendencies. However, she displays age-appropriate curiosity about her surroundings. Will need to observe her closely. Taking her into my care presents an unexpected opportunity for extended study. Will begin preliminary studies once she's settled.

The morning inevitably arrived, drawing students into the Great Hall for breakfast. While most used this time to properly wake up, share conversations over warm meals, and gather energy for the day ahead, some counted these morning hours as merely the beginning of another endurance test.

Sebastian slid a plate loaded with pastries across the table.

"Eat," he managed around his own mouthful.

Apocrypha's face beside him scrunched in distaste. "They're too sweet."

Sebastian gulped several swallows of coffee, trying to wash down the scrambled eggs already sitting in his stomach. "I'm not going to waste time persuading you. Either you eat with your own hands, or I'll use mine. Your choice. But your stomach isn't running on air anymore."

Ominis, focused on spreading a layer of jam across his piece of white bread, gave his best friend a light nudge with his elbow. "Don't push her too hard."

Sebastian rolled his eyes and shrugged, taking an oversized bite of pastry as vanilla powder dusted around his mouth.

"Weren't we both meant to do something about her weight?" he asked, words slightly muffled.

"Let's start slow. From that orange, for example." Ominis took a bite of his sandwich, gesturing leftward without turning his head. "Kryph, would you pick one?"

Apocrypha hesitated, then reluctantly rose from the bench, leaning across the table to sort through the fruit piled on the metal plate. She chose and peeled the orange quickly, separating it into thirds and distributing them between her friends.

"Well, that's a start at least," Sebastian sighed, bringing a segment to his mouth.

The orange was sweet, exactly as he'd expected. This small ritual had become something very important over the years — a quiet marker of a habit taking root in fifth year. Back then, Apocrypha would deliberately choose the sourest, least ripe oranges she could find, but observation gradually changed her approach. She seemed to have noticed how Sebastian winced at anything too tart, or how Ominis disliked the mess of peeling. So without discussion, she'd adapted, learning to identify the sweetest, ripest oranges by touch alone. Despite her own distaste for anything sugary, she'd eat her portion alongside them, having developed this particular habit of putting their preferences before her own.

Sebastian extended his hand blindly in her direction, fingers making quick, demanding squeezes in the air while he finished chewing his orange segment. The motion itself held the casual expectation of someone who'd performed this gesture countless times before.

This was his own part of the habit — the one born after hearing an offhand complaint years ago about how biting into whole apples made her gums feel uncomfortable. What started as her awkwardly cutting apples with a knife, creating unnecessary clatter, evolved into this silent exchange where he simply broke the fruit apart for her with his hands.

He caught her sour expression in his peripheral vision — not quite annoyed, but performatively reluctant. She reached back towards the fruit plate, and a moment later, a small apple landed in his waiting palm.

"Bigger," Sebastian said flatly, still purposefully avoiding looking at her.

She snatched the apple back with a grumble. "I hate you sometimes."

Sebastian accepted the larger apple she grudgingly provided, humming with approval.

"No, you don't," he stated matter-of-factly, keeping his eyes on his breakfast. "You're wearing the dragonfly pin I gave you. Terrible liar, as always."

Apocrypha rolled her eyes and accepted the apple Sebastian had split apart, nibbling slowly with the careful consideration of someone with a sensitive stomach. Her eyes wandered around the Great Hall until it caught on Osborn at the Gryffindor table, then snapped back for a second look — his demeanour was unusually stern. Typically he maintained a more casual expression around students.

He sat with his temple resting against his fist, a lollipop tucked in his cheek as he focused on the Daily Prophet in his free hand. While she was accustomed to seeing him read during mornings, it was usually with coffee and his pipe in his favourite armchair — and where his face usually remained calm and exaggeratedly careless, today it carried an unnecessary professionalism. As if he was caught in thoughts he found distinctly unpleasant.

"I'll leave a bit early today," Ominis announced, setting down his empty teacup and rising.

Apocrypha's head jerked back towards him. "Where are you going?"

"Someone forgot to finish their Advanced Charms assignment yesterday," Sebastian answered for him. "Better complete it before Ronen turns him into a rat."

"Very funny." Ominis straightened his robes with a sigh. "But yes, need to finish that assignment. See you both in NEWT Defence."

Sebastian nodded, returning to his plate while watching Apocrypha from the corner of his eye. She leaned back on the bench, watching Ominis leave with an expression that vividly bordered on worry.

A twinge of guilt twisted Sebastian's mouth for this deception — in reality, Ominis had completed all his assignments. The truth was more complicated: since Apocrypha's return to school, one of their particular classmates had begun avoiding their group entirely, and Ominis was determined to address it, at least for himself.

Ominis strode hurriedly back towards the dungeons, breaths slightly accelerated. His time was limited — Sebastian would keep Apocrypha occupied as long as possible, since managing this situation with her nearby was virtually impossible. These days, she was practically glued to his side, guarding him with an almost dog-like vigilance. He didn't mind it, not truly — he was genuinely glad to have her back with them, exactly where she belonged. But Eliza's sudden withdrawal from him was perplexing.

Though aware of the two girls being not exactly fond of each other, to put it lightly, observing Eliza actively avoiding him, even in moments they could potentially speak privately, was deeply unpleasant to him.

In the girls' dormitory, Eliza wiped her glasses and rubbed her eye before replacing them on her nose, sniffling quietly as she sat on the bed. She hated being here, in this school — all she wanted was to go home, stay close to her brother, find some some relief from the constant stress. She'd followed every instruction from Osborn, obeyed Ophelia without question. Didn't she deserve some normalcy? Why did they have to bring that thing back, when she had only just started to feel like a proper student? Why did she have to fear going to meals now? Why, the moment she drew close to the boy she liked, did everything have to fall apart?

She hated this helplessness — the fear of being seen near him or anyone in Apocrypha's circle, knowing too well her avoidance hurt Ominis too.

The dormitory door opened, and Eliza quickly composed herself, gently patting her cheeks to calm her nerves.

"Kochanowska," Nerida began gently, "you have a visitor downstairs. Gaunt wants to talk to you."

Eliza stared at her roommate for a moment, then sprang upright on the bed.

"A-are you s-sure?" she stammered.

"Quite sure it's Gaunt himself, in the flesh," Nerida chuckled softly, pulling the door shut behind her.

Eliza rubbed her face with shaking hands, pacing briefly before diving for her trunk and casting quick glances at the mirror. Her trembling fingers nearly dropped the warm red lipstick — the one Osborn had bought for her after her persistent pleading — which she applied quickly, then wiped it away in a chaotic frenzy. Ominis was blind — this was foolish nervousness.

What should she say? Should she even go? What if this made everything worse? What if someone saw them together and told-

Rummaging further, Eliza found a small perfume bottle and doused herself liberally — neck, hair, everywhere. Now she simply reeked like an overstocked Hogsmeade confectionery, just great.

Eliza cautiously stepped out of the dormitory, nervously fussing with her hair, straightening her skirt and readjusting the collar of her shirt as she glanced around the corridor on her way to the common room. She needed to make this quick — people must not see them together.

A fair head of dark blonde hair came into view as she neared the staircase — Ominis standing with his back turned, wand firmly in hand. She swallowed at the brief, bitter thought — he would never let his guard down like that around her if he knew what she had done, what she had been doing since the start of the sixth year.

As if sensing her hesitance, Ominis turned in her direction.

"Eli?" he called calmly.

Descending the metal staircase to the common room below, Eliza glanced around anxiously. The space was slowly filling with students returning from breakfast — soon it would be crowded, and she couldn't risk being seen here.

"S-sorry, I can't stay long," she apologised nervously. "I'm very busy preparing for Advanced Divination."

Ominis did not move. "I'm sorry if I've disturbed you, but I wanted to talk. I think you know what about."

Eliza looked away, shifting uncomfortably as her stutter worsened. "I-I don't know what y-you mean."

"You've stopped coming to the library to do Charms homework with me, and we hardly talk during breaks anymore," Ominis explained calmly. "Did I do something wrong?"

Eliza rubbed the back of her neck, wincing. Of course it wasn't his fault.

"N-no, I-I'm just r-really busy with N-NEWT preparations," she lied. "Maybe it would be b-better if we stop the l-library sessions for no-"

"Is this because of Kryph?" He interjected.

Eliza stared back at him, suddenly frozen, unsure how to respond. Ominis sighed at her silence, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"I know Kryph can be a lot, especially when it comes to sharing with someone she doesn't like. I understand why she dislikes you so much, but I can assure you that whatever she may have said, that shouldn't prevent us from spending time together — if that's what you still want." He paused, frowning slightly. "Unless, of course, I've done something to hurt you. If that's the case, please tell me, Eli."

"N-no, this is not your f-fault!" Eliza exclaimed, hurrying to reassure him and briefly reaching out to grasp his arm before hastily withdrawing, unsure if he would be comfortable with her touch. "I just...I'm not comfortable near her. I don't feel r-right to interrupt y-your friendship."

"You don't interrupt anything," Ominis cut in. "Kryph is like a brick wall when it comes to making new friends — no one is forcing you to befriend her if you don't want to."

Eliza looked down, exhaling shakily. She couldn't tell him about Apocrypha's threats to kill her — the questions that would raise were ones she wasn't allowed to answer.

"I really l-liked spending time with you," she said instead. "I'm s-sorry if I h-hurt you by avoiding you. I j-just didn't want to make things worse."

Ominis nodded gently. "You weren't making anything worse. I enjoy spending time with you as well."

He winced internally at his own phrasing — though honest, as he preferred, it felt oddly foreign. Usually he needed more time to warm up to someone the way he had with Eliza.

Clearing his throat, he gestured to his open palm. "Do you still want to practice Divination using my hand? We have some time before classes, and the common room is quite busy now. We could go outside, somewhere more private, if this would make you more comfortable."

Eliza brightened at the suggestion immediately. Somewhere private, with fewer people, sounded perfect.

"Y-yes, that would be g-great," she said cheerfully, nodding.

Careful to avoid too many passers-by on the journey, they made their way outside, finding a secluded spot in the Quad Courtyard — one of the most quiet and isolated areas on the castle grounds. Though close to the Great Hall, Ominis decided it was ideal — hiding in plain sight, as he and his friends visited so rarely here he could count the occasions on one hand. People seldom came here, particularly at this early hour.

Olafur Arnalds — Ellie's Theme

Ominis lowered himself onto a bench. "So, how does this work then? I'm not terribly strong in Divination."

Eliza dropped down beside him and shifted closer, peering down at his outstretched palm.

"You have... very long fingers and long base," she explained hesitantly. "This means water palm. Is connected with water element."

Ominis huffed. "Is that good or bad?"

"Is normal," Eliza replied, her stutter less pronounced now that she seemed more at ease. "Such hands are soft to touch and bit... um... wet? No... c-clammy. Yes. And they look... thin? Narrow. People with these hands, they feel emotions good and have good itnu-... intu-"

"Intuition?" Ominis offered.

"Yes! Intuition. And... psychic ability," she finished. "Can I touch your hand?"

"Mm-hm," he hummed softly with a nod, extending his palm towards her.

Eliza took his hand gently in both of hers, tracing the inside with her finger. Ominis's hands were indeed very soft, smooth and slightly cooler than hers — the contact sent a slight shiver through her, making her neck prickle with nervous warmth.

"Bit ironic really — the water palm," Ominis said lightly. "I can't swim and I don't like large bodies of water."

"Me too, water is scary," Eliza agreed. "But your hand shape, it... it means different thing. People with water hands, they have much... compassion? But get hurt easy. Though they can control their feelings good."

Ominis remained silent, choosing not to comment.

"Here," she continued as her finger followed along his palm. "Head line is very deep — I can feel it. Means you think clear and reasonable."

"Mm, most of the time," he hummed thoughtfully.

Though he hadn't been particularly clear-headed or reasonable back in the Scriptorium — if anything, he'd been the most panicked of them all.

"And here..." Eliza's finger moved to another line. "Love line has small... break? Like little circle I can feel. Means your love life will have... problems. Difficulties."

Ominis huffed bitterly at that — no wonder, considering his arranged marriage. "I don't doubt that."

"Is sad," Eliza said softly. "I would like you have strong, clear Love line. Everyone should have this."

"That's very kind of you to say," Ominis replied gently. "Do you see anything else?"

She leaned closer, stroking his palm soothingly with her fingertips.

"Your Life line is very close to others — small space between. And here..." Her fingers traced a particular spot. "Interesting... texture where Fate line crosses Life line. Means your life is connected to someone else. Your paths are together."

Eliza swallowed audibly, her breathing tightening slightly. She knew precisely who this 'someone' was — but Ominis never believed her warnings about the possible future that could unfold if he remained close to this particular person. He was too deeply embedded in this friendship — too dependent on it.

"I don't really believe in Fate," he said. "People create their own lives. I intend to do the same. But tell me more about the previous two — Head line and Love line?"

Eliza resumed her enthusiastic explanations about palm reading without question, but the words washed over Ominis without really sinking in — he wasn't particularly interested in dissecting his own future. Perhaps because he was too afraid to contemplate it, to think about what came after graduation.

For now, he simply wanted to remain here, in this moment, with Eliza's gentle, timid touches and soft voice explaining things he didn't quite understand. Later, he would spend his evening in the common room with Apocrypha beside him, likely discussing nothing of importance, until Sebastian joined them after his Quidditch practice. That was how he wanted things to stay.

Eliza's proximity only reinforced his desire to prolong this peace — he wasn't prepared to acknowledge it, perhaps not even to himself, but he genuinely enjoyed her presence, in a way that differed from how he found comfort in being around his friends. Her entire demeanour reminded him of spring sunlight breaking through morning frost — warm, gentle, timid. Even though he knew her cheerfulness was often largely performative — the way she'd respond with nervous laughter when classmates mocked her accent, how she'd apologise for taking up space in corridors, for asking questions in class, for simply existing. She'd duck her head and smile through cruel jokes about her inability to pronounce 'th' properly, or stammer out "sorry, sorry" when someone complained about her broken English during group projects, accepting each barb as if she deserved the world's unkindness and asking forgiveness for things that weren't remotely her fault.

She reminded him of his friends in a way. Of Sebastian, with that same innate curiosity and optimism that hadn't quite been stamped out yet. Of Apocrypha, because though Ominis couldn't see, he always imagined Eliza's eyes carried that same sadness. That unmistakable hurt, loss, that profound sorrow — it was evident in their voices, even if they chose different ways to conceal it. Where Apocrypha armoured herself in sharp edges and cultivated grimness, Eliza built her walls from bright smiles and soft, apologetic laughter.

She was just like the three of them, Ominis thought.

"You have a very small hand," he observed calmly.

Eliza straightened up, still cradling his palm in both of hers. "Is bad?"

Ominis shook his head thoughtfully, pressing his hand against one of hers and spreading their fingers together with deliberate slowness. "I like it."

A nervous huff escaped Eliza as her felt her hand tremble slightly against the contact, but she held still.

"Your hand is very big," she said quietly.

The corners of Ominis's lips lifted in a small, almost painful smile as he slowly interlaced their fingers, pressing their palms together. "Is that bad?"

The castle adopted a different character during class hours — a hollow, peaceful quiet that Apocrypha had grown to appreciate as she wandered the empty corridors, particularly during her NEWT-level courses. Though her schedule was filled with disciplines — chosen by the Ministry to maintain the facade of her projected career as an Auror — she felt no real obligation to attend them, so they lay largely ignored. Not that it mattered — her marks held no real consequence.

While their core classes remained shared across all Houses and students, the advanced subjects had scattered their small group across different classrooms. Quite quickly Apocrypha had developed a habit of gravitating towards classes she shared with her friends, skipping the rest. Defence Against the Dark Arts remained their sole shared hour and a half where she could share a classroom with both Sebastian and Ominis — a brief window where their schedules aligned.

Beyond that, their paths diverged — Sebastian's focus on Curse-Breaker speciality meant they shared Advanced Transfiguration, while Ominis's pursuit of Magical Law Reform aligned their paths in NEWT-Level Charms. Technically, she also shared Potions with Natsai, who surprisingly decided to pursue the Healer path, but Eliza's presence in that class made attendance complicated. So Herbology, no matter just how much Apocrypha hated it, remained the only advanced discipline that allowed their time together.

Seven months had passed since she last visited her Room of Requirement. She would be lying if she claimed not to miss it — no amount of silence could match the peace her personal working space, including the Swamp Vivarium, was able to provide. Deek would surely welcome her return, and the timing felt right — with over an hour until Sebastian's Advanced Arithmancy concluded, she had time to spare before meeting him behind the Clock Tower Courtyard. He hadn't explained why — just asked her to wait for him after his final class.

The wall shifted at her approach, door materialising as expected. She pushed it open, immediately enveloped by the soothing ambiance she'd missed — cooler temperatures, dimmer light, predominantly dark green hues she'd been missing.

"Deek?" she called quietly.

Olafur Arnalds — Woven Song

Met with silence, Apocrypha made her way upstairs, to the Swamp Vivarium entrance. She toed off her boots carelessly, letting one foot push against the heel of the other until they slipped free, and left them by the door before stepping inside.

Moist air and a wet patch of grass greeted her bare feet, prompting a slow, deep exhale from her lungs — the temperature dropped even further inside. She splashed her toes lightly through the soaked grass and moved deeper into the space, looking over the small herd of Thestrals gathered near the hidden feeding troughs. Parents, rescued singles, and foals — the latter notably larger than when she'd last seen them — glanced up at her warily but continued unhurriedly nibbling at their feed without distress.

A small herd of five Mooncalves occupied the treeless area not far from the feeding spot, their silvery bodies moving gracefully across the grass. Near the swamp itself, two Giant Toads croaked deeply from their favoured spot — a small island of solid ground where a dead tree hung its bare branches over the murky water. In the far corner, partially hidden by the trees, a solitary Unicorn had made its resting place, barely visible through the dense foliage.

She had never developed the Vivarium into a proper enclosure — human structures and pathways with fences felt out of place here. This wasn't meant to be a zoo or a place suitable for her own needs. She'd left it largely as the Room provided — dim, foggy, wet — adding only a few dozens of bare, twisted trees, large rock formations and natural hiding spots to mirror the Forbidden Forest environment the animals knew.

Subtle movement behind a large mossy boulder to her left caught Apocrypha's eye from the opposite end of the space — a big, bony shape stirred shakily.

"Andromeda?" she called softly, watching the mare struggle to rise from her resting spot. Her legs trembled slightly, old muscles straining under her own weight, and single-working eye taking time to register the visitor.

Choosing to spare the beast the effort of walking, Apocrypha crossed to close the distance herself.

"Hey, you," she said quietly, reaching out to touch the mare's snout. "Been feeling lonely while I was away?"

Andromeda flared her nostrils at the contact. Upon registering Apocrypha's scent, the Thestral rustled her folded wings and stepped closer, sniffing intently over her friend's robes and hands before nudging them in acknowledgement. Apocrypha patted the beast's strong neck, her hand smoothing over its dark skin. Despite Andromeda's advanced age, she appeared well-fed and healthy — clear evidence of Deek's attentive care during her absence.

"Young Mistress has returned!" Deek's voice carried from somewhere behind her. "Deek is very glad you are back. The beasts, they have been missing you terribly, they have."

Without moving away from Andromeda or ceasing her gentle strokes, Apocrypha glanced back to find the house-elf standing at the Vivarium doorway. "Good to see you too, Deek. The Vivarium looks perfect — I knew I could always count on you."

"Young Mistress is too kind," Deek replied humbly, his large ears drooping slightly. "Though it was most difficult, yes, most difficult to put everything back in order after the Aurors came and turned everything about, it was."

"What?" Apocrypha's hand stilled on Andromeda's neck. "They were here?"

Deek nodded anxiously, twisting his long fingers together. "Yes, young Mistress. They were searching for something, but found nothing they did. Deek cleaned up after them and put everything back exactly as young Mistress had it before, yes he did."

Apocrypha looked aside, considering this information. After a second thought the Aurors' search appeared predictable — searching her personal space for hidden information. But there was nothing of consequence here, save for Deek and the creatures under their care.

She couldn't deny harbouring a particular fondness for the house-elf — his unfailing devotion and gentle nature created a sense of security she rarely experienced elsewhere. Even her closest friends occasionally triggered old traces of caution, subtle doubts that would surface in her thoughts during quiet moments, but with Deek, those instincts remained surprisingly dormant. It wasn't exactly trust, but rather a deep-seated, inexplicable protective instinct — a desire to keep both him and this place safe. In her assessment, Deek belonged to the rare category of beings who genuinely didn't — and couldn't — deserve harm.

"They didn't hurt you, did they?" she asked tightly.

"Deek is being fine," the house-elf assured her. "The Aurors paid Deek no mind. Deek just stayed quiet and watched from behind the pillar in the hall, he did."

Apocrypha nodded approvingly and sighed. "Good. Take the rest of the day off, Deek. I want to make up for my absence — will handle the Vivariums myself today."

"That is not being necessary, young Mistress," Deek's large eyes brightened. "Deek has missed you very much, he has. Taking care of the beasts together with you brings Deek peace, it does."

A soft huff escaped her, accompanied by that rare, reserved smile that barely lifted the corners of her mouth. She nodded. "Let's get to work then."

Almost an hour passed without notice as they worked together, clearing the Room of its unnecessary elements. The furniture disappeared first, followed by the potting tables and potions station, never once utilized during her time here. Finally, the useless cabinets along the walls were cleared as well. Her goal was to maximize the available space.

Despite the physical demands of the task, Apocrypha found satisfaction in sharing it. While her friendship with Sebastian and Ominis ran the deepest, Deek remained the sole keeper of this deeply personal space. They knew of its existence, certainly, but she had never found the resolve to bring them here. Some aspects of life, she firmly believed, were meant to remain private. Everyone deserved to maintain something that belonged solely to themselves.

In her estimation, people would face fewer complications in life if they simply kept certain personal matters private.

Dusting off her hands, she surveyed their work — the Room now stood cool, dark, and spacious, with its greenish tinge and impeccably maintained Vivariums. The wall clock indicated it was nearly time to meet Sebastian.

"I'm sorry to leave so soon, Deek," she said, brushing the last traces of dust from her robes. "But I need to go. I'll visit more frequently from now on."

"Deek will always be waiting here for young Mistress," the house-elf responded warmly. "And Andromeda will too, she will."

She left the Room with a soft, thoughtful hum, feeling unexpectedly unburdened from her recent stressors — the Ministry, Osborn, Eliza, the mysterious tremors beneath the castle, her own uncertain future. For a rare moment, these concerns receded to the periphery of her thoughts as she made her way out of the castle in an unusually lightened mood.

The Clock Tower Courtyard was nearly empty when she arrived — only a few younger students were hurrying back inside with their robes fluttering as they sought shelter from the approaching storm. Above, thick clouds roiled against the darkening sky, occasional flashes of lightning illuminating their heavy masses as they advanced towards Hogwarts. Apocrypha slipped through a window opening in the stone wall, swinging her legs over before dropping onto the wild grass that covered the precarious cliff face outside the formal castle grounds. The rocky outcrop fell away sharply beneath her feet, descending in a steep gradient to where the Black Lake's dark waters lapped against the castle's foundations.

An exposed area, accessible without difficulties yet most definitely not a regular gathering spot for students — it was a good place for a private conversation, though technically outside of where they were supposed to venture.

She settled into her habitual position, knees drawn to chest, and looked outward. Sharp cracks of thunder pierced the air, followed by deep, resonant rumbles as lightning flickered within the approaching storm front. The pre-storm wind carried a cooling touch that felt oddly comforting — this somber weather reminded her of home.

Vines — being loved isn't the same as being understood

"Thought you hated the rain," Sebastian's voice came from behind her.

She glanced back, watching him navigate the same stone opening she had used moments before.

"You're right," she nodded as he lowered himself onto the grass beside her. "But I like these moments before it starts. What did you want to discuss?"

"Well, pretty much everything," Sebastian stretched his arms upwards wearily, getting into a comfortable position on the grass.

"If this is about the Ministry," Apocrypha glanced aside, "I've already told you all I could."

"No, not that," he shook his head. "I'll sort that bit out myself eventually. Won't badger you about it for now. I meant... everything that happened before you left."

She turned to look at him questioningly, noting the profound changes grief had etched into his features. His once-bright hazel eyes had dulled, now perpetually hooded and distant like her own, drained of their former vitality. She struggled to recall his last genuine smile; technically it was during Christmas last year, but the memory felt distant and unclear. Everything about him had shifted — his voice now tight and low, movements more controlled, as though he were constantly struggling to keep his thoughts — and his anger — firmly in check. His shoulders held clearly visible tension now, his jaw often clenched, and that characteristic spark of mischief had vanished entirely from his demeanour. Even his usual sprawling posture had been replaced by something more guarded, more suppressed.

Where once stood a boy known for his quick wit, warmth and lighter disposition, now sat someone altogether different — still and contained, like a vessel barely holding back a storm.

Sebastian met her eyes briefly before releasing a heavy sigh. "I wanted to apologise. For the Christmas last year. I shouldn't have blamed you and Ominis. You were trying to help, and I... I was just angry. Couldn't control my tongue."

"I know," she said simply, nodding lightly. "It's impossible not to be angry in that sort of situation. The helplessness makes you say the cruellest things."

Sebastian huffed softly, lips parting in mild surprise — he'd expected more resistance, more restraint in her forgiveness. Did he truly appear so thoroughly broken that even Ominis, let alone Apocrypha, would forgive him so readily? Though it brought him some peace, it felt strange. He'd always gotten away with nearly everything since they'd become friends, but after Anne's death, that dynamic felt wrong somehow. Even knowing they would eventually move past his mistakes, apologising to the only people remaining in his life felt necessary — proper, even.

Apocrypha seemed to catch the uncertainty in his expression. "Thank you for apologising, though. You asking for forgiveness — the world must be ending."

Sebastian exhaled what barely passed for a chuckle, turning to face the advancing storm. "At some point, it really felt like it was."

"Are you holding on?" she asked quietly, resting her chin on her folded arms.

He attempted a response — a hesitant shake of his head at first, then a nod, and finally settling on an ambiguous gesture somewhere between the two.

"I owe you an apology as well," Apocrypha said. "I shouldn't have assumed you were trying to kill yourself that night at the Black Lake."

Sebastian pressed his lips together before smacking them softly.

"Wasn't too wild of a thing to assume, after I pushed you both away. Doesn't hurt me that you thought that." He paused, reaching down to slowly roll a few long strands of dry grass between his fingers — a gesture he subconsciously mirrored without even realising. "Wasn't sure I'd come back to Hogwarts this year. Wasn't even sure I'd survive losing her at all. Somewhere deep down, I understood it would end this way, but I wasn't prepared. Not at all."

A particularly loud crack of thunder rolled across the grounds as the wind picked up, rustling through the wild grass and catching at his loosened tie and shirt collar. Dark clouds loomed closer, their shadows crawling across the surface of the Black Lake below.

Sebastian rubbed his forehead, visibly struggling with each honest word. "Just wanted to drop out. Finish myself somewhere no one would find me. Take all the pain and grief my mistakes brought to everyone else along with me." He swallowed, mouth twisting into a thin, hesitant line. "But I survived. Because I've got to keep going, haven't I? For the people I still have. You and Ominis... you're the only good things I've got left."

Apocrypha turned to look at him, maintaining a lengthy silence while staring at his profile — raw sincerity had always been difficult for her to navigate without discomfort of vulnerability. Yet, surprisingly even to herself, she opted for honesty this time.

"I'm... glad you think so," she murmured, sliding her hands down to pluck at the foliage beneath them. She swallowed, clearly wrestling with her next words. "I understand... losing someone that dear."

Sebastian turned his head to look at her again, the silence stretching uncomfortably between them before he finally gathered the courage to ask his question. "That photograph I found at your house last year... was that your brother? You looked very alike."

Apocrypha broke eye contact immediately, her fingers finding each other as she began slowly pinching their tips — a nervous gesture that surfaced whenever something unsettled her. After another extended pause, she finally nodded.

"Alben," she said quietly. "His name was Alben. He died seven years ago."

Sebastian noticed how her expression tightened painfully. Usually, he would have backed away from such an obviously sensitive topic, but something about her unexpected openness urged him forward. He had so many questions about her life, about all the things she'd kept hidden.

"What..." he started hesitantly, "what killed him?"

Apocrypha winced at the question, those green eyes squinting as though against some unwelcome memory.

"Hands," she said tightly. "Very strong hands."

The silence that followed was heavy. Sebastian watched as she began anxiously scratching at her cuticles — that persistent habit that often left her fingers raw and inflamed, sometimes wearing away at her nails until the nail beds bled. He decided to stop right there, before the topic hurt her further.

"After Alben died," she said suddenly, voice quiet and uncertain, "I didn't think I could make it. If I'm honest, I often hoped I wouldn't. But I did. And then I met you and Ominis, and life became a bit easier. Not just survival anymore. I'm glad I have friends like you both."

Sebastian felt numb at her candid response, this small piece of information answering just a fraction of what he'd wondered since last summer. She did understand exactly how he felt. But even after seven years, the pain still seemed to weigh so heavily on her... Would this crushing grief ever truly fade?

"I'm glad you're my friend too," he said quietly. "And grateful. For the help, for being here, for putting up with everything I've thrown at you. For last summer."

Apocrypha nodded absently, peeling away at her nail. Above them, the storm pressed closer, casting an otherworldly darkness across the grounds. Lightning split the black sky and branched across like spidery veins, followed by a thunder crack that seemed to shake the cliff beneath them. The wind had picked up considerably, carrying the sharp, metallic scent of imminent rain.

"That summer was probably the best I've ever had," she said finally. "I'm grateful you gave me that."

Sebastian offered a small, guilty smile — after all, she was the one who had taken him in, saving him from the prospect of being consumed by the crushing emptiness of his own home.

"I enjoyed it too," he said honestly. "Especially our night talks. And Cetus, of course."

Apocrypha bit the inside of her cheek, staring emptily ahead for a long moment. "I'd love for you and Ominis to come for Christmas."

Though she knew, privately, it was impossible. Perhaps Sebastian knew too.

"Is that an invitation?" Sebastian hummed.

She turned to him once more, nodding softly before resting her head against her knees fully.

The corners of Sebastian's mouth twisted slightly at that — genuine, if still restrained. He held her stare, his expression softer than it had been in months. "Consider it accepted. Just got to survive until Christmas now, haven't we?"

Chapter Text

This chapter has an animated teaser.

Sleep had always been a competitive adversary for her. Avoiding it had become second nature, but the human body has its limits, not designed to function indefinitely on minimal rest — and hers was no exception, demanding its pause and pushing her into bouts of intense stress when denied. She wasn't superhuman.

Her entire life had followed a pattern of highs and lows as long as she could recall: a week of dodging sleep would transition into a week of sheer exhaustion. She'd learned early in her middle childhood years that allowing herself short naps, no longer than half an hour, was her safest bet. This duration allowed her to dip into the lightest stages of sleep without descending into the deeper, more dream-prone phases.

This chronic lack of proper rest and nutrition significantly impacted her stamina and concentration, but it was a trade-off she deemed necessary — any sacrifice to simply stop hurting.

Her body had adapted to functioning on minimal energy and nourishment from a young age, yet she still remained fundamentally human. In her worse periods, those short naps would stretch into hours she'd later regret, while in better times, she could manage without dreams altogether, even when sleep could no longer be resisted.

The shadows beneath her eyes seemed a permanent fixture — how old had she been when they first appeared? How young was she when her ribs began to protrude with every breath that deviated from the norm? She couldn't recall.

"Still can't believe Sebastian is doing this," Ominis chuckled quietly beside her, voice low but amused.

Apocrypha turned to him with a slight startle, blinking rapidly to clear her perpetually hooded eyes from exhaustion. "Hm? Doing what?"

"Quidditch," he clarified. "Could you ever imagine Sebastian on a broom? He used to be terrified of heights back in third year."

With a quiet huff, Apocrypha shook her head slowly. "If I'm completely honest, I couldn't imagine him anywhere out of the Restricted Section."

They were seated in the spectator tower, watching the practice match after classes had ended. The Slytherin team was noticeably agitated, preparing for their upcoming match against Gryffindor in the first week of November. The pitch was already a scene of rough play and controlled chaos as players reacquainted themselves with the game after the summer hiatus.

"Things change so quickly," Ominis said, nodding thoughtfully. "For better or for worse, I can't quite tell yet."

Apocrypha shrugged, eyes distant as she stared ahead. "Quidditch seems to be helping him. A bit."

As if on cue, Sebastian streaked across the pitch on his broom, taking advantage of a brief pause in play to glance up at the tower where his friends sat. He raised a hand to them, blowing a stray lock of wet brunette hair off his sweaty forehead.

"He's waving at us," Apocrypha stated simply.

"Mhm," Ominis hummed in acknowledgment and raised a supportive fist, though it pointed in no particular direction.

Sebastian's eyebrows jumped briefly — the only fleeting sign of acknowledgement and something akin to soft appreciation — before he zoomed off on his broom to rejoin the game.

Ominis leaned back in his seat, twirling his wand absently. "However, some things don't rush to change. You, for example."

Apocrypha wrinkled her nose, sensing the impending topic shift. "Do you need me to?"

"No. But you still don't sleep or eat properly," Ominis said, tone light but pointed. "Refuse it the same way you refuse to let other people close."

She scoffed softly, looking at him sideways from the corner of her eye without turning her head. "Are you talking about Kochanowska?"

"Exactly," he nodded. "That's what I wanted to discuss."

Apocrypha clicked her tongue, an irritated sound escaping her lips. "I don't like that harpy being anywhere near—"

"Stop," Ominis cut her off firmly. "Whatever you're doing to her, it has to end. She's done nothing wrong by wanting to be close to any of us."

She cleared her throat, voice striving for lightness as she inhaled to to argue Eliza's innocence, but—

"Don't even start," Ominis interjected more sternly, hearing her smack her lips in stubbornness before she clenched her jaws and obediently silenced whatever protest she was about to voice.

Ominis didn't want to have this conversation, not really. The truth was, the influence he unwittingly held over Apocrypha was something that unnerved him more often than he liked to admit. She would go wherever he suggested, do any favour for him, and would always, without fail or question, follow his lead — except for that one time in fifth year, when she had secretly gone against his wishes to help Sebastian find the relic.

It wasn't a power he felt he deserved, and he despised exploiting it, though he occasionally found himself doing so. Apocrypha's attachment to him was profound, and while Ominis didn't fully understand the depth of it, he was aware she would heed his every word. He wasn't one to abuse such loyalty, but sometimes, like now, he felt compelled to use it for what he believed was right.

Apocrypha stared down for a long, silent moment. "Are you angry with me?"

Ominis too held a small pause.

"A bit," he answered honestly.

He sensed her turn her head to look at him properly, though what emotion framed her face he couldn't tell. These moments were always difficult — he knew his words of disappointment or anger would wound her, but he also knew she wouldn't walk away. It was precisely why he preferred to deliver his displeasure gently where she was concerned.

"Listen," he said. "It's simply not fair. If you want to be unkind, at least pick someone who'll fight back, not prey on somebody so gentle. I rather expected you'd have more quarrels with Imelda, if I'm honest."

Apocrypha snorted without humour. "Imelda doesn't meddle in my business whilst acting all sweet and innocent."

"What I'm trying to say," Ominis sighed, "is that you can simply keep your distance from people you don't want near. But you've no right to frighten our housemate away from the rest of us. Stop being so possessive over nothing. Eliza just wants friends."

"She's got friends all over the school already," Apocrypha stated quickly. "She's no right to interfere in my own circ—" She cut herself off suddenly, falling silent as if finally grasping the implication beneath their entire conversation. "This isn't about her wanting to be friends, is it? You... you like her," she said quietly, hesitantly. "In that one particular way."

Ominis parted his lips, preparing to speak, then sealed them again with a slow exhale. Even without sight, he sensed she was scrutinising his face for any crack in his composed demeanour, likely attempting to throw him off balance with such an uncomfortable statement — something she'd learned from him. How was he to deliver the truth? She would never accept it, that much was certain.

"I might," he said evasively, internally flinching at his own words. "Perhaps."

He hated causing her pain, but an outright lie would be equally destructive — he hoped a partial truth would soften the blow.

But it didn't.

Her reaction was precisely what he'd hoped to avoid — dead silence. He heard her turn away, and though she remained still, the tension radiating from her in waves caught through his wand clearly. Her silence meant only one thing — mental withdrawal, fuelled by hurt, anger, or likely both.

"Kryph," he called, using a gentler tone now to compensate for his earlier strictness. "Have you got any real reason to hate Eliza so much?"

She remained quiet, shifting on the bench as if to leave before abruptly settling back, seemingly remembering who sat beside her. "Her targeting you as her interest is reason enough."

"So it's about me, then? That's it?"

She swallowed tightly. "If that wretched viper targeted Sebastian or Natty, my reaction would be the same. Not to mention she reeks of Poppy Sweeting."

Ominis sighed, adjusting his position. "Being sweet and kind isn't wrong. I know you find such open, gentle-natured people untrustworthy, but they're not all bad."

He heard her teeth clench together through a barely audible screech. "Well, this one is."

"How can you be so certain?"

"I just am."

Ominis frowned. While he generally understood how Apocrypha's mind worked, something felt off. This didn't quite add up — she was typically hostile to strangers, yes, but not to this extent for so long. Usually, her hostility faded into indifference after a while, but this particular case had persisted and only intensified with time.

He cleared his throat, suddenly uncertain. "Should I know anything else? Anything you want to tell me, Kryph?"

His sensitive ears caught the subtle sound of her biting the inside of her cheek and scratching at her fingernail. She was nervous. Why?

"No," she stated flatly, rising from the bench. "We can go — the game's over."

Ominis remained seated, letting her pass through the rows first. The slight, telltale stutter in her heartbeat as she stood didn't slip past his senses. She was lying to him. To him. Not dancing around the topic in order to hide something, but directly deceiving him. That had never happened before, at least not to his knowledge.

"Are you coming?" she called from somewhere below.

"Yes," he replied calmly, though the discovery left him with questions he wasn't certain he wanted answered.

They collected Sebastian directly from the Pitch, spending a good portion of the evening at supper. Apocrypha maintained her characteristic quiet, but only Ominis knew why this particular shade of silence differed from her usual state. Surely, Sebastian hadn't missed it either.

They were amongst the last students leaving the Great Hall when Sebastian asked, "What's this with you two? Has something happened?"

Ominis shook his head simply. "Just had a chat about Eli."

"Didn't go well, far as I can see," Sebastian hummed.

"Everything's fine," Apocrypha stated as they walked back to the dungeons.

Sebastian scoffed, looking over at her.

"Being a bully doesn't suit you, Kryph — at least poor Kochanowska's not stuttering so much anymore, so good thing that's sorted." He stretched his arms upwards with a quiet grunt. "Anyway, I suggest we bring back our fifth-year tradition."

"You mean staying in the common room till morning and competing who'll pass out the last?" Ominis asked. "You know Kryph always wins those anyway."

Sebastian shrugged. "Why not? Don't mind working on assignments through the night — and tomorrow's free, being Saturday and all."

"Fair enough," Ominis agreed, then decided to involve Apocrypha more — he didn't feel right being the cause of her grim mood. "What do you think, Kryph?"

She continued walking beside them, staring emptily at the floor beneath her feet. She had to visit Osborn tonight — it was time for her scheduled memory check. Being late wasn't an option — Merlin knows how Osborn hated tardiness. And who knew what he might do to teach her a lesson?

"Boring idea," she stated bluntly. "I'm tired of always winning. Sebastian will pass out quickly, especially after practice today, and you will follow soon after — that History of Magic assignment will have you nodding off perhaps even quicker."

Ominis snorted. "You underestimate us both — we've been keeping this tradition up while you were away, especially while studying Rakham's journal."

"Which we all need to discuss, by the way," Sebastian added.

Apocrypha frowned at that, refusing to look at them.

"I don't want to," she replied quickly, perhaps more sharply than intended.

"What's got into you?" Sebastian asked. "You've never turned down common room time before. What, got other plans for the night that don't involve us two?"

Apocrypha glanced up ahead at this sudden, though mild, doubt in Sebastian's voice, then shook her head. Causing her friends further concern with her strange behaviour was risky, if not altogether dangerous.

"Fine," she agreed reluctantly. "You're both about to lose anyway — I won't be wiping your drool."

They descended to the dungeons while the common room still bustled with activity — their housemates often lingered before retiring to their dormitories, though curfew wouldn't begin for another hour.

"Going for a shower and to fetch my books," Sebastian said, pausing by the archway hat led to the boys' dormitory.

"Need to collect my assignment papers as well," Ominis added.

Sebastian gestured towards their usual couch not far from the fireplace. "Kryph, save our spot, will you?"

Apocrypha faltered in place at that. "I've got some business to handle before curfew — no one will take the couch anyway."

She needed to slip away while her friends were occupied — Osborn required advance notice of any schedule changes to avoid arousing his suspicion.

Sebastian slid his hands into his trouser pockets, tilting his head slightly as his eyes narrowed. "What business?"

Apocrypha held his stare, noting the stern set of his mouth despite his casual stance. His expression and body language seemed heavy — as if he sensed something about her motives but couldn't quite place it.

"Just getting my books as well," she lied, shrugging in a poor attempt for nonchalance.

The corners of Sebastian's mouth curved up bitterly as he maintained eye contact. "You? Studying? Thought you'd copy my work — way we've always handled your assignments."

Apocrypha glanced at Ominis, who stood motionless beside his best friend, expression perfectly composed — as if he'd anticipated Sebastian's words. As if he'd known all along.

Her eyes darted back to Sebastian's face, catching the fraction of a second as his gaze also snapped back from Ominis.

"Alright," she said cautiously. "I'll take the couch and wait for you both here."

She raised her hands in surrender, making her way to the centre of the common room before circling around to sink into the couch.

"Happy now?"

"Very much," Sebastian muttered tightly, turning to stride towards the dormitory with Ominis in tow.

She heard their muffled exchange of words fading as they disappeared through the archway — a nervous swallow persisted before she could suppress it.

Leaning back, she observed her housemates through half-lidded eyes. Chess pieces clacked nearby, assignments were debated loudly, casual chatter filled the spaces between. Her leg began to bounce slightly — reaching Osborn's side of the castle without her absence being noticed seemed impossible now, there simply wasn't enough time.

Ominis would return in minutes — collecting papers wouldn't take as long as Sebastian's shower. Missing her appointment with Osborn would lead to questions. Failing to dispel her friends' suspicions would lead to different, equally dangerous questions. And answering any of those meant everything would unravel. Especially given how Osborn wielded those memory vials against her. Particularly that one vial — the evidence of Sebastian's crime.

Her leg jumped more insistently now. She pressed her hand against her knee, attempting to still it without success, then crossed the rebellious limb over the other, gripping her ankle to control the trembling foot and hide the tremor. There — less noticeable this way.

Movement to her left made her turn — Ominis, right on schedule.

"What's this all about?" she asked, watching him circle the couch and place his papers on the small table before repositioning an armchair by the fireplace to face space between the sitting areas.

"You know what this is about," he said before settling into his seat, voice low enough for her ears only. "Did you think we'd just let those seven months you vanished slip past?"

Apocrypha shifted, defensive. "So you two conspired against me? Arranged this?"

Ominis placed his wand on the table — a gesture of trust, knowing it would limit his ability to sense her physical responses. "We had quite a lot of time to think while you were gone. And after you returned. What's stopping you from telling us the truth, Kryph?"

She scoffed, folding her arms. "I already told you the truth — where I was, what happened, why."

"You explained the story," Ominis nodded. "But not fully. Not about who was involved."

"I've told you everything I could—"

"Sebastian saw you leaving the dungeons at midnight," Ominis spoke over her. "Two weeks ago."

His words rang too clearly in the suddenly hushed common room, drawing unwanted attention. Ominis cleared his throat uncomfortably.

"Your midnight kitchen raids could land you in trouble with the Auror patrols these days," he added more loudly, smoothly redirecting any eavesdroppers.

As the ambient noise resumed around them, he sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose before leaning forward, elbows on his thighs.

"We both know these outings are regular," he murmured quietly. "Why? Where do you go without telling us?"

Apocrypha's breathing deepened as she attempted to form a response. "Ominis, I—"

"You know we're on your side," he interjected again. "Always will be. You can trust us."

"Is this entire night going to be an interrogation?" Her voice carried an audible edge of anxiety and rising temper. "If that's what you two planned, I'm leaving."

"You're not going anywhere," Sebastian's voice cut in from nearby.

He lowered himself onto the same couch beside Ominis's armchair, running his fingers through his wet hair in an attempt to tame it while pressing a pile of books against the fresh shirt over his chest.

"This isn't an interrogation," Ominis said evenly. "We just wanted to bring the tradition back. Is that such a crime?"

Apocrypha pulled back from them both, drawing her legs onto the couch. Her eyes darted between them as she considered.

"No," she said finally. "It's not a crime."

"Good, because I've got a shedload of this to keep me up all night," Sebastian declared, dropping a stack of books onto the table with a heavy thud. "Due Monday, and I can't afford to cock up Arithmancy, no matter how much it makes my skin crawl."

Apocrypha pressed herself against the couch's back, half-sitting and half-reclining as she watched her friends suspiciously. Their sudden shift from confrontation to casual discussion of coursework and NEWTs unsettled her, left her unbalanced — first openly voicing their suspicions, then acting as if nothing had happened. What game were they playing?

A light giggle drifted down the dungeon stairs as Eliza and Nerida entered, deep in conversation. Apocrypha's eyes locked onto them immediately, tracking. Could she use the harpy to pass a message to her sick bastard of a brother? But approaching her meant navigating dangerous waters — she needed an excuse that wouldn't raise even further suspicion from her friends. Pretending to apologize for her behaviour? Sebastian and Ominis would never believe such a dramatic shift in attitude — they knew her pride and stubbornness too well. Besides, drawing attention to Eliza might put the girl under scrutiny herself — and while that prospect was tempting, Osborn's reaction to his sister being at risk would be violent.

This was her chance to alert him, to avoid complications. But how to justify it? Telling him her friends were close to uncovering what she'd been ordered to conceal would be catastrophic. Osborn would never allow Sebastian and Ominis to continue — he'd have to intervene and handle the situation himself. The thought alone made her stomach turn — that could only end badly.

Eliza's gentle eyes briefly caught their group before quickly sliding away, pretending not to notice them as she slowly made her way closer to the dorms. Apocrypha's final opportunity to maintain both positions was slipping away — to have the girl deliver the message. But what excuse could she offer? Illness? No, Osborn knew her immune system never failed. Academic obligations? She'd been relieved of those requirements. Refusing to comply? The consequences would be severe — Osborn would find leverage points before she could open her mouth next time she sees him. Simply forgetting? Absurd — he knew she'd never risk her friends' safety through mere forgetfulness.

Her exhaustion from stress and sleepless nights affected her focus, making her mind work too slowly through the possibilities, and before she could fabricate even a marginally plausible excuse, Eliza had already disappeared into the girls' dormitory.

"Mind hushing a bit?" Sebastian asked without looking up from the book he was opening.

Apocrypha's eyes snapped to him. "I didn't say anything."

"Thinking too loud," he said, casually turning a page. "Can hear the gears turning from here."

She clicked her tongue and looked away, silently noting how the common room was steadily emptying as students made their way towards their dormitories.

Sebastian pulled out one of his notebooks and extended it towards her. "Copy my Charms tonight, make yourself busy."

"Thanks," she mumbled gruffly, accepting it. "Am I allowed to get my own things now that you're both here?"

"We're not keeping you captive, Kryph," Ominis said with a soft nod.

"I am," Sebastian countered flatly, still pretending to be absorbed in finding the right passage.

Apocrypha rolled her eyes at that and stood gruffly, striding through the archway to the girls' dormitory.

Once she was gone, Sebastian's eyes lingered on the empty archway before darting to Ominis. "Today?"

Ominis shook his head, gathering the papers from the table onto his lap.

"She's too suspicious already," he whispered. "Let's wait and see what happens tonight."

Sebastian nodded, leaning back and pulling his legs onto the couch, then swiftly hiding Rackham's journal within his stack of books just before Apocrypha returned to an almost deserted common room.

"Brought this," she said, extending a folded sweater towards Sebastian. "The one you forgot at my house."

He took it carefully, unfolding it and bringing it to his face before inhaling slowly. "Smells like your place."

She dropped onto the couch with a shrug. "Is that good?"

"It is," he said simply, offering it back to her. "You should take it — won't fit me anymore anyway. Want it?"

She eyed the sweater thoughtfully before slowly accepting it. "You sure?"

"Be a shame to bin it," he shrugged casually. "Besides, you could use something warm — I know you don't get cold easy, but our dungeons are pretty chill. Try it on."

She pulled the oversized sweater on obediently, pushing her arms through the vast sleeves before looking at him questioningly. Receiving only his brief, approving nod, she settled down and pulled out her notebook, quill scratching against paper as she copied his Charms work lazily.

Sebastian observed her peripherally for a moment longer. Their objective was clear — keep her close, prevent her from wandering off alone. He and Ominis had enough time to overanalyse the fact that separation never ended well for them three — they needed to stick together, especially if they hoped to disentangle whatever business she actually had with the Ministry. The only question was whether they had enough time.

The next few hours passed in near silence, broken only by occasional questions about assignments and light teasing that helped ease the tension that still lingered.

"Blimey, I'm going to make a right pig's ear of History of Magic," Ominis groaned, rubbing his eye. "Absolutely not my forte."

Sebastian snorted. "That's what you get for choosing Magical Law Reform. Still can't fathom how you landed yourself in something so dreadfully dull."

Ominis left his book balanced on his knee, leaning his cheek against the fist. "You know perfectly well I didn't choose it myself."

"True enough," Sebastian allowed a small, rueful smile. "You'd have picked something even more tedious — like staying here at Hogwarts to teach."

"Well, not all of us were blessed with the freedom to choose," Ominis sighed. "Some of us can't just waltz into curse breaking because it suits our natural talents."

"And here I thought we'd all end up in the same department," Sebastian muttered, turning his head to Apocrypha. "An Auror? Really? You've always hated combat."

She peered up from beneath the notebook resting open across her face. "Not such a poor choice, considering I'm already familiar with the Ministry."

What else could she say? That it wasn't her choice at all? That this entire Auror career charade was just a convenient cover for a fate that had already been decided for her?

"Yeah," Sebastian said tightly. "We know that."

There was more he wanted to say — Ominis too — but confronting her too quickly carried its risks. She needed to readjust to being one of them, to remember that trust was the foundation of their friendship. Things always progressed slowly with her, but they were willing to sacrifice some time to tread carefully.

It wasn't that she seemed unwilling to tell them the full truth. Rather, she appeared unable to, as if something was holding her back.

Several more hours of studying left them all notably weary. The hour grew late, and Apocrypha found herself increasingly drawn to the clock above the fireplace — midnight approached, yet her friends showed no signs of surrendering to sleep. She'd expected Sebastian to give up first, given his frequent yawning, but both he and Ominis remained stubbornly awake. Osborn will be livid.

"Right," Sebastian clapped his hands against his thighs decisively, setting his book aside and standing. "Need the loo."

Ominis nodded slowly, lazily tracing his wand across his book with apparent disinterest. He waited until his best friend had gone before shifting in his armchair and clearing his throat.

"Are you alright?" he asked quietly.

Her eyes darted back from the clock. "I am. Why?"

"You seem more tired than usual," he observed calmly. "More bad dreams?"

Apocrypha lowered herself fully onto the couch, drawing her legs up as she lay down. "You know they never really leave entirely."

Ominis propped his chin on his palm. "What about... what we discussed in the Prefects' Bathroom?"

Her silence was heavy, and even without sight, Ominis could feel the weight of her stare before she finally spoke. "Did you tell Sebastian about that?"

"No," he replied evenly. "You asked me not to. I kept quiet."

Apocrypha turned onto her side, bending her arm to rest her head upon it. "Thank you."

Ominis hesitated. While their primary concern was uncovering her Ministry involvement, something about that particular conversation continued to unsettle him deeply. He sensed this might be equally serious and complex as their current predicament.

"Is it still happening?"

"It is," she murmured in a simple tone, wrapping herself in the sweater. "Especially when I'm dreaming."

Ominis considered this, blind eyes turned downward. "That could be the exhaustion talking. You need rest. Without it, your body might make you... experience things. See or hear something that's not there."

"So you think I'm mad then?" she asked calmly, as if it was something obvious.

A gentle huff of amusement escaped him and he softened his tone. "Worked that out last year, didn't I? Just... sleep, Kryph. Dreams can't truly harm you. Because when you return to reality, we're both here for you. Just sleep."

Apocrypha fell silent, eyes lowering in contemplation. She knew Ominis experienced dreaming differently — his blindness since birth made it impossible for him to truly understand her perspective. But she also knew he would never urge her towards anything he believed might cause her harm. Before she could respond, Sebastian returned, sauntering back to his spot.

"Past midnight already," he remarked, reopening his book. "Time flies."

Ominis yawned, shaking his book demonstratively. "Felt every bloody minute of this."

"At least my History of Magic advanced course is halfway decent," Sebastian shrugged. "All that rubbish about historical artifacts and curses in detail."

The irony wasn't lost on any of them — Sebastian's chosen path, given the greatest mistake he'd ever made in his life. He knew both of his friends had something to say about it, but they held their tongues for his sake. He forced himself to emulate his former self, though not quite convincingly, hoping this new direction might offer some form of redemption for his wrongs. Yet deep down, he knew nothing would ever absolve him of the guilt he carried for Anne's death.

"Clever clogs," Apocrypha mumbled from her spot. "Can't wait to see how Arithmancy handles you."

Sebastian scowled without heat, waving his still-empty number chart. "I'll manage just fine. Unlike you with your 'beloved' Herbology."

She scrunched her nose in disgust at the mention of the subject, tired eyes scanning Sebastian's appearance for ammunition. Finally finding it, she bit out, "Go have a shave."

Sebastian ran a hand over his stubbled jaw, exhaling something close to a chuckle. "That's hitting below the belt."

Ominis snorted nearby, unconsciously touching his own, fainter stubble. This was promising — she was acting more like herself now, pragmatic and nearly borderline snarky as ever.

Sebastian's gaze slid sideways, observing Apocrypha peripherally once again for a brief moment before noting the way she had cocooned herself in his sweater, hands vanishing into the sleeves, the collar pulled up over her chin. He'd witnessed this habit countless times during their summer together — though not particularly sensitive to cold like himself, she'd always done this with her blanket for the sake of rare comfort. It was a small ritual he and Anne had shared as children too, finding solace and protection when missing their parents became overwhelming. Like a substitute for an embrace.

"Planning to turn into a moth, are you?" he asked with light sarcasm, privately satisfied with the sight — while the sweater itself meant little to him, her compliance to subconsciously agreeing to be marked as theirs felt comforting. Reassuring, even.

She regarded him through heavy-lidded eyes. "Yes. Dry me out and pin me behind glass when I'm dead."

Sebastian rolled his eyes. "Duly noted."

"Don't encourage her death jokes," Ominis murmured, lolling his back against the armchair.

"Why not?" Sebastian clicked his tongue. "Kryph would make a fine moth specimen. Something black, with green spots."

Ominis only grunted tiredly in return, his book forgotten on his knees.

"I expect at least one of you to keep me in your house," Apocrypha muttered from beneath a layer of fabric over her mouth.

Sebastian sighed, not quite satisfied with the topic himself when she sounded so casual about it.

"You're thinking too far ahead, Kryph. Too early for you to die yet. We haven't even graduated — whole life ahead of us."

Apocrypha burrowed deeper into her cocoon, voice still low but calm. "Don't want to think about what happens after graduation."

"Well, what would you like to happen?"

She managed a barely perceptible shrug, eyes blinking in unsynchronized slowness — one lid dropping and the other following a moment later. "Just... stay like this. With you both."

"I'd like that too. All of us together after Hogwarts," Sebastian said with a slow, thoughtful nod. "And I haven't forgotten about spending Christmas together."

She nodded unhurriedly in return, the collar hiding what her crinkling lower eyelids suggested was nearly a smile. Her drowsy gaze drifted to Ominis, who wore a gentle smile of his own, eyes closed and features relaxed as he rested comfortably in his armchair. The lighter conversation had affected them all positively.

Despite each of them knowing such a future would likely never come to pass.

Another lengthy silence fell between them. Sebastian gradually drew his legs onto the couch, keeping them bent to leave room for Apocrypha's stretched limbs. He kept his eyes on the book without actually reading until a soft rustle of fabric drew his attention back to her.

She'd pulled the collar higher, over her nose now, staring vacantly ahead through barely-open eyes that held a subtle, but telling glisten. Her breathing had slowed, deliberately measured and controlled to suppress any irregular intake of air that might betray her emotion. Something had suddenly upset her.

"Kryph?" he called quietly.

She swallowed wetly, keeping her eyes determinedly averted from his, clearly unwilling to reveal her current state.

"I wish..." she managed, words coming increasingly slower and heavier. "I could be... as strong as you are."

Sebastian made a low sound in his throat, something between discomfort and dismissal. If she only knew how much effort each step took, how hard he worked to maintain any semblance of his younger self, to simply continue existing every single day without anguish tearing him from within, she wouldn't consider him strong.

"You're just as strong," he said gently instead, continuing watching her. "I'm just better at chess."

The huff she exhaled in reply carried nothing of humour — all he heard there was pure grief. She maintained her vacant stare until her eyes inevitably drifted shut, forcing loose a single drop of moisture that had gathered on her lashes.

"Don't want to be... away from you and Ominis," she mumbled, barely audible.

Sebastian kept his expression and tone deliberately light to avoid letting her know he'd noticed.

"You won't be away from us," he said softly. "We'll sort something out. I promise."

He watched as the moisture in the corner of her closed eye gradually traced a path down her cheekbone, evening out before being absorbed into the skin. He leaned forward slightly, unsettled and pained in equal measure — in all their years of friendship, he'd seen her cry only once. That time at the graveyard had made sense, but this? This he couldn't explain.

"Kryph?" he whispered, noting her complete lack of response to his closer proximity. "Don't tell me you're asleep."

But she appeared to be exactly that — her expression had settled into stillness, breathing no longer suppressed but deep and even.

Sebastian leaned back, blindly swatting the air beside him while still keeping his eyes on Apocrypha.

"Ominis," he whispered in disbelief, "she's fallen asleep — can you imagine?"

He turned to his best friend only to find him wearing an equally peaceful expression, breathing slow and deep in his armchair as his chin settled against his shoulder in a gesture of quiet repose.

"Oh, you cannot be serious," Sebastian whispered, but decided against disturbing either of them.

Instead, he extended his legs with painstakingly slow, quiet movements, stretching them alongside Apocrypha's without making contact. He'd never witnessed her sleeping before — she'd never allowed it. Yet here she was, offering this small token of trust to them both. Whether from sheer exhaustion or genuine affection, he couldn't determine, but he was willing to accept it all the same.

He rubbed his eye tiredly and sighed, casting a few more glances at his sleeping friends before setting his book on the table. Leaning back against the couch, he shifted until he found a comfortable position, arms crossed over his chest. His gaze drifted to the ceiling before his eyes began to close of their own accord.

"Won this round, then," he muttered.

Sleep had always been a difficult thing for her. But sometimes, when it was nearly miraculous, she got lucky — no waking from the faintest sound, no dreams to torture her. This appeared to be one of those lucky days.

Apocrypha stirred first from her lying position, eyes cracking open one at a time before she jerked slightly at the sight of the common room. Morning light filtered through the waters of the Black Lake, piercing the submerged window and bathing the space in gentle bluish hues.

She rubbed her cheek, unable to find strength in her voice just yet. "When did I fall asleep..."

Pushing herself up onto her elbows, still disoriented, she observed her still-sleeping friends in their awkward, almost comical poses. Ominis remained in his favoured armchair, head against shoulder, lips parted with a small pool of drool threatening to spill from one corner. Sebastian snored on the opposite end of the couch, one arm flung across his face, legs unceremoniously draped over her own.

She shrugged his legs away and sat upright, nudging Sebastian with her knee. "Wake up, you lot."

He startled awake, smacking his lips sleepily and raising his head to peer around with one eye half-open. "Morning already?"

"My neck..." Ominis groaned from nearby, attempting to lift his head from his shoulder.

Apocrypha swayed slightly, trying to maintain her balance, voice hoarse. "What time is it?"

Sebastian stretched with a satisfied grunt, throwing his head back against the couch arm to look at the clock on the fireplace. "Nearly nine — proper lie-in, that."

She glanced around slowly, still somewhat dazed.

"I'm hungry," came out blunt and sudden. "Breakfast should still be on."

Ominis froze in the middle of stretching his aching back. "You what? Hungry?"

Sebastian's lips quirked. "Mate, someone must have stolen the real Kryph while we slept."

"Quite obviously a fetch," he nodded with mock solemnity, still working out the crick in his neck.

Apocrypha rolled her eyes and stood up. "You're both very funny."

"Peace," Ominis raised his hands, smirking. "Sebastian, must be our Kryph after all. Better feed her before she changes her mind just to spite us."

Sebastian hummed in agreement, glancing at her. "Look at that — sleep must be turning you into a human being after all."

"Fifteen minutes, here," she clicked her tongue, turning away and striding towards the girls' dormitory. "Need the bathroom and all that rot."

The dorm greeted her with unexpected emptiness — where were Imelda, Nerida and Eliza? It seemed unlikely all three would abandon their beds this early on a Saturday morning. She pushed the thought aside, deciding not to focus on the business that wasn't her own, and gathered her bathroom utilities before striding to the adjacent washroom.

Though not feeling particularly unclean, the prospect of a shower excited her inexplicably. Energy coursed through her body in strange ways — was this what others experienced daily? This readiness to engage, to participate, to express? Did everyone wake feeling this way? Had her usual lethargy been the anomaly all along?

Water had always been a comfort, though she'd strictly limited herself to cold baths — anything to ward off sleep. Today felt different — perhaps she could indulge in warm water. The sensation proved pleasant, refreshing — nearly enough to wash away her worries. The rumbling beneath the floor, the missed meeting with Osborn, her friends' suspicions — all seemed distant. When anxious thoughts eventually slithered back, they carried a curiously muted quality. She found herself wanting to push them aside, to deal with whatever waited later. The urgency that typically accompanied such concerns felt oddly dampened, almost dreamlike.

Her bare feet slapped against the cold floor as she stepped from the bathtub, wiping her face with a towel on her way to the sink. Her dry hair remained pinned at the nape of her neck, a few escaped strands still wet against the skin. The mirror above the sink reflected both the lamp illuminating the room from her left and the exhaustion etched into her features, despite her renewed energy. Brush between her teeth, she examined her naked reflection. Her ribcage still protruded clearly beneath skin stretched too thin, stomach hollow and concave. Collarbones jutted like knife edges across her shoulders, while a web of blue veins mapped their way down her arms.

She turned sideways, saturated eyes trailing over the constellation of short white scars on her shoulder before her hand reached back to trace one particular mark — deeper than the others, soft to the touch. She rarely permitted herself such thorough inspection — the mirror typically offered little she cared to see, making layers of clothing a welcome shield. But today was different after all.

Leaning closer to the mirror, toothbrush still working, she pulled down her right lower eyelid with her free hand. The usual inflammation had receded, the red vessels less prominent. Perhaps more sleep would help — it had felt almost pleasant.

A flicker of movement caught her peripheral vision — something her mind registered as wrong before she could properly process why. A shadow stretched across the floor behind her, as if someone stood there. She turned her head, still absently brushing, and frowned slightly upon recognizing it as her own shadow cast by the lamp — the same silhouette and features, mimicking her small movements perfectly.

She bent over the sink to rinse and spit, briefly glancing right — where her shadow also waited. She froze, eyes drifting slowly to the lamp on her left as she finally realised what was wrong. Her shadow should fall to the right. It couldn't possibly be behind her.

She forced herself to remain calm, turning back to the mirror and feigning interest in her other eyelid while keeping her peripheral attention fixed on the shadow behind her — it followed her deliberate movements with matching slowness. Testing, she made a casual jerking motion with her elbow — the shadow lagged, just a fraction of a second too late to maintain the illusion.

A small chuckle escaped her throat, unfamiliar and wrong.

"Got you," she whispered playfully.

The sound of her own voice startled her. What the hell was wrong with her?

Blinking rapidly, she lowered her eyes and looked away, fingers fumbling with fresh clothes as she pulled them on hastily. She didn't bother with the buttons of her shirt before making for the exit, deliberately avoiding looking at the floor as she strode towards the door. At the threshold she stopped, finding herself unable to resist one final glance back into the bathroom.

The lamp still threw a shadow beside the sink — but nothing stood there to cast it. Her own silhouette remained frozen in place, until its head snapped towards her with unnatural speed. Apocrypha jerked the door shut.

Exhaling a shaky breath, she pressed the heels of her palms against her temples. What was that? Was she seeing things? It didn't make sense — she'd slept properly, her body had no reason to conjure hallucinations anymore. And while she often experienced minor visual and auditory disturbances during her worst periods, this one felt far too vivid and real.

Calming her breathing, she turned back and inhaled deeply, holding the air in her lungs as her fingers closed around the door handle. She's going to open it and nothing will be there. Just her mind playing tricks again.

Pushing the door open just a crack, she peered through the gap and sighed — the floor lay empty and clear of anything that shouldn't be there. Good. Just another trick of her exhausted brain.

She rubbed her eye and leaned back, fingers working the buttons of her shirt as she made her way out of the dormitory. Outside, her friends were already waiting, freshened up and put together.

Sebastian stretched lazily as he stood. "We should get moving before breakfast disappears entirely."

"Agreed," Ominis said, already heading towards the staircase that led out of the dungeons. "What are you planning to eat on this momentous occasion, Kryph?"

Apocrypha followed, releasing her hair from its pin and running her fingers through it in an attempt to tame it. "Soup."

"Soup?" Sebastian let out a bemused scoff. "Who has soup for breakfast? They won't even be serving that at this hour."

"We'll find her something," Ominis shrugged. "The important thing is she's eating today."

They made their way out, soon finding themselves in the Central Hall, which was ridiculously noisy for a Saturday morning. Dozens of students sprawled across every available surface — lounged on the benches, gathered around the fountain, draped over staircases. The din of countless conversations echoed off the walls, punctuated by bursts of laughter and the occasional shriek. A group of third-years chased each other through the crowd, passing them with boisterous energy.

Apocrypha gathered the loose strands from her temples and pinned them back, finally making herself more or less presentable. "Who fell asleep first, by the way?"

Sebastian's finger shot towards his best friend, triumph written plain across his face. "Ominis."

"Don't get too smug just because Kryph lost this round," Ominis grunted, shoving his hand into his pocket as the other one help the wand up.

Apocrypha hummed thoughtfully, watching the floor as they walked. "So I lost then..."

A teasing remark from Sebastian was swallowed by the surrounding din, though his tone carried through. She opened her mouth to ask him to repeat himself, but a familiar sensation at her feet stole her attention.

The rumbling. That subtle vibration, akin to the hum of a colossal wasp hive stirring underground.

Why now? Why here?

She stopped, straining to listen, but the commotion was unbearable.

Raising her hands to her ears, she pressed them shut to block the cacophony out and focused on her senses, then released and repeated the motion. The noise around her vanished and resurged with each iteration, Ominis's question briefly breaking through the pattern.

"Why are you doing that? You're nowhere near the dungeons."

Ears still covered, she almost replied before catching herself — she hadn't mentioned The Hive to any of them.

Releasing her ears, she braced for the renewed uproar of the hall, but the space had fallen utterly silent. So silent she could almost hear her own heartbeat. Her eyes swept across the previously boisterous students who'd been the source of the earlier racket, and she froze. They stood utterly mute now, every single one staring back at her with eyes unnaturally wide. A few sharp cracks of bone reverberated through the stillness as she noticed some students, previously turned away, now facing her despite their backs remaining in place — their heads twisted fully around, impossibly rotated at owl-like, full circle angles to fix her with the same wild-eyed stare.

Apocrypha leaned back slightly, her nervous swallow loud in her own ears as she stared back.

"You lot..." she called for her friends weakly, voice unsteady.

When no response came, she turned to where she expected her friends to be and recoiled with a start — Sebastian and Ominis stood motionless, just like the rest, staring back at her with those same wild, impossibly wide eyes.

She took several cautious steps backwards, breathing stuttering as she tried to control the heartbeat thundering in her ears. Saturated green darted between the frozen figures — with how much their absolute stillness scared her, the thought of them suddenly moving filled her with even deeper horror.

The stone floor suddenly split beneath her feet with a sharp crack and she lost her footing, tumbling backwards but never hitting the ground — the surface gave way entirely, plummeting her down with cascading rubble.

For a moment, everything went blank. Just darkness. Stillness. Biting cold.

Only the deafening song of the Hive remained — luring, beckoning. A formless noise that pulled at the consciousness — no rhythm, no melody, no words, just an insistent call audible for her ears only.

Come here. To me.

Her next conscious breath brought a fit of coughing as dust filled her lungs, though she found herself oddly clean of debris. Looking around through bleary eyes, she found herself exactly where she'd expected — facing the entrance to the Map Chamber, its doors waiting expectantly.

She grunted, pushing off the scattered rocks and glancing upward as she stood. The hole she'd fallen through extended endlessly into darkness, its beginning lost to the void above.

This couldn't be real. She was dreaming. The realisation did little to slow her racing pulse.

The chamber groaned in response to her hesitation, its rumbling intensifying before the doors swung open with silent invitation. Apocrypha stared, drawing deep breaths through her nose. Part of her recognized the danger when it sensed it, but another part felt an unsettling sense of belonging, as if she'd always been meant to stand here. As if this place had been waiting for her all along.

She moved forward carefully, finally crossing the threshold and scanning the space. The Keepers' portraits remained empty and motionless in their frames, but the chamber's essence had shifted dramatically — the once-gentle blue magical light had been replaced by malevolent, sickly red light that crawled across the walls. It set her teeth on edge.

Another set of doors commanded attention against the descending darkened floor, their magical insignia pulsing with deep, hellish crimson. The entrance to the caverns.

The Ancient Magic insignia flared at her closeness, and the stone ground against stone as the massive doors parted before her. Yet what greeted her beyond defied her memory from fifth year. Instead of the vast corridor that should have led to the underground cavern system — where Ranrok's drills pierced the foundations of Hogwarts — stood the entrance to the Repository Chamber itself, displaced from its proper place.

The vast cavernous space yawned before her, every surface suffused with an unnatural crimson radiance. Centuries-old columns rose into darkness, carved reliefs catching the blood-red glow from burning torches. Dim light spilled through the towering gates where they stood open, painting every crevice and corner in shades of sunset and rust.

The Repository's guardians flanked the gates in perfect symmetry, their typically azure-lit armour now coursing with ribbons of deep scarlet energy that pulsed from within their magical construction like dying stars. Their massive forms stood ceremoniously, gauntleted hands wrapped formally around the hilts of their downturned swords in a picture of knightly nobility. Yet something in their stance suggested anticipation rather than mere vigilance.

Apocrypha closed the distance slowly, footsteps echoing in the charged silence. As she drew closer to the leftmost guardian, her stride faltered. The construct's helm, previously fixed forward as she'd always known it, had turned to track her movement. It gazed down at her with an awareness she had never seen in these ancient sentinels, and she found herself frozen under that downward stare, suddenly aware of how small she stood in their towering shadow.

A deep rhythm pulsed through the chamber like a massive heartbeat, drawing her forward, to the place that had haunted her dreams since she'd last stood here. Beyond the twisted archway that marked the narrow passage opening to nothing but void beneath, she saw it — the storage hung suspended over endless darkness, its metallic cage slowly rotating the blade-like bindings around the captured magic inside.

A metallic screech made her flinch as the gates sealed behind her. She didn't turn, having half-expected the Repository to trap her here.

"Dreams can't truly harm you," she whispered Ominis's words, closing her eyes and exhaling through her nose.

Empty reassurance, but she needed something to hold onto.

Opening her eyes, she edged towards the passage, cautiously looking over the chamber's perimeter. The presence of Ancient Magic she'd sensed for months now felt overwhelming here, as if the very air had grown one with its essence.

The voice sliced through the constant rumbling, gentle yet absolute.

"You came."

Her steps faltered. She swallowed. "You called."

The chamber responded with an ambiguous sound, almost satisfied. From behind the stone formations that clawed at the floating storage, a dark figure disentangled itself from the nearby shadows. Tall and slim, it stood beside the sphere with statue-like stillness, its featureless silhouette somehow distinctly feminine.

Apocrypha halted at the archway's threshold, that final boundary between her and the storage sphere. "Why do I keep seeing you?"

The figure tilted its head with slowly, almost curious. "Because you need me. You want me."

She studied the being silently, eyes moving between it and the storage before returning. "You know nothing of what I need or want."

It made a soft humming sound, tilting its head further until a slick crack punctuated the motion — an angle far beyond what any human neck could manage.

"Fortunately," its voice echoed from everywhere and nowhere at once,"I know precisely what you want. Deep down..." It paused, letting the words hover in the crimson-stained air. "So deep you can't even face it yourself. Like the reason why someone like you was so destroyed by Fig's death..."

It shifted slightly, movements unnaturally fluid as it hovered next to the pulsing storage sphere that cast twisted shadows across the chamber walls. "Or, which is more important... opened the Repository in the first place."

Apocrypha winced. "You're reading too much into simple weakness. And mistakes."

<>"Am I now?" The words rippled through the space. "Lying is a dangerous thing... We both know you never saw the Repository as a mistake — I was there when you gave in to the temptation."

She scoffed demonstratively, eyes darting cautiously around the space as she forced slow, deep breaths through her nose to maintain composure. "You? What are you supposed to be then?"

"I think you already know." The echo softened, though the words still seemed to whisper directly into her mind."You've suspected for a while now."

She stilled completely, staring at the featureless being uncertainly. "...Isidora?"

Though its face remained pure void given shape, she could almost sense a satisfied, cunning grin spreading across where its mouth should be. It straightened its head and glided closer, circling the floating orb with movements deliberately similar to her own.

"We've always belonged together — you and I. You just needed a little... push back then. To silence those doubts."

Apocrypha watched it move, lips parting several times before she was able to find words. "That's impossible. You're dead. You aren't even real."

The figure stopped abruptly and went still, face turned towards her.

"Is that your solution? Deciding things aren't real?" Its voice grew colder, sharper, almost demanding. "Like when he forced his touch where you didn't want it? Did telling yourself it wasn't real help back then?"

Apocrypha flinched at the cruel words, eyes falling away uncomfortably.

"Or how about the other one?" Its tone turned biting. "That vile bastard who violates your mind over and over? The fact that you allow it for your so-called friends' sake makes me sick."

She scowled deeply, anger flashing through the tight expression. "Shut up. You know nothing of friendship — not after how you died."

A small, amused laughter rippled through the cavernous space as the being continued circling the floating orb, briefly vanishing behind its bulk.

Apocrypha swallowed anxiously but kept her frown firmly in place, eyes adjusting to the harsh crimson glow bathing the area. As her gaze followed the shadows while searching for the entity, it lingered too long in one place — and she saw them. Still, frozen silhouettes stood clustered behind the stone formations guarding the orb. The more she focused, the more vivid they became — row after row of faceless figures, unmoving and blending into the foggy red miasma. Their featureless forms absorbed the crimson light, but where eyes should be, small points of light reflected the storage's glow — countless pairs of luminous dots watching from the darkness.

When the being finally reappeared from the opposite side of the orb, she reeled back instinctively.

"You shouldn't lie to me," it said softly. "I know why you're here. I know what you are...what you could become — if you'd stop being such a coward."

Tearing her eyes from the eerie mass of watchers, Apocrypha cleared her throat.

"I'm not scared of you," she lied. "Dreams can't harm me."

"Hmm?" The sound reverberated questioningly before the figure turned sharply, suddenly beginning to rapidly close the distance between them.

"What makes you think you're still asleep?"

Apocrypha back-pedalled clumsily, her jerky retreat betraying previous lie now transparent.

"Stay awa-" She managed to spit out before her words died in a sharp inhalation.

In an instantaneous blur, the figure before her shot forward, seizing her throat with a shockingly cold, cruel grip. Elongated claws dug painfully into flesh as it wrenched her closer, that blank face looming over her own.

"Coward."

She jerked upright with a strangled gasp, sucking desperate mouthfuls of air as waking reality flooded back in a sickening rush. Sweat drenched her forehead and palms, chest heaving violently while the lingering dread clung to her like a cobweb she couldn't quite brush away. Trembling violently, she frantically looked around the common room, allowing the reality slowly reassert itself.

Just a nightmare. Just another nightmare.

Her eyes drifted down to where her friends still slept soundly, each in their place like she remembered them. Sebastian's snoring had stuttered slightly — likely disrupted by her abrupt wakening — but quickly resumed its rhythmic cadence alongside Ominis's quieter snuffles.

She rubbed her hands together compulsively, painfully twisting her fingers to ground herself. A glance at the clock above the fireplace showed half-past five in the morning.

Slowly rising from the couch, she stilled her residual trembling to avoid rousing her friends. Carefully, she slid off and urgently made her way towards the stairs leading out of the dungeons, failing to look back in her rush.

As her footsteps distanced, one of Sebastian's eyes cracked open halfway, tracking her swift exit. Stress and nerves had prevented him from falling into a deep rest — the slightest disturbance was enough to rouse him.

He waited for her steps to fade more before shaking Ominis by his elbow.

"Ominis, wake up," he hissed in a hushed whisper.

Ominis's eyes fluttered open groggily, a sleepy mumble escaping his lips. "Mm?"

"She left somewhere," Sebastian whispered back, already on his feet. "Let's go."

"What?" The words instantly sobered Ominis, and he straightened in the armchair before standing up. "When?"

"Just now," Sebastian replied lowly, heading for the spiral staircase. "Woke up and ran off like a scared animal."

Ominis followed closely behind, voice still hushed. "If she left the dungeons, how do you expect us to trail her? Auror patrols are everywhere."

"Don't know yet, need to think," Sebastian muttered hastily.

They reached the top of the spiral staircase where the dungeon entrance lay. Ominis opened his mouth, "We could-"

"Shh!" Sebastian's raised his hand, signalling for silence. "Get down."

Complying, Ominis crouched beside the door while Sebastian leaned close, ear nearly touching the thick wood.

"Listen," he breathed.

Muffled voices drifted through the barrier, growing clearer in the quiet — one unmistakably their friend's.

"I...I was heading to Osborn," she said timidly.

"Mr. Sinclair," the deep male voice corrected sharply — the Auror stationed at the dungeon's entrance. "This is unscheduled. Unauthorized."

Ominis raised his wand, its tip glowing faintly as he attuned his heightened senses. The subtle vibrations travelling through stone detected shuffling feet, then a soft impact followed by the scrape of boot heels and a muted grunt of exertion from their friend. Two sets of footsteps moved away — one steady, one stumbling and pulled along, as if being forcibly grabbed.

"That wretched son of a..." Sebastian hissed through clenched teeth. "Told you Sinclair was involved."

"Don't lose your head," Ominis whispered, though his tone was equally strained. He waited for a moment longer, listening. "Path's clear — let's go."

A third whisper came from behind them, sudden and loud in the tense silence.

"Where are you going?"

Whirling around, Ominis raised his wand sharply before lowering it with a small, relieved sigh. "Eli?"

"What are you doing out this late?" Sebastian demanded quietly.

"I just..." Eliza's fingers twisted nervously as she stood in her dishevelled sleeping shirt draped over a long uniform skirt. "I wanted toast with strawberry jam from kitchen... Cannot sleep without it." Her accented voice turned pleading, almost guilty. "Please do not tell others. They already tease for my..." She gestured subtly at her upper body.

Ominis exhaled through his nose sternly. "You can't just sneak to the kitchens after curfew, Eli. The Aurors will get you in far more trouble than prefects ever could."

She nodded rapidly, keeping her voice hushed. "Yes, yes, but... where are you going? It is dangerous."

Sebastian rolled his eyes. "Personal business. Go back to bed."

Her beautiful round face arranged itself into a small pout as she turned to Ominis, blue eyes wide and innocent. "Can I go with you? Please?"

"Sorry, Eli," Ominis shook his head apologetically. "You can't."

"Go to sleep," Sebastian repeated firmly.

Eliza's mouth curved downward at his strict tone. She gave a small, sad nod and turned away, quickly descending the spiral staircase. Once alone, Sebastian pushed the heavy doors open with careful scrutiny, sliding into the corridor and looking around cautiously.

"Did you have to be so harsh with her?" Ominis whispered.

"Did you have to go all soft the moment the girl you fancy appeared?" Sebastian cast his Disillusionment Charm, proceeding carefully down the corridor to their left. "We've got serious matters at hand. Can't let your heart muddle your head."

Following suit with his own charm, Ominis continued to crouch after his best friend along the walls. "Rather rich coming from you of all people, preaching about staying composed where someone you care about is involved."

Sebastian stayed silent for a beat. "Obviously, I'm trying — we both care about her."

Ominis huffed behind him. "We do, but different—"

"Shh!" Sebastian yanked his arm, pulling them flat against the wall at the sound of faint humming ahead.

Peering around the corner, he suppressed a relieved breath — just another Hogwarts ghost, soon disappearing through the floor. They climbed the next short staircase until a second set of doors greeted them.

"Sense anyone behind?" Sebastian asked.

Ominis pressed close to the door, focusing his senses through the wand that directed them. "Clear for now."

They crept through the passage leading outside the castle and quickly got to yet another set of doors that led to the Viaduct entrance. Before Sebastian could push the door, Ominis halted.

"At least two ahead."

"Too many bloody doors in this place," Sebastian half-whispered, half-groaned.

"How are we even supposed to get inside?" Ominis whispered. "Let alone sort out where Kryph's been taken."

Sebastian exhaled sharply, as if steeling himself. "I'll go first — if I'm spotted, use the distraction to slip past."

"Have you gone mental?" Ominis hissed furiously, but Sebastian was already easing the door open with excruciating slowness to prevent any creaking, and slowly inched himself closer to the small opening.

Through the narrow gap, at least one Auror was visible standing sentry in the centre of the hall, turning towards the opposite staircase. Sebastian grabbed his friend's elbow, tugging him through before releasing the door just as gradually.

Tiptoeing swiftly across the stone floor to silence any potential click of their shoes, they hid beneath the nearer staircase. To their left, the space descended to the balcony overlooking the Central Hall — the very same balcony Sebastian had designated as their meeting spot before that ill-fated venture to the Restricted Section in fifth-year. There was a bitter irony in watching Apocrypha descend those same stairs now, arm firmly in the grip of a towering, burly man.

"There she is — caught up, thank Merlin," Sebastian breathed.

The Auror holding their friend just seemed to finish conversing with what appeared to be another patrol member before stepping aside with the girl in tow. They disappeared around the corner, followed by the sound of heavy doors swinging open and shutting.

"They're heading to the Defence Tower," Ominis whispered. "If we lose them there, we'll be caught searching."

Sebastian leaned close, barely breathing. "Can't move yet — another one's just at the balcony."

"I know that," Ominis whispered back, anxiety seeping through the irritation in his tone.

Another whispering voice joined them from behind, unnervingly close. "He'll leave soon."

They jerked around startled, and Sebastian, running on pure adrenaline, grabbed the figure and pulled them back against his chest as his hand clamped over their mouth.

Eliza tensed slightly but didn't struggle, waiting patiently to be recognized. Her eyes darted around quickly, searching for her invisible captor.

Struggling to maintain composure, Ominis whispered as softly as his current state allowed, "What...are you...doing here?"

"Bloody buggering fuck, Kochanowska," Sebastian mouthed almost inaudibly, releasing her with a slow inhale. "Trying to give us a heart attack?"

Eliza smiled guiltily, glancing over their disembodied voices. "Are you going to Restricted Section? Because I know how to get down without guards seeing."

"Eli, I told you not to follow," Ominis breathed, clearing his throat quietly.

"No," she shook her head quickly. "You said I cannot go with you — so I came without." Her chest puffed proudly as she raised one finger. "I did not disobey—"

"Wait," Sebastian interrupted. "What do you mean you 'know how to get down without guards seeing'?"

Eliza nodded eagerly, turning towards Ominis's previous location while smiling. "I learned their patrol patterns from sneaking to kitchens for that strawberry jam after hours — impossible not to eat, delici—"

"Get to the point," Sebastian spoke over her again. "And cast the bloody charm, you're visible a mile off."

She complied instantly, obediently casting the Disillusionment Charm and melting into the surroundings. "What I try to say — they are only people, and no one is crazy enough to watch every exit for twelve hours straight without little distraction."

"Fair enough," Ominis whispered. "If you can help, we'd appreciate it."

An inaudible huff signalled her happy smile as she leaned forwards and peered from their hiding spot.

"One on balcony makes circle around Central Hall every fifteen minutes to see other doors — we can sneak down while one from here is above—"

"We don't need down," Sebastian murmured lowly. "Left — and somehow open that door without being seen. Sound we can avoid, but the sight of an open door is different matter."

A small slip of uncertainty hung in Eliza's silence before she spoke. "I thought we go to library?"

"We need the DADA Tower somehow," Ominis stated. "Can you help?"

"Why you need go there?" She asked, unable to mask clear hesitance lacing her tone with a hint of anxiety.

Sebastian's tongue clicked faintly. "Will you help or not?"

Eliza fell silent for a long moment, expression invisible behind the charm.

"Eli, just yes or no," Ominis urged as gently as he could. "We've no time."

She made an uncertain sound suspiciously bordering on tortured, then whispered hurriedly, "I'll go with you then."

Grabbing Ominis by what later appeared to be his wrist, she dragged him from their hideout, racing down the staircase without checking if Sebastian followed — somehow she was certain he would. The subtle rattling breath of the stone dragon above the Central Hall masked their silent footsteps as she dragged Ominis to the short stairs to their left.

"Guard just left the balcony," she breathed. "Must be quiet with the door."

Sebastian nudged it excruciatingly slowly, each millimetre seeming to stretch an eternity with an almost physical strain — their precious time was slipping away. He made the gap just wide enough for Eliza to slip through, and he ushered her in, then Ominis, then himself.

Adrenaline hammered in his ribcage. Aurors weren't mere prefects who'd quit after a cursory search — they'd dig relentlessly at the slightest suspicion. He released the door with agonising care, internally flinching. When it didn't screech, they exhaled deeply into the fresh morning air and hurried across the exposed bridge to the Defence Tower where Ominis halted them once again.

"Let's hope this one is the last," he whispered, straining against the door with wand raised. "There's loads of them there."

"Eliza might be right — they're only human. Staring at one entrance for hours is impossible." Sebastian drew deep breaths. "How many exactly?"

Ominis blinked rapidly, fighting the slight tremor coursing through his wand. "Four, best I can sense — across different levels but close together."

"Complicated," Sebastian muttered lowly, "but we've no choice."

Ominis pressed against the door first, pushing it just barely. "Same plan — if I'm caught, you use the distraction—"

A slight creak made them flinch — they recoiled violently, flattening themselves against the stone bridge railing, crouched and breathless.

Just a fraction of a moment later, a tall man in Ministry robes flung the door open, alarmed eyes sweeping the perimeter before narrowing.

"Margaret," he called to a colleague, "come look at this."

Fresh set of boots approached swiftly from within, and a stern-faced woman in formal attire appeared. "Problem?"

The man stared ahead mutedly before nodding towards the Viaduct door without speaking. They moved together.

The moment they distanced themselves, Ominis grabbed Sebastian's shoulder, shoving him through the narrow opening left by the Auror's exit before tugging Eliza along. Inside, they pressed against the wall, attempting to catch their breath silently.

"We all are bloody well done for," Ominis whispered.

Leaning close, Sebastian tried calming him, knowing too well how unstable his best friend's anxiety could get. "We've had worse, Ominis. Don't let panic control you — stay calm."

Ominis inhaled deeply through parted lips, exhaling slowly. "Okay...okay."

Sebastian cautiously surveyed their surroundings, rising slightly to spot more Aurors below — one by the Portrait of the Burning Witch, another even lower.

He crouched again, struggling to keep his own breaths even. "Where the bloody hell have they taken her?"

As if answering, a familiar small, gruff voice broke the silence from somewhere above.

"I can walk on my own."

A deep male voice immediately shut her down. "Quiet."

"She's upstairs," Ominis mouthed.

They both darted right before Eliza halted them with a whisper. "You can't go there!"

Sebastian faltered. "Why not?"

"It's... it's..." she stumbled over her words. "Dangerous. Many guards. You'll be caught."

Ominis paused only briefly before pushing Sebastian forward. "To hell with that. We're past the point of no return."

Eliza's mouth opened as if to protest, then snapped shut. She followed nonetheless.

They climbed the wooden stairs one by one at Sebastian's directive to avoid creaking, finally reaching the upper floor. Above lay the Astronomy Wing and Charms Classroom, but the sounds of struggle remained on their level — which was confusing since there was nothing on this floor except for the restrooms and...

"Fig's office?" Sebastian asked hesitantly.

"Doesn't make sense," Ominis shook his head minutely. "Why bring her here?"

Nearby, Eliza's voice grew increasingly anxious as she fumbled with her words.

"You-...We cannot be here." She grabbed Ominis's arm pleadingly. "We must turn back now."

Ominis wavered, suddenly unsure. "Why are you so nervous all of a sudden?"

"I see them," Sebastian whispered before she could answer.

Peering around the corner, they spotted the man engaged in formal-toned conversation with another guard stationed there. The Auror restraining their friend spoke up, words low but audible.

"Go on. Six o'clock soon, I'll take over here."

"Cheers, Davis," the other replied, patting the man's arm before departing to the stairs.

Sebastian stretched his arm, pushing Ominis and Eliza flush against the wall. They held their breath as the unnamed Auror passed, boots tapping roughly against the wooden surface behind them. Path clear, they waited for Davis to disappear with their friend around the next corner before the door to Fig's office creaked open.

"Now," Sebastian breathed, pushing off the wall and propelling them forward.

Their pace quickened as they swiftly slipped through the threshold inside, taking cover behind a desk closest to the entrance.

The classroom around felt foreign in darkness — all warmth stripped away with its extinguished lamps and barren shelves. A cold emptiness lingered in the eerily barren space, as if still mourning its previous master's absence. Ahead, above the tiered rows of desks and benches, the office door remained slightly ajar, a thin blade of light seeping through the gap along with the unnervingly calm voice.

"What a pleasant surprise," Osborn's casual tone drifted down. "Thought you'd decided to run off."

"Found this one leaving the dungeons alone," Davis reported firmly. "Claimed she was headed to see you, sir."

"We were meant to meet," Osborn confirmed simply. "Much earlier, though."

The sudden toll of the clock made the hidden group jump behind their desk.

Osborn sighed from behind his own barrier. "You may go. I'll handle her myself."

"I'll stay by the entrance if needed, sir," Davis replied dutifully. "Took over the shift for your security."

"Your loyalty is appreciated."

The office door groaned, and the man exited, heavy footsteps descending before passing their hiding spot.

At the threshold, Davis paused, his imposing figure casting a big shadow as he turned his head back and surveyed the area intently. The subtle ribbon of light from the office behind him caught his square-cut features and well-maintained royale beard, the chin strip precisely trimmed beneath his stern expression. His dark hair, neatly swept back from his forehead, completed the image of a bulky build that marked him clearly as Ministry-trained.

Once he completed his final sweep and exited to the corridor, a collective, barely audible exhale came from behind the desk before their attention returned to the office, where the door sealed with a soft click, muffling but not entirely masking the exchange within.

Inside the sparse office, leather creaked as Osborn sank into his chair with a sigh, clamping his pipe between his teeth. "Rather stupid of you — especially since you clearly didn't run."

Apocrypha stood, hollow eyes downcast. "Is that why you didn't send for me after midnight?"

"Precisely that." He nodded. "So what's gotten into you? Must I constantly remind you of your schedule so that your small brain—"

"Stop," she cut him off, voice hoarse. "All of this... I want it to stop."

He took several deliberate puffs at that, eyebrow raised. "That's one way to explain yourself — or apologize. You know how I hate waiting."

She swallowed audibly, shifting on unsteady feet. "What you did to Leander... and to me. I want it to stop. Don't touch my head anymore."

Leaning forward, Osborn fixed his sharp stare on her. "You seem to be under the impression you have a choice. And Leander — well, the bloody fool wouldn't have gotten his brain scrambled if he hadn't stuck his nose where it didn't belong. I won't waste my magic fixing that idiot's skull."

Brushing wet hair from her damp forehead, she lifted her eyes to lock their stares. "I don't want to do this anymore."

He shrugged and exhaled the smoke casually, deciding to revert to his usual tactics.

"Then we'll be booking dear Sallow a one-way ticket to Azkaban first thing tomorrow morning," he stated simply, unable to restrain a hint of bite in his tone — a clear indicator his temper was just starting to ignite. "Must I remind you of our agreement?"

She broke eye contact immediately, lips pressing into a rigid line as teeth caught the inside of her bottom lip to still the tremor in it. A sharp inhale made her shoulders rise, composure fracturing as she tilted her head back to regain some of it. The shaky exhale that followed betrayed the strain of maintaining control.

"What's that?" Osborn's chair scraped against the floor as he rose abruptly, closing the gap between them with a finger pointed at her neck.

She blinked rapidly to still the moisture at the corners of her eyes, and brought her chin down. "Where?"

Osborn gripped the collar of her oversized sweater and yanked it aside. An ugly, hand-shaped contusion bloomed in purplish streaks around her throat. The bruising had settled deep into the tissue, each individual finger mark stark against skin that had grown sickly pale from lack of sunlight, rest and sustenance. Some areas had turned a mottled yellow-green at the edges where blood vessels had burst beneath the surface in a web-like pattern.

"Who did this to you? Did someone hurt you?"

She recoiled, features contorting as if his proximity caused her physical pain. The collar snapped back into place and she tugged it higher. "I did."

Osborn's eyes narrowed skeptically, unconvinced, but he decided not to press just now – her current state seemed unusually distressed and required a full examination. He huffed humourlessly instead.

"Honestly, Blackwood, you have the most disgusting coping mechanisms I've ever—" He stopped abruptly, a concentrated inhale filling his nostrils as he drew in a deep breath. Leaning closer despite her visible discomfort, he sniffed the air around her. "Why do you reek of that mangy street cur?"

She flinched away from his nearness, movements wavering but gaining desperate strength.

"If you touch me again," her voice trembled despite the attempt at firmness, "I'll tell them what you did to me."

Osborn straightened, raising his palms in an exaggerated gesture of mock surrender as his head tilted sideways playfully. "What exactly am I supposed to have done?"

Her eyes locked onto his, breaths coming in tight, measured intervals as she fought to swallow past the constriction in her throat. "That day. After I hurt your friend. I'll tell them everything that happened in that room."

He blinked at her, genuine bewilderment crossing his face before a small, incredulous laugh escaped him — quickly stifled but clearly threatening to burst forth fully. "Are you serious?"

Her eyes darted to the side, lips curving downward as her composure cracked. "I didn't want it— what you did—"

"What did I do?" Osborn cut in smoothly, turning to perch himself atop his desk with casual indifference. He placed the pipe stem back between his teeth, regarding her with almost amused interest. "You're a criminal, Blackwood. A child murderer. An accomplice to another murder — just like your dear friend Gaunt." The pipe bobbed as he spoke. "You really think anyone of importance would believe your word against mine?"

Her silence indicated clear uncertainty — and Osborn gladly used it to his advantage.

"Besides," he drew a long inhale from the pipe, gesturing vaguely with it, "it was just a kiss. A sloppy one, actually, yet still hardly the scandal you're making it out to be."

Her mouth opened slightly, then closed as what little colour remained drained from her face. "You—"

"What, forced myself on you?" His lips curved around the stem. "As I recall, you participated quite eagerly before deciding to try and kill me. Rather mixed signals, wouldn't you say?"

Her fingers twisted in the sweater hem, knuckles white. "That's not—"

"Not what happened?" He leaned forward slightly. "Then enlighten me — what exactly did I do that was so terrible? Made you uncomfortable?" A knowing smirk lifted the corners of his mouth. "Is that why you're wearing Sallow's clothes now? Looking for protection?"

"Stop—"

"Really, the way you're carrying on," he stood, circling his desk with slow, deliberate steps, "one might think I'd done something truly terrible. Rather than just putting you in your place when you were having one of your little episodes."

"You touched me— where I didn't—"

"Oh, that?" He hummed thoughtfully. "A few touches here and there in the heat of the moment. Completely harmless. Though you squirmed like I was using the Cruciatus — really, for someone so small, you can be remarkably dramatic."

Osborn looked back at her, appreciating the stunned silence.

"Besides," he scoffed, smoke curling from his lips. "You should be grateful anyone shows that kind of interest in you at all, given the way you look — barely more than skin and bones. I've seen healthier house elves."

"But you forced—"

"Forced what, exactly?" Osborn's eyebrows rose casually. "Did I somehow grievously wound you with a brief kiss? Perhaps we should inform the Wizengamot of this grave assault — I'm sure they'll be fascinated by your interpretation of events."

Her breathing grew shallow as she backed away, shoulder blades pressing against the wall. The confident façade she'd entered with crumbled visibly under his systematic dismantling of the event.

"I— you held me down—" her voice cracked slightly.

"After you attempted to cave my skull in, yes," he corrected smoothly, still circling his desk. "But I also restrained a violent prisoner who had just attacked my colleague. Would you have preferred I let you escape? Let you hurt someone else?"

A muscle jumped in her jaw as she stared at the floor, clearly struggling to maintain composure. Her breath hitched almost imperceptibly when he approached just close enough to make her tense.

"Self-defence is hardly assault, Blackwood." He waved his hand dismissively, smoke trailing the gesture. "Though I suppose social graces were never your strong suit — being raised practically feral and all."

"Shut up," came out small and insignificant.

"Face it, Blackwood — you're trying to turn your own social dysfunction into something it's not." His tone turned detached, almost bored. "Is that what this is about? Your inadequacies making mountains of molehills?"

That cruelty finally landed. A tight drop of moisture ran down her cheek before she could catch it, but she roughly wiped it away with her sleeve.

At the sight, Osborn's mouth twisted into something between a smile and a grimace — a parody of a guilty expression. He leaned closer, making a soft cooing sound.

"Aww," he patted her head gently, smirking as she flinched against the wall. "You'll be alright. I'll take care of you — you're my responsibility, after all." His tone dropped intimately, voice two octaves lower than usually. "We have so many years together ahead. I'll teach you how to accept your own mistakes without them hurting you quite so much."

She turned her head aside with a quiet sniff, remaining silent. The firmness had drained from her posture, leaving something altogether more docile and defeated — like a caged animal that had finally accepted its bars.

"Davis!" Osborn called out suddenly, voice sharp.

The door to the office opened almost immediately. "Sir?"

Osborn stretched dramatically, working out a theatrical yawn. "Don't you think our asset here seems a bit... tense?"

Davis didn't even bother looking at her, understanding immediately. "Quite unstable, I'd say."

"Exactly." Osborn nodded. "Take her to the Hospital Wing for examination. I want a full report on her condition."

The man gripped her arm, privately noting how the way how differently she felt in his grasp this time — completely pliant, offering no resistance. Like a boneless doll. "Where to after, sir?"

Osborn settled back into his chair, exhaling smoke through his nostrils as he considered.

"Sedate her until noon," he said simply with a small shrug. "I'll handle the usual procedure once she's properly compliant."

Davis nodded politely and steered Apocrypha towards the exit with ease, despite her finally registering Osborn's decree.

"What?" She turned her head back weakly, eyes widening. "No, please—"

"Silence," Davis hushed, guiding her through the classroom.

They passed the desk nearest to the door, where Sebastian, Ominis, and Eliza remained hidden.

No one spoke. No one dared. The weight of what they'd just heard settled over them like a physical mass — words seemed simply inadequate for the horror they'd just witnessed in the neighbouring room. The silence felt thick, oppressive.

Ominis swallowed hard, the gulp audible in the quiet. The lump in his throat burned like acid.

Inflicting this all on any woman, any human, would have been abhorrent enough. But witnessing it being done on someone so fundamentally unfamiliar with intimacy, so viscerally afraid of physical contact, someone so painfully, irrevocably theirs — it looked like an act of such calculated monstrosity that it carved into his chest like a rusted blade. Her broken voice echoed in his ears, each crack and tremor feeling like individual wounds, evoking such visceral hurt that it tested every ounce of his self-control not to burst in thoughtlessly. The urge to intervene had clawed at his insides until he felt raw, even after she was taken away.

His fingers remained locked around Sebastian's elbow painfully, recognizing the risk in his best friend's stillness. The sudden shift in Sebastian's crouch had Ominis tighten his grip.

"Don't," he managed through gritted teeth.

Sebastian faltered unsteadily, shifting his weight to his other leg and holding his breath to keep from exploding outward. His pulse thundered in his ears, blood rushing so forcefully it seemed to drown out everything else.

Without releasing that breath, he parted his lips, voice raw and shaking.

"I'm going to kill him."

Chapter Text

Betrayal comes in many forms, but the most devastating kind is always unintentional — the one coming from your own hands.

It rarely announces itself. No fanfare or warning signs.

It creeps up gradually and slowly, masked as something innocent — a favour, a crush, a simple act of kindness — until it suddenly settles deep in your bones before you even realize what you've done. And once that realization hits, it paralyses — not with guilt, but with terror. The kind that makes your throat close up, your muscles lock, your mind scatter in desperate attempts to undo what cannot be undone.

The cruel irony of betrayal — it doesn't always require intent. It doesn't need malice or forethought. Sometimes it simply happens, one small decision at a time, until suddenly you find yourself standing in the aftermath of something irreversible. Something that will destroy either you or the person you've betrayed. Often both.

The worst part isn't the numbness in your limbs, or the cold sweat breaking across your skin. It's not even the terror of consequences looming ahead. No — the worst part is knowing that you could have prevented it all, if only you'd seen clearly where your steps were leading you. If only you'd recognized the path before it was too late.

The classroom felt suffocating now, the air too heavy to breathe properly. Behind the desk, Eliza's entire body had gone completely numb.

What has she done?

A barely perceptible shuffle of feet broke the silence as Sebastian strained against Ominis's invisible grip.

"Let go," he breathed, his whisper hardly louder than an exhale. "He's alone. Unguarded. This is our chance—"

"Not like this," Ominis's words came through clenched jaws, tight with restraint. "We must be smart about it."

Sebastian wrenched his arm free with a movement that disturbed the still air. "Are you bloody serious right now? After what we've just—"

"I'm thinking of the consequences, which you clearly aren't," Ominis hissed back. "What do you reckon they'll do to Kryph if we storm in there now like absolute madmen? What happens to her if they learn we know?"

"That wretched swine deserves to be—"

"We must go now," Eliza's urgent, shaky whisper cut through their argument. "Guards change shifts. We get spotted if stay longer."

Ominis grabbed Sebastian's arm again, pulling him backwards. "Eli's right."

"Get your hands off—"

"We won't leave this be," Ominis's voice was low but firm. "I promise you that. But we need a proper plan. One that won't get anyone killed. Or worse."

Sebastian thrashed half-heartedly against his best friend's hold, his resistance wavering between defiance and resignation. Taking advantage of this momentary uncertainty, Ominis guided him back through the half-opened door, following Eliza's lead.

Sebastian exhaled slowly, still crouching. "But this might be our only cha—"

"Shh!" Eliza's quivering voice barely carried. "We are deep in shite now. We must get out—"

"I know we are," Ominis whispered. "But you don't need to be involved. Just stay silent about what you've heard. You'll be safe that way."

He pushed Sebastian ahead, positioning himself between his friend and the path back to Fig's — now Osborn's — office in a subconscious barrier against any rash decisions.

Eliza gulped audibly, voice still trembling as they slowly crept through the empty corridor. "I not tell word to anyone. And you two also must stay silent. I was not born here to understand everything, but even I know — interfering with Ministry never end well."

A small, rushed, yet calculated deception on her part — a desperate attempt to manipulate them into silence, to prevent the situation from completely unravelling beyond what damage had already been done.

The sudden echo of footsteps from below made them all freeze just as they reached the staircase.

"Where d'you reckon that prick is going to take her?" Sebastian muttered.

"We're not following," Ominis shot back instantly. "It's a bloody miracle we weren't caught getting here. I won't let you risk it further."

The path back to the dungeons was equally dangerous. Though the Aurors were changing shifts, they still remained scattered throughout the castle with movements now unpredictable. This brief window during the guard change would close quickly — they needed to seize this moment of opportunity while they could.

Eliza inhaled shakily. "One is underneath. He come soon. I will distract him so you pass."

"Have you lost your damn mind?" Ominis hissed. "What if they catch you?"

"I suggest you two return while I—" Sebastian began.

"I know guard pattern better than you," Eliza whispered anxiously. "Go down now. After that, you on own to dungeons."

"Wait—" Ominis's whisper was cut short as Eliza darted up the stairs, her feet deliberately heavy on the wooden boards to make them creak.

Ominis yanked Sebastian back against the wall, both freezing just as multiple boots thundered from beneath them. Within moments, two men appeared, rushing past them towards the floor where Eliza had vanished.

Sebastian shifted backwards, hesitation palpable in the stillness. While the thought of Eliza risking herself didn't sit well with neither of them, the harsh reality remained — none of them were safe in this moment.

Finding Sebastian's shirt by touch, Ominis gripped the fabric. "Path's clear. We need to go."

"There's literally no one close enough to guard Sinclair right now—"

"Think with your brain for once," Ominis pulled him violently. "If not for yourself or me, then for Kryph."

The force of the pull, combined with his words and the lack of time to argue finally overcame Sebastian's resistance. Ominis managed to drag his best friend onto the staircase, where they descended one step at a time — swift but silent.

On the upper level, Eliza threw herself behind the nearest corner, her breath coming in heavy bursts — not from exertion, but from something far more visceral. Her hands trembled as she lifted the Disillusionment Charm, forcing steadiness into her limbs as she stepped out just as the Aurors rounded the corner. Their alarmed expressions softened slightly upon recognizing her, though their postures remained stern.

"I go to my brother," she managed, her accent thicker with nervousness. "Important news to deliver."

The guards exchanged a brief look before giving her a curt nod, turning back the way they came. Eliza followed them down, breaking away towards the corridor she was just in.

The door to the classroom remained half-open from Davis's departure, seeming to mock her as she slipped inside. Her hands clawed at her face beneath her glasses, chest heaving with shallow, panicked breaths that bordered on hysteria. The sounds of her brother moving about in the adjacent room sent cold sweat down her spine. There was no safe path here — silence would destroy her, but speaking would tear everything apart just as thoroughly.

She was completely trapped now — the truth would surface eventually, sooner or later. And Osborn — Osborn would ensure she suffered either way, regardless of her choice.

Drawing a shaky breath and holding it until her lungs burned, she knocked softly before pushing the door open.

Osborn glanced up at her briefly from his position at the table, closing the journal in his palm with a sharp snap.

"Sister," he addressed her simply. "Shouldn't you be tucked away in your dormitory at this ungodly hour?"

His azure eyes flicked down lazily, then snapped back to his sibling's face with renewed interest. Something in her posture, the way she clutched and fidgeted with the golden cross above her sleeping shirt's collar, the contorted fear on her face, the glistening in her pretty round eyes — everything suggested this was no trivial matter. Not her typical mouse-like timidity.

"Have you come to cry over Blackwood scaring you again?" He began sorting through the papers on his desk, tone dismissive. "Do be quick about it, I've work to do—"

"They know," Eliza blurted out, voice raw and unsteady.

Osborn's hands stilled, eyes narrowing to slits as he paused organizing the documents. "What are you prattling about?"

Eliza's mouth opened, closed, then opened again, lower lip quivering uncontrollably.

"S-Sallow and Omi—" she caught herself, "G-Gaunt. They... they heard you speak. Minutes ago."

"They did what?" Osborn asked softly. Dangerously.

With anxious fingers, Eliza clutched at the collar of her shirt, nodding jerkily. "They was here. When... when you talk with her."

Osborn rose slowly, staring while bracing his palms flat against the desk. Eliza jerked back at the sudden movement.

"How," he said, each word precise and cold, "did that happen?"

"I-I sorry," she choked out between suppressed sobs, words tumbling over each other in a jumbled mess. "I thinked- I- just wanted—"

She just wanted Ominis to like her. She wanted to seem useful to him. Be good. She thought she was helping. She wasn't realising what she was doing.

Osborn's face twisted into a scowl at his sister's display of emotion. The sight of women crying had always irritated him — a sign of weakness he despised.

He rounded the desk. "You let this happen?"

Eliza reeled backwards until her spine met the wall. "N-not mean to, a-accident, I did not know—"

He closed the distance between them in two quick steps, gripping her face in one hand and muffling her frightened shriek.

"You stupid bloody cunt," he snarled through bared teeth, fingernails biting into her cheeks as he breathed out the scent of whiskey from his mouth. "Every time — every damned time you manage to muck everything up with your idiocy. Every little thing you touch turns to absolute shite, you useless, empty-headed whore."

A guttural sob escaped her throat as tears welled beneath her glasses. "Please, do not hit me—"

"Shut your mouth," he spat, squeezing her face tighter. "Can't even keep your bitch mouth closed when it matters."

"Please do not be angry," she whimpered, tears trickling onto his palm. "Please—"

Osborn released her with a cruel jerk of his wrist, shaking off the wetness from his hand with visible revulsion.

"Disgusting cow," he spat. "Your existence makes me want to retch."

Osborn whirled back to his desk, wrenching open his tobacco box with a sharp crack. His fingers stuffed the pipe with jerky, aggressive movements that betrayed his own nerves. Behind him, Eliza struggled to muffle her crying, desperate not to provoke him further.

She pushed off the wall shakily. "I—I bring you some—"

"Shut the bloody hell up before I strangle you right here in this damned office," he snarled, lighting his pipe with trembling hands.

He drew deeply, puffing quick and tight to catch the flame while staring ahead in consideration.

Gaunt was untouchable — too much aristocratic influence to explain away. Making a mincemeat of Sallow's brain? That would render all his gathered evidence useless — he needed Sebastian to have his faculties intact in order to face trial for his crimes. Getting proper authorization to handle memories would be out of the question — it would expose his failure to everyone, including Ophelia. Proceeding without permission risked botching the procedure, combining all possible consequences.

Gaunt's bloodline made him nearly invincible, and Sallow would never submit quietly.

He was well and truly fucked.

"How much did they hear?" he asked tightly, drawing a deep plume of smoke into his lungs.

Eliza's voice still shook as she stumbled over her words. "O—only that you connect to Ministry and Aurors, and that you touch their friend—"

"So they heard EVERYTHING then—" he spun around with renewed violence, stopping short at the sight of his sister clutching the journal she had just withdrawn from beneath her night shirt and holding it before her chest like a shield. "What's that?"

He snatched it from her hands, examining the name emblazoned on the cover: Percival Rackham.

"Where did you get this?"

Eliza hastily wiped tears from her face, lurching forward with placating gestures of trembling hands. "I-I steal from Sallow — was on table, in books. I thinked important, so I took—"

Her wide pleading eyes watched him through her glasses, desperately hopeful this might temper his rage even slightly. She watched him unfold the journal, gaze jumping across the pages while his pipe hand absently found the nearly-empty glass of dark golden liquid on his desk.

"Now this," he shook the journal slightly, gulping down the remains of whiskey in his glass, "this is indeed important."

Eliza's brows bent hopefully, a pained, bitter smile curving her lips as she watched Osborn circle back to his chair with a rough sigh. "This... this good?"

Her brother grunted dismissively, poring over the journal's pages, his interest in the information quickly outweighing his fury. "Don't get all hopeful — you're still useless."

She nodded obediently, smile persisting still — his insults were nothing new. At least he hadn't struck her this time. And she'd brought him something valuable, judging by his reaction.

Osborn traced the written lines with his pipe stem before clamping it between his teeth.

"You'll be summoned to London tomorrow evening," he stated flatly.

"W-what?" Eliza's smiling expression instantly twisted into a grimace of fear. "P-please, no, do not tell mother—"

"Calm your dumb whore tits," he snapped. "You aren't being summoned for your complete failure. I won't let anyone know about this — for as long as I can manage. But it will raise eventually if I don't fix this bloody mess."

Twisting her skirt anxiously, Eliza stepped closer. "Why then?"

"Because," he exhaled smoke harshly, "mother wants to speak to you directly. But if we hope to fix what you've done, you'll tell her exactly what I say."

"I will do what you want," she nodded erratically, leaning towards him with wide eyes.

"I know that." Bending down, he withdrew stacks of papers from the lower drawers and slapped them on the desk. "Mother will demand a name. And you will give it to her."

He slid the documents across for her to see — personal files labelled Gaunt and Sallow.

"This one." His finger tapped Sebastian's file decisively.

Eliza's eyes flicked briefly over them before meeting his gaze. "What giving that name mean?"

"It doesn't bloody matter," he hissed sharply. "Give this name or I'll force you to call your own."

She swallowed audibly, dropping her eyes and staring at Ominis's file. "What about Omi— Gaunt?"

Osborn bit down on the stem, puffing thoughtfully as he rested his chin in his palm. "Calling his name wouldn't be bad either. I'm not yet certain what to do about him."

"Please... do not hurt him..." Eliza pleaded quietly.

Narrowing his eyes, Osborn chewed on the stem as he studied her intently. "Is that what this is then? Your teenage infatuation shite meddling with our entire bloody case? That's where your loyalties lie?"

"No-no, not true!" she stammered frantically. "Loyal only to you, brother—"

He scoffed, glancing aside as he considered her words. Loyalty was a flexible concept that could be bent. But while the risk of Ominis revealing the truth to his still powerful family was minimal — the Gaunts would sooner flay their own kin alive than defend association with a half-breed like Apocrypha — any direct threat to their bloodline would provoke complications they couldn't afford to deal with.

"You... you not can break Ominis memories, yes?" Eliza asked timidly.

Osborn raised an eyebrow. "Correct. Sallow's brain would've been expendable if not for the evidence needed for his trial. Unless I find additional leverage on Blackwood—"

"Can you..." she interrupted hesitantly, flinching at his sharp look. "Add new?... Like with Leander?"

Osborn smacked his lips around the pipe. "That part is somewhat easier. But it solves nothing so long as Gaunt knows the truth with no incentive to hide it."

He observed his sibling from the corner of his eye — she shifted her weight anxiously, glancing up at him repeatedly with that hopeful, pleading look. Like a frightened pup begging for scraps. That same desperate look she'd worn whenever she begged for some fancy skirt or confessing to another overpriced lipstick he'd eventually buy.

A small, realizing smirk lifted one corner of his mouth. "You've got it bad for Gaunt... don't you?"

Her gaze fell guiltily to her feet, a rueful smile twisting her expression into a blend of shame, longing and dread.

"Aw, you poor thing," Osborn clicked his tongue in mock sympathy. "Do you really think you can be with him?"

Eliza's mouth curved bitterly — clearly wounded, but far too terrified to challenge him. A small, almost tortured sound escaped her before she looked up again, fingers twisting together awkwardly as she watched her brother lean towards her.

"He's a Gaunt, for Merlin's sake. And you're—" he gestured briefly at her, "—well, you. A half-blood you. Not to mention he'd never choose you over them. You do know that, right?"

She flinched as if struck, lower lip beginning to quiver. "Is why I want ask this... I do what you say, never disobey. I just want..."

She wanted to be with him. Wanted something — someone — untainted to call her own for once. Ominis represented everything her brother wasn't: gentle, kind, free of violence and manipulation. She craved to be loved with that same tenderness, to see his genuine smile directed at her the way it lit up around his friends. To feel his concern extend to her wellbeing as it did for Sebastian and Apocrypha. Was that too much to yearn for?

"You think you're in any position to ask favours after the mess you've created?" Osborn leaned back in his chair, sighing heavily.

Eliza's trembling lips pursed outward as she inhaled sharply — clearly on the verge of tears again. Osborn rolled his eyes irritably, clenching his teeth around the pipe until his jaw ached.

Then it clicked — a forbidden liaison between a half-blood and the noble House of Gaunt. This could prove to be leverage enough to keep Ominis silent. Eliza would get her heart's desire, remain obedient, and stay eternally indebted to him as long as the relationship lasted. Both of Blackwood's friends firmly in his grip until he secured stronger leverage on his asset.

A slow, preparatorily sly smile spread across his mouth. "This would cost you."

Eliza's expression transformed instantly as she leaned towards him. "Anything you want — I give it."

"You will," he stated simply. "And when I say so — zero hesitation before you act."

She nodded violently, voice trembling with excitement. "Everything, I do every—"

"First," he spoke over her, tapping his finger against Sebastian's file again, "this. And Gaunt's name too."

"But why Ominis—"

Osborn lifted the journal with his free hand, twisting it before her round blue eyes.

"You've just accelerated this case by months. If everything aligns, we'll wrap up by winter. Then, and only then, I'll breed Gaunt's head with memories of my sweet, perfect, loving little sister. Until then, you obey and let whatever feelings you two have develop naturally." He put the journal down, emptying his pipe with quick taps before starting to refill it once more. "After I take Blackwood away and put the mongrel behind bars to let the Dementors suck every last bit of Sallow's worthless brains out through his ears—" He sneered, savouring the words. "Gaunt can be all yours until graduation and beyond, if that's what you want."

Eliza couldn't suppress a little jump, fingers clapping together excitedly while her expression remained a mix of shock and lingering fear.

"Do we have a deal then?" Osborn tapped the documents repeatedly.

"Y-yes, yes, of course," she stammered.

"Good then." Osborn shrugged, drawing from his freshly refilled pipe. "Get out now — got work to do."

Eliza nodded obediently and swirled around, faltering slightly as she approached the door. Stopping halfway, she turned back hesitantly. "Is true... about you and... her?"

Osborn raised a sharp brow, staring at her for a long moment. "What if it is?"

She looked sideways, lips twisting uncomfortably. Her brother often perceived things differently than most — especially when distinguishing right from wrong. Without fully realising it, she subconsciously made it her internal excuse to justify whatever he threw at her, but even with all her dislike towards Apocrypha, she didn't feel right leaving Osborn with that perception.

"I... do not want things like this to happen to me..." she cleared her throat quietly, carefully piecing the words together.

Osborn scoffed in disgust, frowning as he rolled his eyes and looked away — a rare gesture he only showed when hesitant. "You women have too much time for such dramatics. And you know nothing like that would ever happen to you."

His sister chewed her bottom lip nervously. "You remember... when you tell me never get close to Lewis?"

He took his empty glass, swirling it in his fingers with affected interest. "I do. What of it?"

Eliza remained silent, waiting until he raised his eyes. When their gazes met, she tilted her head slightly — a subtle but pointed, implying kind of gesture.

"Are you actually comparing me to Lou right now?"

She shook her head immediately, regretting her words. "Just... think about this? W-when you have time, I say."

Not waiting for his response, she strode to the door, easing it shut behind her.

The moment she left, Osborn rose and circled his desk to one of the cabinets beside the wall, withdrawing a glass decanter — similar to the one perpetually present in his mother's office. Opening it with a soft click, he poured himself a fresh measure of burning liquid and retrieved a new box of chocolates from his desk. He shoved several into his mouth immediately, exhaling sharply whilst chewing loudly.

He'd recovered rather swiftly from that July incident, carefully reassembling his doubts and uncertainties back together to maintain control. Did his sister truly need to dredge that up? He scoffed at the thought — the little wretch actually had the audacity to now compare him to Lewis.

It was merely the heat of the moment, an impulse — just a kiss. Perhaps slightly more. But he hadn't done anything wrong — Lou was the sort who'd finish what he started regardless of circumstance, but not him. Feeling unwanted didn't arouse him — that particular sensation had been his constant companion since childhood. How could something so lacking even stimulate a person? He'd never understand Lou.

She had participated — whilst fighting, true, but participated nonetheless. She hadn't withdrawn. Perhaps she'd been uncertain whether she wanted it, but wasn't that what men typically did — pressing forward until explicitly told a firm 'no'? She hadn't said any such thing. He wouldn't have tried to take it further unless she had. He wasn't Lou.

He hadn't done anything wrong.

The moonlight was gentle — no expectant coldness, no blinding glare amongst the darkness. It was almost warm, like a blanket. A cocoon.

One eyelid lifted slowly, saturated viridian stark against the deep night blues painting everything around her. Where was she?

Second eye still half-closed, she raised her head from where it had been resting on folded arms atop the table. Short, familiar rows of identical desks surrounded her, books carefully arranged in stacks throughout the stripped classroom where Professor Fig once taught Magical Theory.

She smacked her tongue sleepily, movements weak and drowsy. How had she gotten here?

The last clear memory was of Nurse Blainey administering the potion under Davis's harsh stare. Or was it Osborn's face hovering above her bed, briefly flickering through her consciousness during those rare lucid moments?

Had he been real then? Or was it just a dream? How much of what happened was and wasn't reality anymore?

Her bleary gaze drifted across the room before dropping to the sleeves where her head had rested. Black fabric, silvery straps and embroidery caught the moonlight. Her hand flew to her neck, fingers grasping at the strict high collar — the armour Osborn had given her in July, after he...

Blinking one eye at a time, she swayed slightly and squinted at a small, blurry shape fluttering towards her, reflecting moonlight in sharp, silvery flashes. Like a tree leaf caught in a non-existent breeze, it moved with asymmetrical grace, reminiscent of an uneven arrowhead — yet the classroom air remained perfectly still, all windows sealed.

Still it came — unsteady but swift — drifting closer until the pointed, triangular shape alighted beside her hand. It shifted, slowly separating into two distinct layers as a tiny, dusty body emerged between them. Two fluffy antennae rose upwards while delicate thin legs appeared beneath, their smallest hooks scraping the wooden desk with barely perceptible sounds that somehow carried in the dead silence, and began a careful ascent over her pale knuckles.

A pair of leafy wings bore an intricate network of prominent veins, branching out like the skeletal remains of autumn. Each gossamer-thin membrane bore the same silvery-brown hue of withered foliage, complete with subtle scalloping along the edges that mimicked a perfect illusion of natural decay. Its dusty surface held a misty, powdery texture that caught the moonlight in ghostly ways — that peculiar, one of a kind softness unique to nocturnal creatures.

Through her drowsy haze, she could have sworn two black eyes studied her from beneath those small fuzzy brows. As if expectant.

A vampire moth, she realised slowly. Or Calyptra minuticornis, as she'd read in those Muggle books — the ones she'd pored over alone for the majority of her years, and later read aloud to Sebastian while he sprawled across her bedroom floor, sleepily tugging at Cetus's ears.

Sebastian found this species unsettling for their reputation, but respected their ability to blend in. He was the first person in years she'd read to about her favourite insects.

It felt almost the same as when she was little, reading those same books to...

"Kryph?"

Her heart stuttered in its slow, steady rhythm, heavy eyelids widening gradually at the voice: the voice she hadn't heard in seven long, painful years. Slightly altered, grown, but fundamentally unchanged — just as she remembered. The voice of the person who first shortened her name. The voice of the one being on earth meant to belong entirely with her. Her eyes opened fully, glinting with shock of dawning recognition — the way ice melts, slow and inevitable.

She turned her head back over her shoulder, mouth twisting in disbelief until her bottom lip began to tremble.

A tall silhouette merged with the darkness near the classroom door, making it unidentifiable were it not for one feature that stood unmistakable — the eyes. Perfectly, utterly identical to hers — saturated, almost luminescent viridian that cut through the night's deep blues.

"Al?"

She didn't need to see it — even without hearing, without sight or touch, she sensed the silhouette offering the one thing she could perceive beyond all senses. That warm, small, knowing half-smile that had always marked him as uniquely him. His arms opened slightly, inviting and expectant.

A tortured, suffering exhale tore from her throat, too loud in the surrounding silence, and she darted from the desk, nearly upending the bench before she threw herself between those waiting arms.

The scent of Lycoris radiating from him — sweet and spicy with undertones of earth and cold rain they both were so used to — enveloped her immediately. His favourite flower — the one their mother had planted on his grave. It had never taken to the bitter winds of Skye.

Breathing shakily, she buried her face in his shirt, arms encircling him as her fingers twisted and kneaded the fabric in frantic squeezes. The top of her head nudged his chin while she pressed her nose against his Adam's apple — now more prominent and sharp than when he was eleven.

"Al," she choked out again.

His chin pressed down on the crown of her head before shifting slightly, lips pressing against her forehead and remaining there.

"What is it?" he whispered gently.

A small, wet sound escaped her, throat working jerkily as every muscle strained to suppress the sobs that came regardless, her entire face contorting in anguish. She desperately nudged her head against him again and again, voice splintering. "You're here."

"I am here," he stated softly, circling her shoulders with both arms and drawing her tightly against him. "Why are you crying, then?"

"I've missed you," she gasped out brokenly, finally unable to contain herself any longer. A raw sob tore through her crumbling words. "I've missed you so damn much."

"I know," he whispered against her forehead, one hand gently stroking her hair whilst the other maintained its protective hold. "I'm sorry."

She exhaled through a fresh sob, voice splintering further. "Don't leave me. Please don't leave me again. I can't— I can't do this without you. I don't want to—"

She sniffed shakily, struggling to draw proper breath whilst her fingers continued their restless movement across his back, clawing at the fabric as though trying to eliminate even the microscopic space between them. Through eyes blurred with tears, she caught sight of the same triangular shape fluttering beside them before it split in two — and soon enough, a pair of moths danced around each other, trailing ghostly silver mist in the wake of their leafy wings.

She didn't need to see him cast a Patronus to know it would match hers perfectly — just as their eyes did, just as their magic had. How could it not, when their very beings had been woven from the same thread?

They say a person's Patronus matched someone else's only when connected to one's happiness in ways no one else could reach. A rare phenomenon born of desperate longing and platonic love — the one kind of love Apocrypha never doubted stood above any romantic bond. No chemical reactions or biological imperatives — it wasn't forged by choice or circumstance. It was a connection that served no evolutionary purpose, offered no reproductive advantage — it simply was, pure and absolute in its existence. Two parts of one whole, deliberately created to share a single being — one soul split between separate bodies. Perhaps that was why losing him had felt like having vital organs torn away.

Natural law itself seemed to revolt against their severance — like trying to split an atom, the resulting void left everything unstable, incomplete. No romantic attachment could ever compare to the complete wrongness of existing without your other, poor second half, of trying to maintain orbit when your twin star had been extinguished. But here, now, wrapped in his arms exactly as she remembered, that cosmic mistake felt temporarily corrected.

It feel too far from the way Ominis had held her — a pale imitation of this moment she'd desperately sought to recreate. Nothing could compare to this, to being whole again.

"It pains me to see you so broken still," he whispered tenderly, fingers threading through her black hair in slow, soothing strokes. "You should take better care of yourself."

She sniffed again, words catching and breaking between hiccuping breaths. "That's— that's what Ominis told me too."

His head moved in a barely perceptible nod.

"You've made friends," he said calmly. "I'm glad. Glad your life isn't just survival anymore."

She nudged his chin with her head once more before lifting her face to his, looking up at him through red-rimmed eyes whilst continuing to emit small, wounded sounds. Her nose had turned a raw pink, running slightly, cheeks glistening with fresh tears that continued flowing, collecting at her chin before falling. Her bottom lip, reddened and swollen, twisted and trembled violently as she tried to form words.

"I want to go with you," she choked out through another wracking sob. "Please tell me I can go with you."

He looked down at her through identical viridian eyes, impossibly calm and knowing. That pale, gentle face she knew better than her own seemed grown, but she would never fail to recognise him — still dusted with those countless freckles she'd never managed to fully number, no matter how many times she'd tried.

"But I'm dead, Kryph," he stated gently. "Remember?"

She gulped painfully, the lump in her throat making even that small movement hurt. She just stared back, head shaking slightly as if she wasn't quite sure what exactly she wanted to deny.

"Am I dead too?"

Dark mahogany strands swayed across his forehead as he slowly shook his head. "I would never want that for you. Not when you have a purpose now."

She looked at him questioningly through brows drawn together in a pained expression. "What purpose?"

His mouth curved slightly in a soft, rueful smile — almost apologetic — as he took her face in his palms, thumbs brushing across her tear-stained cheekbones. "I was there too. When you opened it."

Her mouth parted slowly as she held onto his wrists with gentle fingers, struggling to find her voice in raw throat. "Then... everything was real?"

He continued looking at her before turning his head to where their paired moths still fluttered around each other.

"No," he said quietly. "Not everything."

Her eyes lingered where he looked for a brief moment before returning to his face. Another shallow sob hiccuped past her lips as she covered his hands with her own, pressing them more firmly against her cheeks. She didn't understand what he meant — but she wasn't going to ask. Not now.

"Can I stay with you?" she whispered weakly, unable to suppress the tide of immeasurable, unstoppable tears. "Just a little longer?"

He turned back to her with a soft nod, wrapping her tighter in one arm while keeping his other palm against her face. His thumb shifted higher, lightly tracing her thick eyebrow from start to end — gentle, pleasant strokes just as their mother used to do, lulling them both to sleep with that tender touch.

She wanted to stay. No one — not even him — could truly comprehend the depth of that desire. Everything else seemed irrelevant as long as he was beside her.

The thought slipped in uninvited. The Ministry, the school, her friends — she would pay any price named to have him returned to her. She'd abandon them all without hesitation if asked — Ominis, Sebastian, Natsai. Break every agreement with the Ministry regardless of consequences and watch it all burn, drowning in blood — Hogwarts, London, the whole of Britain or every continent that existed.

It made no difference — she would sacrifice every innocent life there was if only she was offered the chance to stay with him.

As if sensing her thoughts — ones he'd never approve of were he alive — his thumb stilled on her eyebrow, replacing the strokes with slow, deliberate taps against her skin.

One. Two... Five. The gentle percussion spread gradually until half his palm was tapping across her face in an irregular rhythm, each touch growing slightly more insistent than the last, like raindrops falling in an increasingly determined pattern.

Nurse Blainey's distant voice accompanied careful slaps on her cheek. She squinted her eyes harder and buried her face deeper into the shirt against his chest — that same thick, brownish shirt she'd last seen him wear.

"Miss Blackwood?"

A weak scowl crossed her features as she cracked one eye open, the world tilting oddly around her. Harsh daylight replaced the comfortable gloom her eyes had adjusted to, making her wince against its burning intensity. The matron's face slowly swam into focus above her.

The nurse exhaled in relief. "Thank Merlin."

Apocrypha roughly pushed the woman's wrist away from her face and straightened quickly, taking in her surroundings. Hospital Wing. Davis standing nearby, strictly watching her from the corner of his dark grey eyes.

She smacked her lips, still disoriented, and glanced towards the windows where orange hues suggested early evening. "Thought I... was supposed to be sedated till noon."

The nurse nodded with a heavy sigh.

"I apologise, dear. We've experienced some difficulties waking you." Blainey cast an accusatory glance at the Auror standing beside the bed. "Your dose had been slightly altered, I'm afraid."

"Mm," Apocrypha grunted uncertainly, looking down where her fingers clutched the sheets. The greenish sweater Sebastian had given her hung heavy on her shoulders, sleeves drooping loose around her wrists. No trace remained of the armour she'd just seen herself wearing.

She drew both hands to her face and touched it thoughtfully, wiping away the wetness that soaked her skin — not just tears, but a thick sheen of sweat.

"Can I go now?"

Blainey looked up at Davis questionably. At his stiff nod, the nurse turned back to her patient. "Do be careful. You might experience dizziness, nausea, loss of bal—"

"Know that already," Apocrypha spoke over her gruffly, sliding off the bed and swaying visibly. She hated this post-sedation rubbish. "Had a fair share with the Draught, haven't I?"

The muffled sounds of papers being exchanged followed her out as she stumbled from the Hospital Wing on unsteady feet. She needed to see Natsai. Everything with Natsai seemed easier. Their friendship was never complicated like it was with Sebastian, wasn't stained with the illusion she tried to maintain with Ominis. Natsai simply never got close enough — it made their relationship the easiest of all.

Where would Natsai be on Sunday? Probably outside, enjoying the sun.

She rubbed her eye, swallowing repeatedly as her mouth watered with nausea. Sebastian's voice made her flinch.

"Oi, Kryph!" He strode through the corridor, rapidly approaching. "You alright?"

"Mm," she hummed weakly, nodding as she looked at him through heavy-lidded eyes. "What you doing 'ere?"

"Was told you were here," he lied, looking her up and down with a frown before clearing his throat. "You're... swaying."

"Overslept," she mumbled back a lie. "Don' remember what happened yesterday."

"Well..." Sebastian's mouth tightened as an uncertain sound escaped his throat. "You were just... Um... gone when me and Ominis woke up this morning."

She looked aside, staring drowsily at the wall behind him. "Where's Ominis?"

"He hadn't told you?" Sebastian's brows rose slightly. "Got a letter from his family yesterday. Summoned home for some business. Should be back tomorrow."

She swallowed repeatedly against the gathering saliva, head lolling as she nodded unsteadily. "No... Ominis... hadn't told me that."

Sebastian's arm jerked instinctively to steady her swaying before he caught himself, fingers curling into a fist at his side instead. Was this what Sinclair called sedation? This unnatural looseness in her posture, those glassy, exhausted eyes, speech thick and clumsy like she'd had too much Firewhisky? The Apocrypha he knew would have instantly noticed the tension thrumming through him, would have seen straight through his poor attempt at appearing casual. But this version of her just stood there, barely able to keep her head up, stripped of her usual sharp-edged awareness.

He hadn't slept at all last night. Neither had Ominis. How could they, after what they'd heard?

"Doesn't feel good, does it? Having someone hide things from you?" The words burst from him before he could stop them, sharp with an anger he hadn't meant to reveal. He winced at his own harshness, pinching the bridge of his nose with a weary sigh. "Sorry, that was... look, I won't press."

The anger pressed beneath his skin nonetheless. Partly at her, yes — but mostly at everything that had happened during those seven months she'd been gone without him or Ominis knowing. At whatever Sinclair and the Ministry had put her through to make her return like this — looking like their friend, sounding like their friend, but moving through the world like someone else entirely.

At first glance, she was still that same ill-tempered girl he'd met in fifth year, all awkward angles and insufferable walls. But looking closer revealed something colder, more restrained. Tamed, even. Like something wild that had been forced into submission.

"Need to go," she mumbled, shaking her head slowly as she turned away on unsteady feet.

Sebastian watched her for a moment, throat tight, then fell into step behind her. "Where to?"

"Need to see Natty..." She blinked heavily, as if struggling to form the thought. "And... the classroom."

"What bloody classroom?" Sebastian frowned, clearly confused.

She didn't respond, simply trudging forward without looking back. Yet he could tell by her drowsy glances — those quick sweeps of peripheral vision across the corridors they passed — that she knew he followed close behind. Some habits, it seemed, even sedation couldn't fully suppress.

When they reached the halls of the DADA Tower, Sebastian faltered. "Kryph, where are we going?"

Silence. He tensed further as a familiar staircase came into view — the same one he, Eliza and Ominis had climbed just last night. His hand slipped into his pocket where his wand rested. Was she leading him to Fig's classroom? Did she somehow know?

"Kryph?" He caught up closer, following her up the steps one by one.

"Just need... to see him," she stated slowly.

Sebastian stopped abruptly, fingers curling around his wand handle. See who? Sinclair? Had the bastard discovered they knew?

Cold fear rooted him to the spot, but watching her continue her unsteady ascent, he forced himself to follow, turning the corner into the empty corridor. The open door to Professor Fig's former classroom revealed nothing but vacant space within.

She stepped inside without hesitation, then halted suddenly, staring at the area that had been their hiding spot yesterday — right by the door. Her eyes moved sluggishly across the floor and the wall ahead, as if searching for something that should have been there.

Sebastian positioned himself beside her, muscles coiled tight as his gaze darted between her and the office door further up. Was Sinclair in there? The Auror patrols were thinner during daylight hours — how much of an advantage would that give him if things went wrong?

"Kryph," he ventured carefully, "what's going on?"

She rubbed her eyes tiredly and groaned. "Just... he seemed so real."

Sebastian raised an eyebrow, utterly lost now. "Who?"

She turned to face him, but didn't meet his eyes, stubbornly avoiding looking up at his face as her voice came out hoarse and uncertain.

"Are you real?"

Sebastian blinked at her question, staring back in bewildered silence. He'd seen her act strangely before, but it never stopped being unsettling whenever she was like this.

"Er... Yeah..." He patted his chest and arms demonstratively. "Pretty certain I'm quite real."

Her face soured at his response, as if this confirmation somehow disappointed her. He watched her silently, at a loss for what to do next except observe — the way her eyebrows drew together, the downward twist of her mouth, how her eyes seemed determined to look anywhere but at him directly. She was sad. More than that — she looked guilty, like someone caught harbouring thoughts they shouldn't.

"What's going on with you?" he asked carefully, not breaking his steady observation. "You're scaring me a bit here."

She shook her head thoughtfully before turning away and stepping into the corridor. "D'you know where Natty is?"

"Haven't seen her," he said, clearing his throat as he followed. "Why're you looking for her?"

His mind raced. Was Onai somehow wrapped up in all this too? He knew Apocrypha's friendship with the Gryffindor girl was different — lighter somehow, less deep and complicated than with him and Ominis — but she still mattered to her greatly.

"Just... Haven't seen her in a while," she managed, voice still thick as she started down the stairs.

"Want me to help you look?" Sebastian asked, walking behind her.

It wasn't really a question — he'd follow regardless of her answer. Ominis would've done the same; they'd both agreed to keep a closer watch on her now. But his best friend's absence weighed on him. While Ominis had insisted they needed time to form a proper plan, Sebastian wasn't certain he could maintain that same restraint and patience. The reasonable part of him knew Ominis was right. The other part — the reckless, volatile — urged him to force answers out of someone, anyone.

She shrugged absently at his offer and continued forward, her steps lacking clear direction. At least she wasn't trying to shake him off this time. No excuses, no deflections — perhaps she wasn't hiding anything at the moment.

"We could try the Divination Tower first," he suggested. "Her mum might be there."

Apocrypha glanced back at him, blinking slowly. "You're actually right."

Their walk through the castle stretched into silence, long and almost uncomfortable. Sebastian deliberately held back, watching as she finally wore herself out on the spiralling stairs and stopped to catch her breath. She looked utterly spent — though her stamina had never been impressive to begin with. He'd grown used to waiting for her during their fifth-year wanderings, often searching for shortcuts for her sake, but she'd always managed to catch up eventually. This time, a simple stroll across the castle seemed to have drained her completely.

"Look, I can check the classroom myself if you want—" he began.

Muffled voices drifted down from somewhere above, cutting him off — the sounds of what appeared to be an argument. They both lifted their heads, listening intently. Natsai's voice came through first, distinct even at a distance. Her mother's response followed shortly after, Mudiwa's tone gentle but firm as always. The argument seemed to have been going on for some time.

As they climbed higher, the voices grew clearer, an African lilt echoing off the stone.

"...cannot simply uproot me in the middle of term," Natsai was saying, her usually warm tone tight now. "This is my final year, Mama."

"Enough, Natsai." Mudiwa's voice carried that particular firmness only mothers could achieve. "This is not up for discussion. Uagadou will welcome you back—"

"I don't want to be welcomed back!" Natsai's voice wavered slightly, maintaining a respectful tone despite clear frustration. "My life is here now. My NEWTs, my friends—"

"Your safety comes first," Mudiwa's accent was more pronounced than her daughter's, words firm but not unkind. "What Deputy Headmistress Weasley told me this afternoon—"

"You won't even tell me what she said!" A rare note of defiance crept into Natsai's voice. "I'm of age now — I should have a say in—"

"The British Ministry cannot guarantee your safety anymore," Mudiwa stated strictly. "Things are happening at Hogwarts that they're trying to hide, and I won't have you here once the Board of Governors interferes. This school... it is not what it was anymore, mwana. I want you packed and ready within the hour."

"That's not fair!" Natsai protested still. "Everything I've worked for, everyone I've come to know... You can't just—"

"I can and I will," Mudiwa's tone grew gentler, but remained resolute. "Pack your things. We leave before sunset. I am your mother, and I will not stand by while—"

Sebastian's foot caught on a step with a slight scuff. The argument above them ceased abruptly.

A sharp click of heels preceded Mudiwa as she descended a few steps, pausing at the sight of two students frozen mid-stride.

"Mr Sallow, Miss Blackwood," she greeted cordially, then nodded towards them, gesturing at her daughter with a pointed tilt of her head. "We're finished here."

She passed swiftly, then continued down the stairs. The hasty nature of this planned departure made one thing clear — whatever had spooked Mudiwa into such action, she wasn't about to share it. When people left Hogwarts like this, explanations were irrelevant. They were running from something.

Natsai stepped closer with a heavy, pained sigh. "Heard everything, then?"

"I'll leave you both to it." Sebastian raised his hands placatingly, retreating down the stairs — not completely out of earshot, but far enough to give them space.

Once relatively alone, Apocrypha leaned in, voice low. "What does this mean?"

"You heard it — I'm going back to Uagadou," Natsai grunted regretfully, shifting from foot to foot. Can't do anything about it, unfortunately."

"But you'll return... right?" The words came out slow, uncertain.

Natsai's eyes dropped to the floor uncomfortably. "I don't think so."

A long silence stretched between them before Apocrypha leaned against the railing for support. "This is goodbye then?"

"I'm afraid it is," came the quiet response, accompanied by nervous hand-wringing.

Apocrypha visibly bit the inside of her cheek, expression unreadable. "What about Garreth?"

Her friend joined her at the railing, sadly gazing down into the spiral below. "He knew already. Been insisting on it since term started, actually."

Natsai finally looked up, clearly expecting questions or protests. But Apocrypha remained oddly calm, thoughtful — as if she understood the reasons behind it all. As if she'd been waiting for something like this to happen.

"But I'll keep writing," Natsai said, withdrawing slightly as she opened her arms with careful hesitation, the gesture hanging awkwardly between them.

"It's alright." Apocrypha took a small step backward, the gesture dying before it could begin.

Natsai's arms dropped slowly to her sides, expression turning pained as she studied her friend's face. Though outwardly calm and collected despite her evident exhaustion, there was something else there — the faintest glimmer of betrayal in those tired eyes.

"I hope you get home safely, Natty," Apocrypha said quietly, turning away before she could respond.

Natsai watched her friend's back as she began her descent. "Will you be alright?"

The response came without a backward glance, flat and distant. "Of course I will."

Sebastian looked up as Apocrypha approached, clearing his throat awkwardly. An unpleasant conversation, to put it mildly. Given everything else — her current state, yesterday's events — he could only guess how this news had landed. Though one look at her face told him everything — that hollow, bitter mask she often wore to conceal hurt.

As she passed him, he fell into step beside her rather than trailing behind. "You alright? That was... that was quite a lot to take in."

Emotional support had never been his strong suit, especially with her — nothing was ever straightforward where her deeper, more personal feelings were concerned. Half the time she seemed predictable enough, being refreshingly blunt about everything due to her lack of social experience. The other half, he couldn't begin to fathom what went on in her head. The latter had become rather more common since her return.

"I'm fine," she muttered automatically, but her voice betrayed her, cracking slightly on the last word. She swallowed hard, trying to steady herself.

Sebastian winced at the sound and looked away. Bloody hell, he hated all of this — watching her hurt, not understanding why, feeling utterly useless with how little he knew in order to help. The anger it sparked in him made Ominis's composure all the more baffling — how he managed to keep himself together was beyond him, especially given his best friend's tendency towards panic.

He dragged a hand down his face with a sigh. "Got practice shortly. Want to come along? Get some fresh air and all that rot?"

She glanced at him uncertainly, steps never stopping despite their unsteady nature, as if her feet were still half-cotton.

"Just..." He smacked his lips, looking aside again. "Don't want to leave you on your own right now."

"Mm." Apocrypha nodded absently at his offer. "I'll wait in the spectator tower... till you're finished."

"Good, good." Sebastian rubbed his hands together. "Afterwards we could sort some homework in the libra—"

"Are you going to leave too?" Her quiet voice cut through his words, eyes fixed ahead as they walked. "Will you... run as well?"

Sebastian looked at her, wrong-footed by such directness. The exchange with Natsai seemed to have sharpened her somewhat — that usual alertness trickling back, albeit not completely. And with it came her anxiety, manifesting in these worried projections about what was to come.

He attempted a chuckle that fell rather flat. "Course not. Haven't got family to fret over me like that, have I? You and Ominis are all I have — not about to abandon you two."

She lowered her eyes to her feet, visibly mulling over his words. "Do you think... Ominis will truly come back? What business called him home?"

"Honestly? I don't know," Sebastian said. "But I'd know if he wasn't coming back. And I'd tell you straight up."

Her eyes slid towards him sideways, a trace of accusation evident in her glance. "Would you?"

He met her stare steadily, though not without tension. The mixture of accusation and resentment in her expression made him uneasy, but he wouldn't yield. Everything he and Ominis kept from her was for her own protection — or so they both believed.

"Yes," he said firmly. "I would."

He understood the source of her doubts. After what just happened with Natsai and Ominis's sudden absence, it was only natural she'd question what remained stable. The Gryffindor girl had been one of the steady pillars holding Apocrypha's world together, regardless of how deep their friendship truly ran. And now, with Natsai gone... He dreaded to think how this disruption might worsen her already fragile state.

"Look, I understand," he said carefully. "But shouldn't you spend this last hour with Natty? You cut things rather short up there — she might want a proper goodbye."

"Goodbyes hurt more when they're drawn out," Apocrypha said quietly. "Better to end things before they start hurting properly."

Sebastian huffed, running his tongue along his teeth as he nodded. It was painfully typical of her — this constant evasion of deeper hurt, dodging vulnerable moments for as long as possible, maintaining that cold front she put up precisely when things wounded her most directly. She surely knew Natsai would be safer away, that none of this was her friend's doing, but that knowledge didn't lessen the sting.

And Sinclair... Sinclair was at the heart of it all. The catalyst — at least in Sebastian's reckoning.

After a quick stop at the dungeons for Sebastian to change, they separated at the pitch with nothing more than a passing glance. Imelda was already there, marshalling the rest of the team with that commanding voice that carried across the grounds.

The practice began with standard warm-up rounds — players circling the pitch in tight formation, gradually increasing speed while maintaining proper spacing. The Chasers then broke off into passing drills, weaving between floating training markers while exchanging the Quaffle at varying heights and speeds.

Meanwhile, Sebastian and the team's second Beater, Hamish Fraser, established their rhythm, batting a single Bludger back and forth in increasingly complex patterns while the rest of the team ran their plays below. The controlled violence of it required constant focus — one miscalculation could send the iron ball careening into their teammates.

Throughout it all, Sebastian found his gaze drifting to the Slytherin stands. Apocrypha sat in her usual spot — the same seat she shared with Ominis during matches. Her complete disinterest in the sport was evident — where most girls would typically swoon over the complex manoeuvres and athletic displays that rarely failed to elicit excited squeals and loud praise, she simply tracked Sebastian's movements with that characteristic detachment. Absolutely zero reaction to the impressive formations or skilled plays that usually drew gasps from spectators. Occasionally, her attention would shift to Imelda when their captain's voice rose above the general commotion, but otherwise, her focus remained steadily on him. He couldn't help but find it oddly comforting — her presence, however distant, was reassuring.

By the time his hundredth strike sent the Bludger whistling across the pitch, his shoulder muscles had begun to protest. Hovering briefly, he paused mid-air and wiped his sweaty face with his training shirt collar, breathing heavily.

The realisation was becoming clearer with each practice — Quidditch wasn't providing the release he needed anymore. While it served as a decent outlet for his frustrations, its effectiveness was diminishing. He needed something more potent to channel his growing anger.

While Hamish flew off to retrieve the wayward Bludger, Imelda's voice carried across the pitch, quieter than usual but still clear enough to reach Sebastian's ears. "What the bloody hell is he doing here?"

Sebastian glanced down to where their captain had lowered her broom not far from the walkway circling the pitch's base, where a figure leaned against the wooden railing, casual and deliberate in his pose. Descending slightly, he squinted — red and gold stripes adorning the robes, sharp angles on the face crowned with that insufferable smirk, one broad hand sweeping black hair back from his forehead in an almost performative gesture. A lollipop bulged behind his cheek.

The practice ground to an awkward halt as Osborn's voice drifted up, smooth and almost cheerful. "Just came to watch, Reyes. No need to worry so much."

Imelda scoffed, maintaining her position above him. "Right. A Gryffindor prefect just happened to fancy watching Slytherin practice? You'll be running to your team with our tactics before dinner."

The lollipop clicked against Osborn's teeth as he rolled it to his other cheek.

"Couldn't care less about your tactics, really. Just doing my prefect duties — keeping an eye on everyone's safety, regardless of House." His lips quirked up. "Think of it as inter-house friendship. A favour, if you will. No thanks necessary."

"Pitch is reserved for Slytherin today," Imelda clicked her tongue. "So you can piss right off."

She looked upward, catching Sebastian's slow descent nearby with eyes fixed on the new arrival with unsettling intensity.

"Sallow! Get back in position!"

Osborn smacked his lips around the candy, the sound carrying deliberately clear.

"Better listen to your captain, mate," he drawled. "Wouldn't want any accidents, would we?"

Sebastian clenched his jaws tight enough for the muscle to twitch visibly, flinching only when Imelda's fingers squeezed his arm.

"Don't get distracted," she hissed. "We're winning that match whether Sinclair's here or not."

He nodded absently, steering his broom back towards the pitch centre and ascending higher, head still turned towards Osborn. The bastard stared back without blinking, tongue working around the sweet behind closed lips.

Sebastian broke away first, turning to face Hamish just as the Bludger whizzed between them, but his eyes inevitably drifted back to the figure below. Breathing became harder somehow, heat crawling up his neck and settling there like a collar. Ominis said to wait. They needed time for a proper plan. But what sort of plan could possibly be enough?

"Bat the bloody thing back, Sallow!" Hamish shouted from across the pitch.

Sebastian swung his bat half-heartedly, barely connecting with the violent iron ball. The Bludger veered off course, soaring far beyond the pitch boundaries.

"What sort of rubbish hit was that?" Hamish groaned, already speeding after the wayward ball. "You're supposed to aim it, not send it to bloody London!"

"Sorry," Sebastian muttered distractedly, attention immediately drawn downward again — but Osborn wasn't on the previous spot anymore.

A quick scan found him unhurriedly strolling along the wooden walkway, fingers tapping the railing lazily while his other hand held the lollipop stick near his mouth. The git was looking back at him from the corner of his eye, not bothering to turn his head.

Just then, Osborn's mouth curved around the candy in a sly, toothy grin that crinkled the corners of his eyes — like a child who'd spotted an ant to burn with a magnifying glass. His chin lifted without breaking that unnerving eye contact, pointing ahead as he continued his leisurely pace. Sebastian followed the gesture. Slytherin stands. She was still there, sitting at the top and watching the pitch with that same vacant stare — as though none of this bothered her at all.

Sebastian frowned at that — she clearly saw both him and Osborn approaching, yet showed no sign of visible distress. Either the sedation still lingered in her system, or she was masking her anxiety too well. Before he could decipher which, Hamish's voice shattered his concentration.

"SALLOW, LOOK OUT!"

The Bludger caught him square in the left side with a violent crack, the impact knocking all air from his lungs as the force hurled him sideways off the broom. His body hit the pitch at brutal speed, tearing through the grass as momentum dragged him across the ground in a long, muddy skid before finally rolling to a stop.

For a moment, the pitch fell utterly silent. Blood thrummed in Sebastian's ears as his vision swam, each inhale sending white-hot spikes through his side. His first wheezing cough, face still pressed against the torn earth, seemed to break the spell over the onlookers, bringing a rush of distant voices that seemed to reach him as if through water. Imelda's shout came first, demanding someone fetch the matron.

"I'll go!" came the distant reply from Angus, their young fifth year Chaser. "Faster on the broom!"

"Fraser!" Torquil bellowed from the goalposts. "Help me contain this bloody Bludger before it comes round again!"

As his hearing gradually sharpened, Sebastian forced his eyes open. His broom lay splintered some twenty metres away, snapped clean through the middle. Each breath felt like swallowing glass, and something shifted wrongly in his side when he tried to move.

Hands gripped his arm, hauling him upright. The movement sent lancing pain through his ribcage, drawing a guttural grunt from Sebastian's throat. He leaned heavily against the support, catching a distinct whiff of sweet, strawberry flavoured sugar.

"Up you get, big fella," Osborn's voice came from beside him as the prefect pulled Sebastian's arm across his shoulders. "Let's get you out of here."

In the distance, three remaining Slytherin players hovered uncertainly in the air instead of rushing to help — injuries of this calibre were hardly uncommon on the pitch.

"Quit gawking, the lot of you!" Imelda shouted. "Prefect's handling Sallow, Blainey's on her way. Back to practice!"

"Told you to listen to your captain, didn't I?" Osborn's voice was soft, almost nurturing. "This is what happens when you don't do as you're told."

"Bastard," Sebastian wheezed weakly. "You did this."

Osborn chuckled, slowly pulling him up the stairs to the walkway while rolling the sweet from one cheek to the other.

"Nah, a Bludger to the gut? That's for amateurs — boring, not certain enough. If I wanted you dead, I'd try something more precise." He leaned closer to Sebastian's ear, lowering his voice to a whisper. "Like drowning you in the Black Lake."

Sebastian turned his head unsteadily, meeting his eyes. "So it was you then..."

"Not really." Osborn shrugged, continuing to half-drag him along. "Got other people handling things for me."

Sebastian leaned against the railing with his good side, trying to shove Osborn away and subconsciously touching a fresh gash on his temple where blood trickled warmly. Why was the pillock suddenly revealing his hand? Then it struck him — the bastard knew. Somehow, impossibly, he'd found out.

"Is that any way to thank me for helping you off the pitch?" Osborn looked him up and down with an exaggerated expression of pity, lips curving into a cruel smile. "All weak and broken, like a beaten dog..."

Sebastian snarled through clenched teeth, each heavy breath hissing between them while mixing with the taste of soil and grass in his mouth. What kind of game was Osborn playing? It made no sense — the casual mention of the Black Lake, the blatant admission of involvement, that knowing expression, showing up so openly after discovering the truth. And now this mockery of assistance. The humiliation of being "helped" by the very person who orchestrated his attempted murder made Sebastian's blood boil, yet it felt deliberate enough — he had no doubt that was precisely Osborn's aim. This entire theatrical display was calculated to provoke.

"What do you want?" Sebastian ground out.

"To help, of course." Osborn's voice carried the saccharine tone of feigned innocence. "I take my prefect duties very seriously, you see."

The adrenaline from the impact coursed through Sebastian's system, heightening every instinct to lash out, to wipe that insufferable smirk off Osborn's face — preferably along with his teeth. But something in the prefect's transparent provocations made him hesitate. This was too purposeful, too dangerous to attempt escalating.

He risked a quick glance towards the Slytherin stands. Empty. Good. They needed distance from this situation, from him.

"Don't need your help," Sebastian managed, attempting to distance himself by climbing the remaining stairs alone. He reached the platform of the walkway, grip white-knuckled on the railing.

Osborn caught up in quick steps, bottom lip jutting out in an exaggerated pout as he patted Sebastian's shoulder gently.

"And here I thought we were getting closer." The lollipop clicked against his teeth. "Isn't that what friends do? Keep each other's secrets?"

Sebastian turned, fixing him with a harsh glare from beneath deeply furrowed brows while trying to wipe the dirt from his face with a sleeve. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Mmm." Osborn smacked his lips around the sweet, voice lowering once more to reach only Sebastian's ears. "Come now, no need for lies between us. You know my secret, I know yours — what would dear uncle Solomon say if he saw his nephew being so dishonest?"

Sebastian halted, eyes widening at the mention of his uncle.

Osborn's face lit up with visible satisfaction at the reaction, savouring it like the strawberry sugar dissolving on his tongue.

Sebastian's eyes narrowed, every muscle in his aching body screaming for violence. So this must be his leverage over Apocrypha — one thread in what was likely a complex web. The Azkaban threat from last night now made perfect sense.

"If you think you can use this forever," he said hesitantly, "think again. You've known for quite some time but haven't acted. Almost as if you needed this information to pressure someone else."

Osborn's smirk faltered slightly at this response, the candy stilling between his teeth as he visibly recalculated his approach.

Sebastian seized the moment, turning away and managing several steps before Osborn's voice sliced through the air again.

"Do you even know who told me this little secret of yours?"

He turned back once more, one hand braced against the stand as he fought for composure.

"You've likely worked it out already." Osborn gestured towards the spectator tower. "Why not ask her yourself when she comes down?"

"Won't ask," Sebastian muttered back gruffly. "She probably had no choice."

"What if she did?" Osborn's smirk turned predatory, having finally found a better tactics. "What if I told you she turned you in just to save Gaunt? After all, she's far more attached to him than you, isn't she? Who do you think she'd rather sacrifice — you or Ominis?"

Sebastian's lips pulled back in a snarl, the words striking their intended target. How had the prick even uncovered that particular weakness?

"You're lying," he spat.

"Why would I lie when our secrets are already out?" Osborn rolled the sweet across his tongue. "What would be the point?"

Sebastian bit the insides of his cheeks, sucking them in with a furious grimace to anchor himself against the overpowering urge to smash this pillock's head against the nearest wall. Osborn was implying far too much. Knowing far too much. A lie? Some twisted manipulation?

He'd be lying to himself if he claimed the suggestion of Apocrypha possibly turning him in didn't sting. If forced to choose between him and Ominis, who would she throw under the train? He'd always known the answer to that question — and hated it. Doubt gripped his chest, sharper than the throbbing agony in his ribcage, but he refused to give Osborn the satisfaction of seeing him waver.

"I don't believe you," he said tightly, turning away once more. His eyes flicked briefly towards the Slytherin spectator tower once again — high enough to slow even a hurried descent, but she'd be down soon.

Osborn's mouth parted slightly, tongue gliding along the side row of his teeth in a slow, deliberate motion. "Such faith you have in her. But then, the heart's a daft, disobedient thing, innit?"

Sebastian scoffed without turning, voice rough. "Shut your gob. You don't know a bloody thing."

A low chuckle rolled from Osborn's throat. "Got a proper soft spot for her, haven't you? How's it feel, knowing the one person you pictured in your tomorrow might've sold you out?"

Sebastian remained stubbornly pinned in place, one hand clutching his injured side while his shoulder braced against the wooden planks of the tower. His breaths came in deep, audible gusts through parted lips, anger searing through every limb like molten iron. He was teetering on the edge.

Osborn studied him closely, expression shifting to something more contemplative — this approach wasn't quite hitting the mark either. But he still held a trump card.

"Can't really blame you though," he mused, beginning to slowly pace along the walkway. "I find it difficult staying cross with her myself. Such a captivating little thing, isn't she? Wild, ferocious — you should see how she resists, how she fights back." He paused, pulling the lollipop stick from his mouth with a final suck before tossing it carelessly over the railing. "But everything can be broken if you chip away bit by bit, find the right spots to press, get inside their brain..." His voice dropped fondly, almost dreamy as he resumed his languid stride. "She didn't make it simple for me, I'll grant her that — but oh, I do so enjoy a challenge. Especially her — especially when she fights back so beautifully."

At the persistent lack of response, he tilted his head with a soft sigh while stepping closer. "Come now, I don't even mind sharing—"

The rest died in Osborn's throat as Sebastian's body crashed into him with the force of a cannon blast. They hit the walkway hard, wooden planks groaning under the bone-jarring thud of the impact as Sebastian pinned him, one hand fisting the collar of those red and gold robes while the other drove down in a violent punch to Osborn's face. The crack of knuckles against cheekbone echoed sharply.

"You fucking—" Another blow, knuckles splitting against teeth. "Touch her—" Blood sprayed across the boards as the next strike split the lip. "Again—"

His fist found Osborn's mouth again, and again, and again, each hit punctuated by a wet crack. Blood welled instantly, trickling down the prefect's chin, but Sebastian didn't stop. His fist slammed again, this time catching the nose with a slick crunch.

Osborn's head snapped to the side with every blow, but a hoarse, gurgling laugh bubbled up through the blood pooling in his mouth — even as his face swelled and split under the onslaught, those azure eyes gleamed with sick satisfaction. He twisted beneath his opponent, managing a weak jab at the injured flank, fingers pressing straight into the tender spot. The agony spiked through Sebastian's ribs, but he barely registered it through the thundering in his head.

"Piece of—" He grabbed Osborn's throat with his free hand, slamming the back of his head against the walkway. "Bloody—" His fist came down harder. "Psychotic—" Harder. "Fuck—" Harder still.

Osborn coughed, blood spattering as another ragged chuckle escaped him. He didn't seem to fight back with full force, instead squirming just enough to drag out the beating, as if savouring the chaos he'd unleashed. His free hand clawed weakly at Sebastian's side again, aiming for the weak spot once more.

The pain nearly blinded him this time, but Sebastian drove his elbow into Osborn's sternum in response, drawing a wet gasp that dissolved into another blood-choked laugh.

"There's the monster—" Osborn managed before another blow cut him off, snapping his head sideways again.

"Shut your fucking mouth!" Sebastian's voice was barely human, scraping raw from his throat.

His knuckles were already torn, but he couldn't feel it. Couldn't feel anything except the overwhelming need to cave this bastard's skull in.

"You think this is funny, you sick prick?!" He slammed his fist into Osborn's eye socket, the skin around it already swelling.

Osborn wheezed out another laugh, blood staining his teeth as his split mouth curled into a grotesque semblance of a triumphant grin. He was not even resisting — just enduring.

Why?

"Going to kill you," Sebastian snarled, grabbing Osborn's hair to smash his head back again.

His vision tunnelled to Osborn's increasingly misshapen face, drowning everything around in pure, blinding rage. Every shout, every squeal around seemed distant and irrelevant. Another strike landed on Osborn's cheek, tearing open more flesh, but his next punch aimed straight for the smirking mouth, determined to wipe that expression off once and for all.

A flicker of movement drew his attention sideways. His fist drove down again, but the brief distraction threw his aim — his wrist twisted with a sickening wrench as the blow glanced awkwardly off Osborn's jaw at the wrong angle, nearly missing entirely. Pain shot up his arm, drawing a sharp hiss through his teeth as he turned to his right.

She just stood there, motionless, stilled at the edge of the walkway with both hands buried deep in the sleeves of his sweater — the one he'd given her last night. Those green eyes, still dulled from whatever they'd given her, fixed unblinkingly on the pool of blood spreading beneath Osborn's head.

"Kryph—" Sebastian gasped out between hoarse breaths. "Don't— don't look at this—"

But she remained frozen, swaying slightly as her gaze remained locked on the carnage before her. The approaching shouts grew louder, footsteps thudding harshly up the wooden stairs.

Dusk settled over Little Hangleton like a heavy shroud, mist rising from the valley in ghostly tendrils. Gaunt Manor loomed against the darkening sky as a lonely carriage rattled up the winding drive with its wheels crunching over gravel that hadn't been properly maintained in years.

Ominis's wand thrummed gently against his palm as the carriage came to a halt, mapping out the edges of his home — though 'home' felt like entirely the wrong word for it. The letter from his father sat in his pocket, the paper worn from how many times he'd touched it during the journey, seeking answers in its sparse words. Three lines. That was all — a demand for his immediate return, with no explanation offered.

"Young Master is being home," squeaked an elderly house-elf as Ominis stepped down from the carriage.

The creature's bare feet whispered against stone steps — Ominis recognised Wilby by her particular gait, slightly uneven from years of Marvolo's cruelty.

"Thank you, Wilby," he said quietly, allowing his wand to guide him up the path. "Has my father mentioned why—"

"Master is waiting in his study," Wilby interrupted anxiously, voice pitched higher with evident distress. "Says Young Master must come straight away."

Ominis's stomach clenched. His father's study meant serious matters — usually unpleasant ones. Perhaps his family had finally tired of his persistent defiance, of his refusal to see those they deemed beneath them as filth. The thought made his throat constrict. He'd been so careful to keep those relationships quiet, but secrets rarely stayed buried in pure-blood circles.

The manor corridors stretched dark and silent as his wand guided him past the sleeping serpentine decorations. The portraits whispered as he passed — he could hear the subtle rustle of painted robes, the quiet murmurs of his ancestors tracking his progress. But for once, even if not for long, luck seemed to be on his side — no sharp perfume announced his mother's presence, no cruel laughter betrayed his older siblings lurking nearby. Just the soft brush of his own shoes against carpets and the distant toll of the clock marking the hour. Small mercies.

His father's study occupied the westernmost corner of the manor, its oak door as imposing as ever when Ominis's wand finally traced its outline. He drew a deep breath, adjusted his collar, and knocked.

"Enter." The voice thundered coldly.

Ominis pushed the door open, immediately noting the sharp scent of ink and his father's preferred tobacco. The wand in his palm mapped out the space — his parent's heavy presence behind the massive desk, the high-backed chair, the warmth of the dying fire in the grate, the rows of books lining the walls.

"You summoned me, Father?"

A short pause pause followed, marked by the scratch of a quill against parchment. William Gaunt never rushed to acknowledge anyone, not even his own blood.

"Sit."

A rustle of papers, then the subtle clink of crystal — William pouring himself a drink, just to make Ominis wait. Classic power play. The younger Gaunt found his way to the chair ahead of the desk, keeping his posture straight despite his urge to shrink away from his father's presence.

"I trust your journey was adequate?" William's tone suggested he cared little for the answer.

Ominis shifted in the chair uncomfortably. "Father, I appreciate the... unexpected invitation home, but I don't understand the urgency, especially since classes resume tomorrow—"

A derisive sound came from behind the desk. "You won't be attending those. Or returning to Hogwarts."

The statement hung in the air. Ominis swallowed.

"I don't understand."

"Clearly." The crystal decanter clinked as William set it down. "Your education will continue elsewhere. A more suitable establishment. One where you might focus on matters of actual importance."

"Such as?"

William's chair creaked — he was likely noting the edge in his son's tone with disapproval. "Such as your future position. Arrangements have been made for your transfer to a more refined establishment. One where Miss Malfoy — your intended — happens to be completing her education. The Malfoys and I agree that placing you in an environment where you two might cultivate deeper connection before the wedding would be beneficial."

"You're removing me from Hogwarts to chase after Marlene?" Ominis asked, struggling to maintain his composure. "This is absurd — you can't simply remove me from my education, my friends—"

"Your friends," William cut in, "are precisely the sort of connections a Gaunt should avoid. The new school maintains stricter standards regarding their students' lineage."

"I won't—"

"You will." His father held a pause, heavier this time. "You mistake this for a negotiation."

Heat rose in Ominis's voice despite his attempt at restraint. "So my opinion means nothing?"

"Your opinion," William leaned forward, tone laced with particular sharpness that always made Ominis's spine stiffen, "like most of your choices, has proven consistently disappointing."

Ominis stood abruptly. "This isn't about Marlene at all, is it? This is you exercising control, as always, just to make my life—"

"Sit. Down." The command cracked through the air. "This isn't the sole reason for your removal."

Ominis frowned, noting an unusual undertone in his father's voice. "What do you mean?"

"The Board... has become aware of certain developments. The Ministry's involvement at Hogwarts has grown concerning. The nature of their interest is unclear, but the school's safety can no longer be guaranteed."

"Since when do you concern yourself with my safety?" The words escaped before Ominis could stop them, sharp with years of accumulated bitterness.

The silence that followed was knife-sharp. When William spoke again, his voice carried that specific hint of irritation that always preceded violence.

"You may be damaged goods, but you remain a male heir of this House. The Gaunt name will continue through you as well as Marvolo, regardless of your perversions. I won't have that endangered by whatever game the Ministry plays at Hogwarts."

The corners of Ominis's mouth twitched bitterly at the insult. He exhaled slowly, recognising the pattern all too well — his father's favourite game of breaking him down only to watch him scramble for approval. He would take something away, then wait for his son to bargain for its return. First came the shock, then the loss, the harsh words, and then the waiting silence — he'd played this particular tune too many times before.

Fighting back would lead nowhere. He'd lost this game enough times to know better.

Slowly, he settled back in his chair, carefully modulating his voice. "Father, please. It's my final year. I've done everything you asked — maintained the grades, avoided trouble, chosen the career path you demanded. I'll marry Marlene, I—"

"You'll do that regardless," William interjected coldly. "What else?"

"What else could you possibly want?" Ominis leaned forward, hating himself for playing this next card. "Besides, if my safety concerns you so much — who would dare touch a Gaunt? Our family name alone—"

"The family name is indeed powerful protection." A long pause followed, interrupted by the soft clink of William's ring against his glass. "But you, my son, lack the core of a true Gaunt to wield it properly. Unless, of course, you're prepared to prove otherwise?"

Ominis went still, dread pooling in his stomach. "What do you mean?"

His father didn't answer immediately. The soft splash of liquor being poured filled the room, followed by a deliberate pause that made Ominis's skin crawl with apprehension.

"Call the house-elf," he said finally, voice deceptively casual. "Any you prefer."

Ominis's eyes widened briefly behind their clouded surface as understanding dawned slowly, horrifically. Before he could form a response, William spoke again.

"No, not any. Call Wilby. She's your favourite, isn't she?"

Realisation crashed over Ominis like ice water. The cold crept from his fingertips up his arms, and somewhere in the back of his throat, a sour taste spread — the same one he remembered from all those times before. The air in the study suddenly felt too thick to breathe.

He knew what he had to do. But what scared him was that he had to mean it.

On the other side of England, where London wore its usual shroud of dreary gloom, rain pelted against soot-stained buildings, turning the evening air into a thick grey soup that tasted of coal and industry. Gas lamps fought a losing battle against the early darkness, light diffused into weak halos by the downpour.

The Ministry's visitor entrance deposited Eliza into the Atrium, her attempts to shake the rain from her coat proving largely futile. The journey through the Floo Network had at least dried most of the rain, though some stubborn drops of soot still clung to her newly shortened curls alongside the moisture she'd briefly caught outside.

The anticipation from showing up to the world like this, with the new length of her hair now freshly cut just above her shoulders, gripped her beyond measure even despite appearing in a place like the Ministry. Sacharissa Tugwood's latest beauty potion had transformed her natural coppery shade into something almost fiery — a change that still caught her by surprise when glimpsed in passing reflections. But Eliza loved this new, saturated hue of flaming red — and knew precisely who hated it the most.

The Atrium sounded positively alive — Ministry workers heading home, interdepartmental memos zooming overhead like paper birds, the constant splash of water from the Fountain of Magical Brethren with its golden figures gleaming wetly as if they too had been caught in London's endless rain. Eliza moved past it quickly, keeping her eyes down, still not entirely comfortable with the grand space despite her frequent visits. She never liked how the statues seemed to watch visitors pass.

She kept close to the walls, avoiding the main flow of traffic and briefly ducking past a group of arguing wizards. The noise pressed in from all sides: shuffling papers, clicking heels, fragments of conversations about departmental budgets and regulation changes.

The lift to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement stood at the far end of the Atrium. Ophelia would be waiting in her office — punctual as always, probably sitting behind her desk with that stern expression she always had whether at work or not.

At the heavy oak door, Eliza paused.

"Będzie dobrze," she whispered under her breath before knocking.

"Come in," came Ophelia's measured voice.

The office inside appeared exactly as expected — Ophelia behind her imposing desk, surrounded by stacks of parchment bearing various Ministry seals and stamps. Papers, always papers. Sometimes Eliza wondered if the entire Ministry ran on nothing but endless documentation — Osborn's desk looked the same whenever she visited him, as did every other high-ranked official's she'd encountered.

"Sit down, dear." Ophelia's tone carried through the room, unusually gentle.

Eliza's stomach twisted unpleasantly. Had she somehow discovered something? About the case, about what she and Osborn had been up to after her failure? This deliberate softness felt like the calm before a storm.

She sat cautiously on the indicated chair next to the desk. "Osborn did not say why you wanted to see me."

"Because he doesn't know himself." Ophelia's quill continued its steady scratch across parchment before those deep blue eyes finally looked up, sharp despite her mild expression. "You've changed your hair — it suits you."

"Thank you," Eliza touched the vivid curls self-consciously, smiling shyly. "I wanted something new."

Something new — something that would needle at a certain someone who notably avoided this particular shade of red, though Eliza had never learned why.

Ophelia's gaze travelled over her with narrow, attentive scrutiny. "You're growing up. Almost of age soon. December, is it?"

Eliza nodded, unable to suppress a small smile. After all these years, Ophelia had finally remembered her birthday. Though perhaps it was merely convenient — coming of age suited Ministry business rather well.

"Well then," Ophelia leaned to one side of her desk, sorting through documents, "time for adult decisions."

Eliza glanced up questioningly from behind her glasses, flinching slightly as seven stacks landed before her with a quiet slap. Ophelia spread them evenly across the surface, revealing personal files.

"Look closely at these people," she leaned forward, finger indicating the spread. "You've spent considerable time with them all. I need your honest assessment — which of them poses the greatest threat to our ongoing investigation?"

Eliza's eyes slid sideways nervously. This was exactly what Osborn had warned her about — their mother demanding a name. Clearing her throat awkwardly, she began opening the stacks one by one to study the names: Ominis Gaunt, Garreth Weasley, Leander Prewett, Sebastian Sallow, Matilda Weasley, Natsai Onai. Apocrypha Blackwood. Osborn Sinclair.

Her head snapped up at the sight her brother's name.

"Yes," Ophelia met her startled look without blinking. "You saw correctly."

"I don't understand," Eliza murmured.

Ophelia sighed and leaned back in her chair, withdrawing her pipe. The sound, the movement, the pose — everything seemed so identical to Osborn it made Eliza's chest clench.

"Your brother is one of our best, no question." She lit the pipe, releasing a quick puff of smoke. "But he's human, just like we all are. You know how he loses control — doesn't even try hiding when personal feelings cloud his professional judgment. This," she tapped Leander's file meaningfully. "was very unprofessional. As was using you to attempt elimination of the Sallow boy. So I ask again — who presents the greatest risk?"

Eliza swallowed hard, staring at the spread of files before her. She needed to do this carefully, slowly - make it believable.

"Leander will not be problem," she said quietly, feeling her accent thickening with nervousness as she traced her finger to another file. "Onai left school with mother."

"Yes," Ophelia exhaled another cloud of smoke. "Ran like scared rats. Because someone couldn't keep her mouth shut."

Understanding the implication, Eliza pulled forward another file. "Professor Weasley maybe make trouble—"

"And her nephew," Ophelia cut in impatiently, "most certainly knows whatever information his dear aunt shared to 'keep him safe'. Admirable but foolish — the boy will be next to leave. Would any of these three be problematic?"

"No, just Professor Weasley," Eliza shook her head. "She is... how you say... fierce. Very protective. And loyal. True Gryffindor."

Ophelia scoffed around the stem, reaching across the desk and closing Matilda's file before dropping it into a separate stack of documents. "Next."

Eliza shifted uncomfortably at the sight of the name on the file that appeared before her next — Ominis Gaunt. Osborn's instructions had been clear — this was one of the names she was meant to offer. Part of their arrangement. But how could she? The mere thought twisted her stomach so tightly she felt the urge to retch — what if they found a way to harm him? The impulse to protect him proved stronger than every reasonable thought in her head, and she pushed Ominis's file aside with a slightly damp palm.

"This one too gentle for making problems-"

Osborn will kill her if he finds out.

"A gentle Gaunt?" Ophelia's eyebrow arched suspiciously. "There's no such thing."

Eliza flinched at the doubt in her voice. "N-no! He is very different from what they say about his family!"

Ophelia placed both elbows on the desk, resting her chin against intertwined fingers. Her expression shifted to something bordering on uncertain satisfaction, as though detecting more behind Eliza's defence of the boy than mere professional assessment.

"I've heard you're quite close to the Gaunt boy. Like your brother, are you? Letting personal feelings cloud your judgment?"

"No, no," Eliza hastily shook her head. "I just watch them all careful, like task say. Osborn told me to do this from beginning."

A tense silence followed before Ophelia shifted one hand to tap against Ominis's file. "Keep closer watch on this one. He's proving... difficult to reach. The Gaunts may be losing their fortune, but their name still carries weight."

Eliza nodded obediently, keeping her eyes down and mouth shut.

"I can't hear you," came Ophelia's suddenly sharp tone that never failed to make Eliza twitch.

"Yes... m-mother," she stuttered over the last word, clearly hesitant with its use.

"Next."

Three files remained, staring back at her. Above Apocrypha's name, a bold red stamp declared "MAXIMUM SECURITY RISK — CLASS A".

"She is dangerous," Eliza managed timidly.

"Oh, I'm well aware. But how stable is she, in your observation? Should we extract her?"

Eliza looked up, hesitating. The offer tempted her — removing Apocrypha would create more room for her own manoeuvres. But based on observations, there weren't enough signs of destabilization to justify such action. Deviating too far from her arrangements with Osborn could prove risky.

"No, not yet," she said, forcing confidence in her voice. "Can be dangerous. Without Onai, she might become... not stable. Unpredictable. Osborn say we finish by winter start. Better to wait."

Ophelia sighed. "Yes, the Rackham's journal you brought to Osborn — quite the breakthrough. His reports from studying it have been invaluable — at least the ones he had time to send. Excellent work there on your part."

Eliza brightened instantly at the praise, unable to suppress the slight excited shifting in her seat. Though her lighter expression wavered as Ophelia pushed forward two final files — Sebastian and her own brother.

"Sallow is risk," she said tightly. "He is killer."

Ophelia returned the pipe stem to her mouth with a shrug. "So is the Blackwood girl. What else?"

Eliza stared at the name for a moment. "He always gets in way. Knows how to... how to make people do what he wants."

"Much like your brother," Ophelia huffed. "How's the boy any different?"

Eliza cleared her throat, eyes fixed on the papers. How could she answer without revealing her failure? Osborn would most certainly skin her alive if their mother discovered the truth. She had to do at least one thing right.

"Sebastian is a very angry person. Impulsive — does not listen to nobody. But smart too. He is biggest danger to operation, I think."

Ophelia released a stern chuckle along with the smoke. "If I didn't know who we were discussing, I'd think you were describing my son. Rather similar in temperament, wouldn't you say?"

"No," Eliza frowned uncomfortably, then spoke with sudden firmness. "Osborn is good person. Sebastian is not. My brother never killed nobody, and he is... professional. Most times. He will do everything so you are proud, mother."

"Oh, I know he will," Ophelia said. "But he's not a boy anymore. Controlling grown men is far more difficult — especially those with certain inclinations."

Eliza looked away, unconsciously rubbing her shoulder — the one that still ached sometimes from when Osborn grabbed it months ago back in Wales. She couldn't quite remember what had earned his anger then — probably her tears that he despised so much, or perhaps she'd been too loud while he was working, despite her best efforts to move silently through the house whenever he was home. His moods were impossible to predict — one moment buying her whatever fancy trinket she begged for, the next brooding in dark silence and snapping at the slightest inconvenience or trigger. Most days, she couldn't even guess what state he'd be in, which version of him she'd encounter.

Ophelia observed Eliza's thoughtful silence before clearing her throat and wrapping her lips around the pipe stem. "The Sallow boy doesn't seem to relish violence quite so much — unlike your brother."

"But Osborn never kill—"

"Irrelevant," Ophelia spoke over her calmly. "What matters is your brother's losing control because he's rarely put in his place. Thankfully, that changed today."

Eliza frowned questionably, freezing in place.

"Oh, you don't know yet? Poor thing." Ophelia huffed, reaching across the desk to snatch Sebastian's file. "According to the latest report, our dear Osborn had his face properly rearranged by this one," she shook the papers meaningfully. "Likely provoked the boy past endurance. Your brother never did handle those similar to himself well."

Eliza shot to her feet, eyes wide. "What? What happen? Is Osborn okay?"

"He'll be as good as new in a few days," Ophelia waved dismissively. "Though I can't fathom why it happened — Osborn's too clever for such a public display. Something's troubling him... but what?"

Eliza leaned angrily across the desk, pointing a finger at Sebastian's file in their mother's hand. "This why Sallow is risk! Must remove him—"

"To do what? Remove another pillar of Blackwood's stability? We can't afford that now." Ophelia sighed, slapping the file shut and putting it on top of Matilda's. "But don't worry — Sallow will rot in Azkaban once the case concludes, regardless of what he does."

Eliza sank slowly back into her chair. "But I thinked—"

"That we had a deal?" Ophelia finished. "Of course not — we can hardly let a murderer roam free, can we? Especially one who casts Unforgivable Curses as casually as breathing."

Eliza exhaled slowly and leaned back as her eyes traced thoughtful patterns across the floor. Sebastian's imprisonment wouldn't particularly trouble her — especially after what he'd done to Osborn. But Ominis... Ominis would suffer for it, and the thought of his unhappiness settled like lead in her stomach.

"What I need from you," Ophelia said calmly, "is to watch your brother. Keep him in check. He cannot afford such lapses in control."

Eliza's face twisted with painful resignation. "He not listen to me."

"We're women, dear," Ophelia gathered the files, arranging them into a neat stack at the corner of her desk. "Handling difficult men is what we do best."

Eliza nodded unhurriedly, watching as their mother emptied her pipe and set it aside before adjusting a few loose strands that had escaped that immaculate bun at the back of her head.

"Now then, men's business aside — let's discuss why I actually called you here privately."

Eliza glanced up sharply, pressing her lips inward with renewed anxiety. "This was not reason?"

"No." Ophelia leaned forward conspiratorially. "Tell me about these visions of yours. Osborn mentioned your strange dreams — though he seemed peculiarly unwilling to elaborate. Why is that?"

Eliza's bottom lip jutted out unconsciously. "He not believe me. He said—"

"I don't care what Osborn said," Ophelia interjected firmly. "Someone with your gift for Sight shouldn't let anyone dictate what matters — not even your brother."

Eliza hesitated visibly, fingers plucking at her heavy skirt. "S-sometimes... I see things about people. But nothing happen yet."

"Many things you've seen did happen — like the bank collapse you foresaw nearly a year before. I regret not believing you then." Ophelia sighed heavily. "What else have you seen?"

"I seen the... the demon inside her," Eliza nodded towards the stack of files, fingers subconsciously reaching to wrap around the bottom of the golden cross resting on her breasts.

Ophelia successfully stilled a snort, though the corners of her mouth twitched involuntarily. "That seems logical enough — the Blackwood girl certainly appears possessed at times. Pure destruction, that one."

"Some... some things make no sense," Eliza continued hesitantly. "I seen... Osborn in Hogwarts. Dead. With blood in mouth and neck..." she demonstrated with her hand, twisting it sharply to the side.

Ophelia went very still. "What?"

"This why it make no sense," Eliza rushed on, words tumbling over each other. "Because I also see him as adult, wearing..." She gestured weakly at the Head Auror badge on Ophelia's uniform. "And sitting right here, in this office."

Ophelia relaxed visibly, resting her chin on her bent wrist with a contemplative frown. "Possible variations of the future?"

Eliza shook her head helplessly. "I do not know. Sometimes dreams have no logic... or show what looks like past."

Discomfort flickered across Ophelia's face, the words about her son's death, even potential, stirring something unsettling deep inside her chest — Eliza's gift proved strong enough to take her visions seriously. She reached for her pipe again, stuffing it with fresh tobacco. "What do you mean?"

Eliza smacked her lips, drawing a deep breath as she visibly searched for the right words to explain her thought properly.

"I have dreams about a man... Tall, big man with short beard. He is holding small baby — very gentle, very..." she twisted her fingers uncertainly, "loving. And near him... little girl with dark curly hair. Very similar to..." Her eyes drifted meaningfully towards the stack of files again.

Ophelia's eyebrow arched as she followed Eliza's gaze. "Blackwood's hair is straight as a rod — can't be her. So this isn't the past. What happens to this man and the children?"

Eliza swallowed audibly, clearly uncomfortable with recalling the details of that dream. "There is knock on door. Man opens, then tries close it quick, still holding baby. He... looks very scared. Everything happen so fast... and then everyone thank me, I do not know why. And Osborn is there too — saying... saying I did great job."

Ophelia lit her pipe by touch, not daring to tear her eyes away from Eliza's confused expression. "Did you see the man's face?"

Internally, her mind sifted through the possibilities such an ambiguous vision brought. The father of Blackwood children? What if the girl wasn't alone — could there be other assets carrying the magic they were studying?

"No," Eliza shook her head. "Only see brown hair."

Ophelia's fingers drummed against the desk in tense silence as she wrestled with her next question.

"How old..." she paused, clearly uncertain whether she truly wanted the answer. "How old do you think Osborn was? In this dream of yours?"

Eliza glanced down at her hands, fingers folding quickly as she counted in silence, translating the numbers. "Not sure... twenty-five? Twenty-eight?"

A long, slow sigh escaped around Ophelia's pipe stem. She sat silent for a prolonged moment, measured puffs of smoke rising towards the ceiling as her mind worked through the implications. The senior investigators would need this information immediately — they all had to dig deeper, and quickly.

"I want you to stay in London for a day or two," she said finally. "This conversation will take rather longer than I first thought."

Chapter Text

Cold. The first sensation that filtered through was that specific kind of cold he'd only experienced in one place on earth — gentle yet melancholic. Like a lullaby sung in minor key.

Sebastian opened his eyes slowly, greeted by a sight that took moments to recognise. The ceiling he'd spent nearly three months staring at after the catastrophe in fifth year stretched above him, all gnarled wooden beams and peculiar shadows. This strange, sorrowful house that had welcomed him without question or condition. Even now, the memory of acceptance felt foreign, almost unsettling in its warmth.

It was an odd feeling — being welcomed anywhere. In any walls at all.

Feldcroft had never felt more distant than during that summer. The place he'd called home, where he'd grown up with Anne, where Solomon pressed upon him from every possible angle with that constant, damning disapproval and neglect. Had Solomon ever loved him at all? Had taking care of him and Anne been nothing but a burden?

Here, in this gloomy house overlooking black sand shores, everything had been different. As if he'd discovered what having a real home might feel like. What having parents could mean.

Nadine's quiet care appeared in a hundred small ways — hot meals that appeared without being asked for, gentle praise for the smallest helpful gesture, warm blankets found tucked around him when he dozed off in the sitting room. The way she'd noticed his discomfort with tight collars and left out looser shirts without a word. The way she'd smiled, genuine and warm, thanking him profusely for bringing in firewood, as if helping around the house wasn't the bare minimum expected of any living being.

She anticipated needs he hadn't even recognised in himself, showing him what it meant to be looked after properly.

Perhaps that was why Apocrypha remained so unmoved by praise or recognition from anyone at school — she'd never learned to hunger for approval that seemed to hollow out most children's insides. While he'd spent years grazing on mere scraps of acknowledgment in Feldcroft, she'd grown up knowing what it felt like to be loved without condition. No wonder she regarded other people's occasional interest in her with such detachment — when you've been raised by someone who loved you so completely, anything less becomes rather trivial by comparison.

It had bewildered him at first — this simple affection, this steady attention to his wellbeing. He'd found himself waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the warmth to turn cold, for demands to be made. But they never came. Just the sound of waves against the black shores, the whistle of wind through the walls, and the quiet certainty that, for once, he was exactly where he wanted to be.

But how did he get here?

Sebastian pushed himself upwards, thoroughly tangled in blankets, and rubbed his eye before looking around. The room he'd stayed in gazed back at him — his empty trunk standing in the corner, a few discarded pieces of clothing draped over the bed's footboard, a lone wardrobe next to the wall, a short stack of books perched on the table by the window.

His feet met the cool floor as he stood with a drowsy yawn, uncertain where everyone was or what he was meant to be doing. The small mirror hanging on the wardrobe reflected his sleepy state — hair a dishevelled nest of dark hair, green woollen sweater twisted awkwardly around his torso, eyes still heavy-lidded and bleary. He leaned closer, absently touching his face. Something felt off about his reflection — he didn't quite match his memories of that summer. The shoulders stretching the wool hadn't been quite so broad then, nor had his features carried such sharp definition. The boy who'd sought refuge here had been smaller somehow, less formed — even his height seemed wrong, the sweater riding higher on his wrists than he remembered.

What was this sweater doing on him anyway? Hadn't he given it to...

"Kryph?" he called out.

The silence that followed didn't surprise him — somehow, he'd known there would be no answer.

A glimpse through the window drew him nearer. Beyond the glass, grey landscapes stretched beneath an equally sullen, brooding sky, painting an early morning both calm and melancholic. Wind brushed through tall grass in gentle waves, while the unusually calm sea barely stirred, lapping quietly at the dark shore like a content cat. Morning fog clung to the distant hills, softening their edges into watercolour smudges against the clouded horizon.

Somehow, he remembered this morning. The air, the temperature, the scents, the view behind the window — it all felt achingly familiar, as if he'd already lived through this particular day. The day that had lingered at the back of his mind ever since it happened.

He turned and left the room, rubbing his hands together against the cold. The kitchen that greeted him shortly held a dying fire in the grate — Nadine would cook their breakfast here once she returned from her work at the sheep farm down in the village. Root vegetables and flaked dried fish, he knew without quite understanding how. Cetus lay curled beside to the warmest spot, pointed ears pricking up instantly at the sound of approaching footsteps.

Sebastian stepped closer and knelt beside the animal, ruffling those alert ears with one palm. Anne would have adored him, he thought with a pang — Solomon had never allowed any animals in their own house. Cetus was a proper guardian, an Elkhound — a breed he hadn't spotted anywhere else in the village. While the local dogs were primarily native sheepdogs, meant to protect what little farming survived on this unwelcoming volcanic terrain, Cetus was clearly bred for different purposes. More wolf than working dog, meant to guard the house itself.

But from what?

The touch earned him a steady thump of tail against the floor — not quite as tightly curled as pure Elkhounds should have, according to the books Apocrypha had shown him. Speaking of...

"Come on then, boy," Sebastian murmured, straightening up and patting his thigh invitingly.

The hound followed eagerly, making a half-hearted attempt to jump up before leaping out the moment Sebastian opened the door.

Outside, cool air rushed to meet him before he'd finished properly adjusting his carelessly pulled-on boots. He drew in a deep breath as Cetus dove into the thick grass, snuffling loudly and darting across the stretch of land. His feet carried him instinctively towards the spot behind the house, where the cliff face dropped away to the shore below. The sheer limestone wall stretched downwards for nearly thirty metres before meeting the rocky beach where dark waves met stone. Just like last time.

Somehow, he knew what he'd find in the water below — and there it was.

She floated on her back a short way from the shore, fully clothed and nearly submerged in the dark sea. Only her face remained above the surface just enough to breathe, that blank stare fixed at the grey sky above. The gentle waves cradled her, rocking her back and forth with an almost maternal tenderness, as if the sea itself were trying to soothe her to sleep with its liquid lullaby. All whilst her black hair spread around her head like ink, almost indistinguishable from the depths beneath.

Sebastian lingered at the cliff's edge, brushing away the strands of hair the wind toyed with across his forehead. He remembered his initial reaction to this sight — the peculiar mixture of confusion and unease in his stomach, coupled with a spark of resigned expectation. As if finding her like this was simply another of her oddities, another day when she chose to be strange. Just her being her.

He circled the cliff to where the hillside offered a steep but manageable descent, picking his way down to where grass gave way to rock and sand. Cetus bounded ahead, massive paws leaving deep prints in the wet sand as he prowled just beyond the reach of the foaming water.

"Kryph!" he called from the shore.

His voice carried across the morning silence and layers of water, and her head lifted with a slick sound before those green, hooded eyes glanced at him briefly just for her to settled back into her floating position a moment later.

Sebastian huffed at that, glancing down at the waves lapping at the sand before squatting to trail his fingers through the retreating water. Bloody freezing, that was — couldn't be more than 10 degrees in the air, let alone the sea. He'd never fathomed how — or why — she routinely subjected herself to such temperatures. Or her inexplicable fondness for the tight, enclosed spaces that made his skin crawl.

Rising to his feet, he cupped his hands around his mouth. "Oi! Better come out before the Kraken mistakes you for breakfast!"

A quiet snort echoed across the water.

"Too shallow for a Kraken here," she murmured. "Need to be further out to get eaten properly."

"Get out already — I'm not joining!" Sebastian called back.

She clicked her tongue.

"Pity," came out quietly before she slowly exhaled the air from her lungs, sinking beneath the surface.

Moments later, the top of her head broke through the water and she stood, walking shoreward. Her movements followed the waves rather than fighting against them, letting the sea guide her towards solid ground as she neared in that ghostly pale shell of her skin with dark circles beneath her eyes and lips nearly black from the cold.

"Mental, you are," Sebastian chuckled. "Let's get back before you catch your death."

Apocrypha hummed in agreement, dragging a hand across her face to wipe away the saltwater before they began their trek home. Cetus trotted alongside them, immediately collapsing by the fireplace with loud pants once they'd crossed the threshold.

"Go change," Sebastian said. "I'll make something hot to drink, then we'll sort the day."

She disappeared into her room without a word, leaving a trail of wet footprints behind her.

Sebastian sighed at the puddles but turned his attention to the drinks. Dried wild berries, those herbs he could never remember the name of, cloudberry syrup for his own taste — and soon two steaming mugs made of slightly porous driftwood filled the air with contrasting aromas of sourness and sweetness. Just as he remembered.

He shouldered the door to her room open, catching her pulling a dry shirt over her bare back with arms still raised — revealing the slight curve of her chest. He cleared his throat awkwardly.

"It's just a body," she stated absently without turning to face him, instead crawling onto her bed.

"Right," Sebastian managed, handing over her mug whilst arranging the blanket around her shoulders with his free hand.

She nodded gratefully, drawing the mug close to her chest and watching as he flopped onto her bed, maintaining a careful distance. "Didn't think you'd wake this early."

"Wasn't planning to. Maybe I've picked up Ominis's extra sense for when you're up to something strange." He snorted, taking a sip of his tea and wincing as it scalded his upper lip. "What even was that? Trying to catch hypothermia?"

She shrugged. "Just helps clear my head."

"Anything troubling you that needs clearing?"

She pressed her back against the wall, head tilting backwards as thoughtful silence settled around them. "I have this odd feeling... Like something bad is going to happen soon."

Sebastian raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

She stared upward without blinking, eyelids twitching with uncertainty as if questioning her next words. "Have you ever thought about the kind of deaths that leave no grave to mourn at?"

He studied her for a moment. "I'm not following. Why are we talking about dying?"

Her eyes slid to meet his, locking their gazes. "Some deaths... they have no scent."

Sebastian held her stare steadily. He remembered her saying this — in this exact pose, with this exact look on her face. He remembered how deeply it had unsettled him — and it did again now, even though he was mentally prepared. But one thing escaped his memory completely — what he'd said in response.

"Nothing bad is going to happen," he said firmly, insistently looking into her eyes.

The lie made his stomach churn. Perhaps this was what she'd meant by those words back then — Anne's death mere half a year away, Sinclair stealing seven months of her freedom, unimaginable things she'd have to endure locked in that cage their society proudly called the Ministry of Magic. Perhaps she'd sensed it all along.

"How can you be so sure?"

Sebastian sighed, taking a sip of tea to buy himself time. "I'll be there. Ominis will be there. What could happen when the three of us are together?"

She broke eye contact first, shifting away from him. He couldn't understand why — she always grew so painfully guarded on days like these, so terrifyingly difficult to read. Fear twisted his gut at the distance she placed between them — both physical and mental — as her walls snapped brutally back into place.

"Kryph, hey... shh," he soothed, keeping his voice steady as he carefully moved closer. "I would never hurt you — you know that, right?"

He knew better than to touch her in this state, but couldn't suppress the urge to close the gap between them, even slightly. He pressed the side of his head against the wall next to hers.

"I just want to be close to you. Is that so wrong?"

He'd never spoken those words that day, too afraid of spooking her further. But now they slipped out before he could still his tongue.

She watched him closely with those guarded, hesitant eyes, but before he could wait for her answer, a sharp ping of pain shot through his mug-holding hand. He looked down to find a small, dusty moth biting into his knuckles, drawing a rapidly trickling line of blood.

He hissed, trying to shake off the insect, but it remained firmly attached to his palm. His free hand moved to help, but before he could make contact, four pairs of sharp, needle-like spidery legs stretched beneath the small fluffy body, folded wings spreading to reveal an angry, red pattern of a single eye staring back at him.

Sebastian's eyes snapped open with a sharp intake of breath, his blurry vision slowly focusing on the tall ceiling above. Heart still stuttering slightly, he lifted the hand he'd just seen bleeding — finding nothing but a bandage around his wrist. The one he'd nearly broken whilst beating Osborn's face into the floor.

A quiet grunt escaped him at the pounding in his head, but he looked around unsteadily. Hospital Wing. His fingers found the bandages circling his forehead as his hazel gaze drifted across the space, then halted at the sight of dishevelled black hair spread across his bed where Apocrypha had bent half her body to rest over the mattress.

Just a dream. Just a very realistic dream.

Sebastian pushed himself up slowly, feeling the bandages around his torso shift beneath his shirt. It all still felt too raw, too real — the cold, the scent of the sea, the pain in his hand, her withdrawal he'd just experienced. Here, in reality, she showed no sign of such distance — at least for now. But he needed to ground himself in this materiality.

She hadn't stirred at his movements or small sounds — perhaps she wouldn't feel his touch either. His hand hesitated before reaching towards her unmoving, possibly sleeping state, finally cupping the top of her head with feather-light, gentle strokes. What was she even doing here, at his bedside? The sun streaming through the windows suggested it was nearly noon — how long had she been here?

Finally alerted by his boldness, she lifted her head sharply, forcing his hand to jerk back and find the bandages on his forehead as if nothing had happened.

"You're awake," she said hoarsely, then coughed to strengthen her voice. "How are you feeling?"

Sebastian leaned back against the pillow with a shrug, attempting a faint grin. "Who needs ribs anyway, eh?"

She rolled her eyes with a weary sigh, straightening her back to fix him with a disapproving glare before glancing away. "Idiot."

"Am I expelled?" he asked, nodding ruefully.

Her tongue clicked as she stared across the spacious room lined with hospital beds.

"Probably," she said quietly, then turned her eyes back to him to gesture at the bandages wrapping him. "Was it worth it? This outburst?"

Sebastian looked aside uncomfortably, unsure what to say. Privately, not a shred of regret stirred within — though she'd see through that soon enough.

"What were you even thinking?" she pressed on. "Attacking a prefect—"

"Attacking Sinclair," he corrected firmly. "Hardly an actual prefect, is he?"

Apocrypha's expression twisted slightly, a flicker of irritation crossing her face as a hint of old temper sparked to life. "I'm getting tired of your constant suspicion—"

"We know," Sebastian interrupted, voice still calm. "About Sinclair. Ominis and I."

She faltered visibly, swallowing whatever words had been poised on her tongue, and regarded him cautiously. "What do you mean?"

The corner of Sebastian's mouth twitched humourlessly. "We heard it. In Fig's office."

Her eyes widened with inexplicable fear at those words, body instinctively drawing back as if the information itself might harm her. Sebastian couldn't fathom why, but the subtle shift in her stance — that cautious retreat — stirred familiar unease deep in his chest. Even after years of friendship, her withdrawal still triggered his invariable urge to close any distance she created.

He lifted his upper body with a wince, palms gesturing downwards in slow, pacifying motions. "That bastard knows already — probably why he showed up at the pitch yesterday at all. Though I've no bloody clue how he found out—"

"How..." she cut in unsteadily, "how much did you hear? How did you even get into his office?"

Sebastian drew a long breath, weighing how to frame this carefully. With her disdain for Eliza, mentioning the girl would be a mistake — he didn't want to imagine the fallout.

"Everything," he said evenly. "Just... ended up in the right place at the right time. Followed you after you left the common room."

She swallowed repeatedly — those quick, anxious gulps he recognized as her nausea rising — while her eyes restlessly shifted across his face as if sifting through how to process this information.

Sebastian frowned deeply, observing her reaction. "You're scared of him."

"Don't come back," she managed, anxiously rubbing her forehead with faintly trembling fingers. "After they expel you — don't try coming anywhere near here."

His face creased in confusion that bordered on anger. "I just promised not to leave you and Ominis. How can you even suggest—"

"You don't understand," she pressed. "How can you gamble with your life like this when you know what he—"

"I doubt I'll be expelled," Sebastian said firmly, cutting her off. "Sinclair needs me where he can see me. He'd never let me vanish off somewhere — the information about Solomon is the leverage over you. It becomes useless if I simply disappear from the picture."

Apocrypha's face contorted as if struck by physical pain at the mention of Solomon, brows knitting tightly. "I'm so sorry."

"I know," Sebastian cleared his throat and nodded ruefully. "But why? Why would you do it? Was it really to save Ominis?"

The words slipped out before he could catch them — but he needed to know. Needed to force himself to trust that she wouldn't lie, not about this.

She watched him for a long, strained moment, discomfort plain in her expression — shame and guilt mingling with the sting of self-consciousness over her own actions.

"Veritaserum," she finally admitted, scratching at her nails while staring downward. "He was... looking for something — anything to press me with. Using you two and Natsai." Her glance darted around briefly, checking for eavesdroppers before her voice dropped lower. "You killing Solomon was the best he could dig up."

Sebastian leaned forward slightly. "Why? Why would Sinclair need a pressure point on you at all? What does he want from you?"

She shook her head, voice barely audible. "I can't tell you... not yet." Her gaze fixed on some distant point, expression suddenly settling into an uncanny calm — as if seised by an idea she shouldn't entertain. "But I will. Once it's safe."

"Safe?" Sebastian's tongue clicked. "It's hardly getting safer any time soon, is it? If anything, it's all kicking off worse—"

"I'll make this right," she said firmly. "I just need time. But you've got to trust me. Can you?"

He studied her from beneath furrowed brows before giving a slow nod. "You know I do."

A half-truth. If he was brutally honest with himself, her unpredictability in these tense, unreadable moments — when he couldn't guess what brewed behind her eyes — made trust a gamble. He wasn't entirely certain if her version of 'right' meant good — the only thing that anchored his words was a stubborn belief she wasn't cruel enough to genuinely wish him harm.

He sighed, glancing around carefully. "Where's Ominis? Has he come back?"

She nodded weakly.

"Hoped you'd both be hovering around me here, haunting my bedside," he said.

Apocrypha shifted in the chair. "He's... proper narked with you — to put it mild. He came back... different, somehow. Detached, troubled. And after hearing what went down on the pitch, well..."

Sebastian eased back onto the pillow, nodding with understanding. "Fair enough. He likely thinks I've mucked up whatever plan he had. Why aren't you with him, then?"

Her brows flicked up for a split second in genuine surprise before she spoke bluntly. "Wouldn't sit at a table where you aren't welcome. Even if it's Ominis. You're my friend as much as he is."

The sudden sentiment caught Sebastian off-guard, especially delivered so matter-of-factly — as if stating the sun rose in the east and set in the west. A small, genuine chuckle escaped him at this rare glimpse of her unguarded self, and he dragged a hand over his face with a huff. "You're my friend too, you daft thing."

Her mouth twitched in the barest suggestion of a smile — rare enough on its own — before settling back into its stern line. "I didn't want you two to hear what you did."

Sebastian's faint grin faded at her words. He shrugged. "Should've told us about that swine... what he did to you. Touching you like that. I'm sorry."

She dodged the pity swiftly, aiming to keep her tone dismissive. "It's just a body—"

"I'd never do that to you," the words spilled out on their own, driven by an odd, unsettling sense of déjà vu. "You know that, right?"

She scratched at her neck uncertainly, gaze sliding sideways as if the mere thought made her uncomfortable. "So that's why you went for him."

"Mostly, yeah." Sebastian admitted flatly. "Really, properly hate that son of a bitch."

"The feeling's quite mutual between you two," Apocrypha noted, tilting her head to stretch her neck.

The movement caused several strands of black hair to slip from her shoulder, revealing a fading bruise in the shape of fingers where the collar of Sebastian's sweater didn't quite reach her jaw. His eyes fixed on the mark instantly, but just as quickly, she caught his stare and casually brushed her hair back into place.

His eyes squinted at her sternly. "Did he do that to you as well?"

"No," she shook her head quickly. "No one did this to me. It's... it's a long story. I'll tell you once you're feeling better."

A tense silence hung between them as Sebastian's mind insistently drifted back to the conversation they'd overheard. He smacked his lips on an exhale, hesitating. "Listen, Sinclair said a lot that night... but what did he mean, calling you a murderer?"

She froze at the question, though something in her expression suggested she'd braced for it — dreading it, but expecting it nonetheless. Her throat worked nervously as she inhaled to speak, when the sharp click of approaching heels snapped her head towards the Hospital Wing entrance.

The moment his eyes tracked the sound, Deputy Headmistress Weasley and Professor Sharp entered, purposefully striding towards his bed.

"Lovely, the execution party arrives," Sebastian muttered under his breath, straightening on the bed as much as his injuries allowed.

"Miss Blackwood," Matilda spoke, clasping her hands before her with a stern air. "Mr Sallow. Good to see you recovering. How are you feeling?"

Sebastian nodded with a polite tilt of his head. "Well enough, thank you for asking, Professor."

Sharp's gaze settled on Apocrypha. "Miss Blackwood, if you would come with me."

She glanced uncertainly between the professors and Sebastian but rose obediently, looking back at her friend repeatedly even as Sharp led her from the ward. Sebastian caught her glances steadily until she disappeared from view.

Once alone, Matilda settled on the corner of his bed, smoothing her robes absently as if searching for the right approach. This was hardly a simple matter of student misconduct.

"Professor, I apologise," Sebastian offered the lie smoothly. "I don't know what came over me—"

"You're such a bright boy, Mr Sallow," she interrupted, "who showed no inclination towards physical violence before sixth year. I understand losing your dear uncle and beloved sister in such a short span must weigh heavily, but this anger at the world — it cannot spiral out of control like this."

Sebastian frowned deeply at the mention of his family. "With all due respect, Professor, you're mistaken. This isn't about me being angry at the world."

"What is it about, then?"

He scoffed lightly. "You can't pretend ignorance about Sinclair's involvement with the Auror nonsense plaguing the school."

Matilda's eyes narrowed immediately. "What do you know of it?"

"More than a bit," he lied easily.

"And how did you come by this information?"

"Got my own sources," Sebastian's voice remained steady. "And from what I've gathered, neither you nor the Headmaster are doing much to force the Ministry out of Hogwarts."

He knew the bluff was bold — reckless, even, given his current state left him unable to defend himself if this properly backfired. But he'd grown tired — of his powerlessness to intervene, of ignorance, of this constant, burning fury. The old tactics felt rusty after lying dormant for over a year, but he needed to remember how to play people properly again — as he once did so effortlessly, twisting situations to his advantage before Anne's death had drowned him in anger. At this point, he was through any planning.

Matilda shifted slightly on the bed, leaning closer with a stern edge to her voice. "What you did to Mr Sinclair is understandable, given what you seem to know. But this is far graver than a mere student scuffle."

Sebastian tensed, though his expression remained composed. "Is that a threat, Professor? Are you with them?"

"I am not," Weasley said tightly. "I'm on Miss Blackwood's side. As is every professor at Hogwarts."

"Then why haven't you done anything-"

"Because we can do precious little for now," Matilda replied quickly. "Do you even grasp the sheer power the Ministry wields? They are the law — not us."

"Hang the law," Sebastian hissed furiously. "They've done something to her — took her away for seven bloody months, and Merlin knows what happened there!"

Matilda matched his lowered tone, calm but firm. "Do you wish to remain at Hogwarts, Mr Sallow?"

"Of course I do," he shot back. "I'm not getting expelled, am I?"

"Do you comprehend what you're entangling yourself in?" she countered. "You'd be safer away from here."

A bitter smirk twisted Sebastian's mouth. "I wouldn't be safe anywhere. And to be frank, I'm not about to ditch my friends for my own skin. That's not what they did for me."

Matilda's gaze bored into his, sharp behind her neat spectacles, as if searching for sincerity in his face. After a long moment, seemingly persuaded, she leaned back and straightened. "Two weeks' suspension — the best I can manage without raising the Board's suspicion. You're fortunate Mr Sinclair hasn't pressed charges — that would've been quite a simple way to be rid of you permanently."

Sebastian's face suggested imminent protest at the mention of suspension, but he visibly wrestled his temper down — just enough to sound merely taut. "Grateful as I am to stay, I can't just leave my—"

"We'll watch over them," Matilda said firmly. "The professors and I. As we've been doing all along."

Across the South Wing, on the ground floor where corridors wove and spiralled in repeating patterns, Sharp moved with a measured gait, his cane clicking rhythmically against the stone floor while supporting his limping stride.

"...as Head of your House, it is very much in my interest as well," he continued.

Apocrypha walked beside him at an unhurried stride, nodding. "I understand, sir. But there's no real need to hover over me like this. I don't need any help."

"We all need help sooner or later, Miss Blackwood," Sharp's cane tapped once more. "Yet you never ask for it, despite how often myself and other professors have offered whatever support you might require."

She made a small, uneasy sound in her throat, clearly uncomfortable with any mention of aid regarding her Ministry situation. "I'm alright, truly."

Aesop hummed sceptically. "You know where to find me should anything occur. There are those in this school who stand with you — for your sake, and in memory of Professor Fig. He loved you so very much."

Her frown deepened at the mention of Eleazar, mouth curving into a grim line. "He never loved me. We weren't even close."

"No?" Sharp's surprise was evident. "From what I observed, Professor Fig was quite determined to provide you the finest education and care possible. Having no children of his own—"

"He did not love me," she spoke over him gruffly, looking ahead of her. "Not really. The only thing that mattered to him was my ability with this... whatever this magic is."

"Of course he took an interest in it," Sharp conceded. "He was a man of science, after all. But he cared for you deeply. More than you knew."

But she knew enough, if not everything. Eleazar's death had long ceased to wound her — not after what Osborn had implied. Now, the memory stirred only anger, and recalling how she'd sobbed at his grave like a lost child filled her with self-disgust. She'd been utterly pathetic back then — she wouldn't allow herself such weakness again.

"I'm handling it all just fine," she said instead. "Professor Fig's death, my business the Ministry — there's no need for you or the Deputy Headmistress to fret over me."

"Miss Blackwood." Sharp halted, resting his weight on the cane for balance. "Be honest with me — as honest as your situation permits."

She stopped as well, looking up at him. "Yes, sir?"

He paused, as if struggling to find proper phrasing. "Do you believe we are all safe at this moment?"

Her exhale came slow through her nose, eyes steady. "No."

Sharp inclined his head in acknowledgement, a faint gesture of appreciation. "Thank you for your honesty."

"Now you be completely honest with me, sir," she said, taking a half-step closer.

"I shall," he replied, meeting her intensity.

"Have you seen my personal file?"

"I have," he admitted without hesitation.

"So you know near enough what the Ministry does." Her tone hardened, frustrated. "Why protect me, then? Why keep insisting on help?"

Sharp sighed, waiting as a pair of students passed them towards the Grand Staircase ahead.

"I — and the other professors — mean you no harm. It's the Ministry's methods we question." He cleared his throat, continuing. "What we want is to preserve your exceptional abilities, to teach you how to wield them for good—"

"With respect, sir," she managed tightly, "no one's teaching me anything. I'm not allowed to even possess a wand, let alone perform magic. Everyone just pulls me in different directions while claiming they want to help. The Ministry, the school — even my friends. Who am I meant to trust?"

"Trust those who feel right to trust," Sharp said carefully. "But what we want is for your magical skills to develop naturally, without force — so you might use them for the betterment of our world. Your trust is not easily gained, I understand. But it must be earned through kindness, not fear — especially given the... unstable nature of your magic."

Apocrypha's teeth clenched visibly. "You mean dangerous."

Aesop appeared momentarily taken aback by such directness, though his expression betrayed no intent to deceive.

"Yes," he conceded. "Dangerous."

Her eyes bored into Sharp's for a long moment before a bitter, rueful smile bent the line of her mouth.

"Thank you for being honest with me, sir." She turned towards the Grand Staircase, steps dismissive. "I'll think about what you've said."

Aesop offered no response, and truthfully, she was grateful he didn't press the conversation further. With Sebastian occupied by the Deputy Headmistress, she needed to find Ominis.

And she did — on the ground floor of the library across the castle, bent over his homework. He didn't acknowledge her approach immediately — just kept turning pages, wetting his fingertips while sorting through his notes.

She settled onto the bench beside him. "You alright?"

"Perfectly," Ominis muttered absently.

"Doesn't look it." She waited through a lengthy silence, but he remained focused on his work. "Are you angry with me as well?"

"No," he said tightly. "But you should've stopped that fool before he did anything stupid. You know how he gets."

"I'm not his keeper," Apocrypha replied, voice small. "He did what he did — no use dwelling on something we can't change now."

Ominis scoffed, flipping another page with more force than he meant. "And now you're defending him. Always have to do that, don't you? Make excuses for every bloody terrible decision Sebastian makes?"

The implication hung heavy in her silence. He didn't need sight to sense her expression — one that suggested he'd overstepped. They both knew the decision to conceal Sebastian's role in Solomon's death had been mutual—- their shared burden.

He leaned closer, voice dropping though the Sunday afternoon library stood nearly empty. "Look, I had a plan for dealing with what we heard—"

"But you weren't there," Apocrypha stated plainly, as if pointing out the obvious.

"I know, but—"

"But you weren't there," she repeated. "Your plan wasn't there."

Ominis drew back slightly, caught off-guard by the subtle accusation in her tone. Such defiance from her was rare — let alone blame. "Are you holding that against me now?"

She shook her head once. "No. But you can't blame Sebastian either. Whatever plan you had wouldn't have worked against someone like Sinclair."

"You can't know that for certain," he said tightly.

"But I do."

Ominis slammed his book shut with a loud slap. So this was his welcome back — what he got for caring too deeply about his friends. Complete loss of control from one, unexpected defiance from the other. The sense of betrayal sat so bitter in his throat he had to swallow.

"So this is how you two repay me," he started tightly. "After everything I've done, after what I had to do to get back to both of you—"

"What did you have to do?"

Ominis clicked his tongue, rising from the bench and gathering his things. "Nothing."

He would never speak of what happened behind his father's office door — the mere memory turned his stomach. He'd never confess the shame, the guilt, the burning self-hatred for what he'd been made to do.

He could still hear Wilby's screams whenever the air around him was quiet enough — raw, desperate wails that shredded her throat until only wet, rattling animal gasps remained. Could still feel the same creature who had tended his scraped knees as a child, who had sung him lullabies in her gentle, croaking voice, writhing on the floor before him, sense her small body contorting at ugly angles as waves of agony wracked through her limbs.

The worst part wasn't casting the curse — it was forcing himself to mean it, to genuinely want to inflict that suffering on a defenceless creature who had done nothing wrong. Who had served his family faithfully for years. Who used to sneak him treats when he was little.

It was the moments between spells, when her huge, tear-filled eyes would meet his — still trusting, still loyal, even as she whimpered "Young Master, please." Her bony fingers would clutch at the hem of her pillowcase dress, the same one she'd worn while faithfully hovering next to his chair during lonely dinners. Wilby's body would thrash against the floor, spine arching so severely he thought it might snap, high-pitched keening sounds escaping through her clenched teeth.

Each time he raised his wand, her ears would flatten against her head while she looked at him with raw, primal terror — silently begging him not to hurt her. But he had to. Again. And again. And again.

His wrist still throbbed from maintaining the required angle, muscles knotted from hours of keeping his arm steady through each incantation while fighting every single thought to lower it.

The inside of his bottom lip was raw and tender where he'd torn it open with his teeth on the journey back to Hogwarts, trying to ground himself in physical pain to escape the memory. He despised himself. Despised what he was becoming, willingly or not.

What would Aunt Noctua say if she knew? All this — for what? To remain with these people he called friends? For this sort of repayment?

"Ominis?" Apocrypha's quiet voice came from beside him — she'd followed.

He pushed the library door open, stepping into the corridor. "Don't want to talk about it."

She nodded hesitantly, tone growing softer as if sensing his raw state. "Can I... stay with you?"

A small sound of agreement escaped Ominis as they walked.

"We can wait for our idiot in the common room," he said gruffly. "Be a bloody miracle if they don't expel him."

She hummed quietly beside him, keeping close to his side. "Sure you don't want to discuss your trip home?"

Ominis fought down a harsh sigh, masking his irritation. "I'm sure."

They passed the next hours in near silence within the common room. Though Apocrypha remained at his side, seemingly wary of speaking after their exchange in the library, Ominis could sense her eyes never truly leaving him despite her pretence of reading something.

The greenish light filtering through the Black Lake had begun suggesting early dusk when Sebastian finally appeared, each step careful. Ominis feigned absorption in his homework until he reached their couch, leaning against its back with a pained grunt.

"So?" Apocrypha asked.

Sebastian's eyes darted between his friends as he smacked his lips. "Two weeks' suspension. You two going to manage without me?"

Apocrypha nodded slightly, not looking entirely convinced herself. "Of course we will. Where will you stay?"

"Deal is I go back to Drumnadrochit," Sebastian shrugged. "Not like Feldcroft was really an option—"

"Deal?" Apocrypha frowned. "Deal with who?"

"Weasley. I'll write more about it later." He shifted his weight. "Need to sort myself out for the train."

Her expression twisted at Matilda's name before smoothing over. "Need help with anything?"

"No, but I need to talk to both of you privately." Sebastian nodded towards the boys' dormitory.

Apocrypha rose and took a few steps before faltering when Ominis remained still.

"Ominis?" Sebastian called. "You coming?"

But Ominis leaned his cheek against his fist, deliberately turning a page before pressing his wand to the text. The gesture was clear — he had no intention of participating. Sebastian scoffed, a bitter smirk crossing his face as he rolled his eyes and turned to lead Apocrypha to the dormitory.

"He's not himself at all," she whispered by the door.

"I can see that. Give him a few days to cool off."

She crossed the threshold into their mercifully empty room. "Are you sure? Something happened when he was home - he won't tell me what."

Sebastian scratched his forehead thoughtfully. "We both know what his family's like. Especially his father. Obviously he wouldn't be right after that."

She nodded slowly, eyes downcast. "I hate it when you two are cross like this—"

"Listen," Sebastian cut in, grunting as he bent to lift his trunk. "Where we've ended up is bigger than just Ominis now. We're openly on one side of the barricade, and the other side knows it."

Rubbing her temple, she stepped closer to help, folding one of Sebastian's shirts before laying it on the bed. "You two shouldn't have gotten mixed up in any of this."

"Doesn't matter anymore." His tone sharpened as he tossed the folded shirt into his trunk. "Don't you see? What matters is I was thick enough to let Sinclair get exactly what he wanted — me out of the way, even temporarily. Two weeks is a long time right now." He leaned closer, lowering his voice. "That bastard's planning something. You and Ominis need to watch yourselves while I'm gone, understood?"

She nodded hesitantly, watching him while reaching for another shirt. "Listen, I... I wanted to thank you. For stepping in like that, with Osborn—"

"Don't." He spoke over her, throwing books into his trunk. "You'd have done the same for me. What matters is you two being extra careful now. Write me daily, tell me everything you can." He carelessly tossed several sweaters in, voice gruff. "Since Ominis is planning to be a dramatic git about it... Bloody selfish, that's what this is..."

"Don't blame him," Apocrypha said quietly, retrieving his coat from the hanger. "He's been through a lot."

Sebastian clicked his tongue. "Here we go again — you defending him no matter what." He snapped the trunk shut, taking the offered coat. "You and I have been through plenty as well, and we're not acting like mardy prats when there's bigger problems at hand. With Sinclair knowing about Solomon, about your—" He caught himself, remembering their interrupted discussion. "Your crimes... Did you kill someone, Kryph?"

She leaned back as if burned, releasing a tight sigh. "I don't know. Sinclair says I did, but..."

"But what?"

"I don't know, alright?" she whispered furiously. "I can't remember."

Sebastian adjusted his collar, eyes fixed on her face as if searching for deception. "We'll discuss this when I'm back — too risky for letters. And we're going through Rackham's journal properly then too. I'll study it more while I'm away."

She frowned deeply, looking away without responding, as if afraid protest might spark his temper.

With everything packed, Sebastian hesitated, suddenly uncertain — the reality of leaving them to handle things alone clearly settling in.

He looked up at his friend again, tiling his head imploringly. "Extra careful, got it?"

She pressed her lips together, nodding quickly. "Can I come to the station with you?"

"Would love that, but..." He sighed regretfully, pushing his trunk into the narrow corridor and gesturing ahead. "There might be a problem."

As they approached the common room, they spotted a tall figure at the bottom of the dungeon stairs — Deputy Headmistress Weasley's stern silhouette becoming clearer with each step. Sebastian made an uneasy sound — something between a grunt and a hiss — at the sight. No doubt she meant to finish their conversation while personally escorting him to the station. Ensuring he actually left.

"Are you ready, Mr Sallow?" Matilda asked immediately.

Sebastian nodded politely, unable to suppress the complex frown that twisted his face — a mixture of regret, anger, and something he himself couldn't quite identify. "One moment."

At Matilda's acquiescent tilt of head, he left his trunk and approached the couch where Ominis maintained his insufferable show of indifference. Sebastian bent over him, one hand braced against the couch beside Ominis's shoulder, lowering himself until their conversation would be for them alone. "Stop being like this and watch over Kryph, damn you."

Ominis's only response was the slightest flinch at his best friend's sharp tone, but he maintained that stubborn silence still. Sebastian pushed away from the couch roughly, turning to Apocrypha and rubbing the bridge of his nose before locking eyes with her.

"Be careful," he mouthed inaudibly.

She looked back with calm assurance, nodding slightly. "I'll be writing."

"Right," he managed back, clearing his throat, then turned to his trunk and grasped the handle. "Ready, Professor."

Matilda gestured towards the staircase leading out from the dungeons, her smile tight but polite. "This is just a two-week suspension, Mr Sallow. No need to treat it like an exile."

Sebastian huffed bitterly, dragging his sparsely packed trunk behind him. He glanced over his shoulder at his friends one final time, forcing levity into his voice. "Be good, you two. Don't do anything I wouldn't."

"Doesn't leave us much, does it?" Ominis responded from the couch with calm resignation.

Apocrypha shrugged, picking up on the attempted jest. "The list isn't that long, don't worry."

A barely-there snort escaped Sebastian and he rolled his eyes, finally turning away to let Matilda lead him from the dungeons.

The common room felt oddly lighter without Weasley, yet unmistakably emptier without Sebastian. Apocrypha circled back to the couch and lowered herself beside Ominis with a sigh.

"What's Weasley's part in all this?" Ominis asked, voice flat.

She leaned back, lips pursing in thought. "He didn't say — seemed like he barely had time to talk at all."

Ominis continued the pretence of tracing the text of an open book on his knee with his wand. "You don't seem to disapprove of what he did."

She held a small pause, as if uncertain herself. "It's done now. Doesn't matter if I approve or not."

Ominis snapped the book shut, rubbing his temple with a sigh. Why did she sound so calm about it? Couldn't she see the position Sebastian had put them in with that outburst? Why was he perpetually the one trying to steer his friends from their destructive impulses? Why did neither ever acknowledge he might actually be right?

The only thing that offered him a shred of control was a sliver of stability that persisted — while Sebastian was beyond his control, Apocrypha's behaviour still remained within his influence, at least to some degree. Or so he hoped.

"Did it..." he began hesitantly. "Did it make you feel better? Seeing Osborn bleed?"

"Yes," she answered without pause, as if it were the most evident thing in the world.

Ominis let out a humourless huff, the corner of his mouth twisting into a sardonic half-smile. "Would you have felt even better if I was the one to do it?"

She fell silent for a short moment, considering the alternative before speaking again. "I don't know. It just felt... comforting. Having someone not pitying me. But rather being angry for me. Not at me."

Monday arrived with a peculiar sense of displacement. The usual morning routine felt oddly truncated, disrupted in small, poignant ways — Sebastian's empty spot on the bench creating a void neither of them quite knew how to address, Apocrypha finding herself automatically splitting her morning orange in three before catching herself, Ominis having no one to dryly comment on, no one to nick toast from his plate. Small things that had always been there, until they weren't.

It wasn't the same as when Apocrypha had been away — that had been a void of fear and uncertainty. This was different — a quiet strangeness, like a missing note in a melody they'd grown accustomed to, peculiar because Sebastian had never been the one to leave before.

In Charms class, Professor Ronen's voice faded just as he concluded his explanation of the assignment before settling at his desk to leave the students to their test papers. The room fell into a quiet hum of scratching quills and Ominis rubbed the heel of his palm against his eye, drumming his fingers against the sheet paper.

"I'll let you copy what I'm certain of," he whispered.

Apocrypha glanced at him sideways from her own seat at the same desk, cheek propped heavily against her fist. "Same here. Though I won't vouch for any answers — we're both hopeless at Charms." She stifled a yawn. "Herbology will be so much worse."

Ominis clicked his tongue in agreement, taking up his quill after a brief trace of his wand across the parchment. "Trust Sebastian to get suspended at the worst possible moment."

"Surprisingly, no letter from him at breakfast," she whispered back slowly, shoulders slightly slumped as she blinked heavily at the questions before her.

"You know the fool," Ominis scoffed quietly. "Either floods us with notes or gets theatrical with one massive letter when it's important."

"Mm." Her response came delayed, eyes struggling to focus on her blank test paper. "Should write to him myself once classes are done."

"Mr Gaunt, Miss Blackwood," Professor Ronen tsked at them from his desk, his voice a low hush. "Work independently, if you please."

"Sorry, Professor," Ominis muttered automatically before leaning closer to Apocrypha, voice barely audible. "No sleep again, then?"

She shrugged slightly, tapping her quill on the parchment listlessly. "I'll try tonight."

The truth was, sleep eluded her even more after yesterday's tumult — everything was unfolding too rapidly for her to process, overwhelming her capacity to rest at all. Natsai's absence, the chaos on the Quidditch pitch, the rift between her friends, and now Sebastian's departure, albeit temporary. She couldn't stop overthinking how all of this might end — in her mind, no scenario offered a good conclusion to this progression of events.

"You need to restore some energy," Ominis whispered, scratching an answer whilst resting his chin on his palm. "I can stay with you in the common room if you'd like. We need to talk anyway."

Apocrypha's quill hovered motionless above the test paper, nose scrunching at the offer. Though less direct than Sebastian, Ominis clearly wanted answers about what they'd overheard from Osborn. She'd managed to dodge the conversation by escaping to her dorm early last night, but he wouldn't let the matter rest — and she wasn't prepared to provide those answers. Not yet.

"I don't want to talk about it," she said, rubbing the tragus of her ear with a fingertip, as if trying to clear her hearing.

"We need to," Ominis stated matter-of-factly while writing. "Whether you want to or not."

She pressed her finger more firmly against her ear, frowning. "Can't this wait until Sebastian returns?"

"No," he said simply.

"Mr Gaunt, Miss Blackwood," Professor Ronen cut in again. "If you cannot work alone, I'll have to separate you."

Apocrypha leaned back slightly, exhaling a harsh sigh. "Why hush only us when everyone's whispering?"

Abraham looked up at her, raising an eyebrow, then frowned in confusion.

After a brief pause, Ominis leaned in, voice still low. "No one around us is talking, Kryph."

She clicked her tongue irritably, gesturing around the classroom while turning to him. "What do you mean? Everyone's—"

The words died in her throat as she looked back around the space. Every head was turned their way, eyes fixed on them with varying degrees of confusion and interest. Yet the whispering persisted, seeping from all sides despite no moving lips — a cacophony of voices with no visible source. Something warm and thick trickled down her upper lip, and she distractedly wiped at it with the back of her hand, leaving a smear of red across her knuckles.

"Are you feeling well, Miss Blackwood?" Professor Ronen asked, briefly darting his eyes to her test paper that was now stained by droplets of crimson.

She cleared her throat, averting her gaze quickly. "Sorry, sir. I'm fine."

As the class returned to their work, she pressed both hands against her ears, testing the sound by pushing in and out — the whispers remained constant regardless.

"You alright?" Ominis murmured. "Can you hear something? It's dead quiet except for us."

She continued the motion several times before rubbing her ears vigorously, saying nothing. Looking towards the front desk, she found Professor Ronen still watching her — unnaturally still, unblinking, tense, as if... waiting for something.

"Am I asleep?" she breathed barely audible and she slowly turned to Ominis.

His face twisted in confusion, mirroring Abraham's expression. "What? No. Why would you— What's wrong with—"

"Are you sure?" she cut across him.

He faltered this time, mouth opening and closing before managing hesitantly, "Er... I don't know. Do you feel like you're dreaming?"

She stared at his face for a long moment that hung silent for everyone else, then suddenly snapped her head towards the staircase that led to the classroom's upper section — and jerked backwards.

There it was — standing motionless, a void of such profound blackness it seemed to swallow the daylight streaming through the window behind it. The sunbeams that should have outlined its silhouette instead disappeared into its mass, while sticky vapour crawled up from a viscous puddle, licking at its limbs and featureless face. Upon being noticed, it tilted its head with a sharp crack that made Apocrypha flinch.

"Can you see it?" she whispered shakily without looking away, tugging Ominis's sleeve.

"See what?" He whispered back, blinking his blind eyes while clutching the wand. "I can't sense anything. What is it?"

"It— it's here," she stammered, clutching his sleeve tighter. "How can you not sense it?"

Ominis's hand found her wrist, gripping it firmly to still her shaking.

"Calm down," he whispered urgently. "Everyone's looking—"

"I need— I need to—" she breathed without turning back still. "I need to wake up—"

The sunlight continued to die where it touched its body, creating an impossible void in the warm afternoon glow. The edges of the classroom seemed so wrong now — too sharp, too defined, as if drawn with heavy ink.

Another crack — impossibly loud above the persistent whispers — made her wince. The sound vibrated and crawled through her jaw, rattling her teeth until she had to squeeze her eyes shut.

A deep, humming sound burrowed into her ears, rapidly building into the rumbling she knew too well until it swelled into an overwhelming din that drowned out everything — Ominis's voice, the scratching quills, even her own thoughts.

Through this deafening cacophony, a single voice cut through — deep and echoing, as if spoken directly into her skull:

The sensation of touch on her shoulder made her jerk violently and she thrashed back with a muffled, scared whimper before her eyes snapped open to find Professor Ronen standing before her. He was leaning over the desk, gripping her shoulder and shaking gently.

"Miss Blackwood, please come with me," he said calmly.

She looked around rapidly, breathing quick and deep through her nose while trying to quiet her drumming heartbeat, and leaned to the side, attempting to peer behind him. Nothing was there. No void — just soft autumn sunlight. The noise had vanished too, cut off as sharply as if someone had slammed a door.

Her gaze swept the room once more, meeting the eyes of her classmates, all fixed on her. She swallowed, voice small. "Where?"

Abraham gestured to the staircase. "I believe you could use a moment to collect yourself."

She glanced uncertainly at Ominis but complied, rising on shaky legs. Avoiding the curious looks from her classmates, she reached the base of the staircase and faltered, eyes locking onto the spot where the void had stood moments ago. She stared cautiously, half-expecting it to reappear, before quickly passing it, pace hastening as she began ascending with Ronen following close behind.

"And remember, class," he called over his shoulder, turning his tone deliberately light as if to defuse the tension, "any attempts at creative answer-sharing will not go unnoticed. I have my ways."

At the door to what appeared to be Abraham's office, he ushered her inside. She'd never been here before — a spacious room with a spiral staircase climbing upward, a fireplace crackling softly, and a desk with everything arranged with neat care.

"Please, sit," he instructed, gesturing to the chair beside his desk, then pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her. "Here."

Apocrypha sat down and took it, pressing it under her nose. The cloth came away sodden, dark clots sticking to the white linen. She folded it over to find a clean spot, trying again, but the blood was too thick, too much of it — it just smeared across her mouth and chin in stubborn streaks as she tried to clean herself. Both nostrils were still steadily dripping.

"I'm alright, sir," she managed, voice muffled behind the cloth. "Just tired."

"So I can see," Ronen replied, watching her struggle with the endless flow. He moved towards a cabinet on the opposite wall and unlocked the upper section of the it, extracting a small crystalline vial before circling back to her. "Take this."

She accepted the offered vial, turning it in her hand with raised eyebrows. Iridescent liquid sloshed inside, shifting between clear and smoke-grey. The label read:

"What's this?" she asked, eyeing the vial suspiciously while still pressing the handkerchief to her nose.

Professor Ronen circled around her and settled at his desk, expression serious. "Did you think the school staff simply stood idle? That we haven't been observing, trying to understand what the Ministry did to you?" He gestured at the vial in her hand. "Go on then, drink it. It'll settle your nerves."

She frowned, looking at the vial distrustfully. "What's in it?"

Abraham sighed. "Professor Sharp modified the Calming Draught specifically for you — every professor keeps a supply, should you need it. Nothing sinister in the ingredients, I assure you — no one here means you harm. It'll ground your senses, give you a bit of vigour."

She looked at him for a long, tense moment, then glanced at the vial, then back at him, and finally uncorked it before tilting her head back and emptying its contents down her throat. The taste made her smack her lips — tart and bitter with a sour edge, but refreshing, like cold metal mixed with the crispness of morning frost. After a few moments, she noticed the steady drip from her nose had slowed to occasional drops, the thick clotting finally subsiding.

Carefully, she placed the empty vial on the desk. "I appreciate the gesture, but why this special treatment? Modifying potions just for me?"

Ronen leaned forward, elbows on his desk. "This isn't special treatment, Miss Blackwood. Mere precaution, given your... condition." He watched her closely. "Are you feeling better?"

She nodded slowly, taking in the office with clearer vision, the earlier unsettling vibration in her teeth now gone. Lowering the handkerchief, she sniffed, still feeling the remaining thickness in her nose. "May I leave?"

"I'd prefer you stay a while longer, collect yourself properly." Abraham cleared his throat, as if buying himself more time to gather his thoughts. "May I ask what frightened you so terribly? Were you experiencing hallucinations?"

Apocrypha looked away, blinking rapidly. "No, it's... Sometimes I feel as though I'm dreaming — especially now. I just... need to wake up. Things will make sense then."

"From where I'm sitting," he nodded understandingly, "I wouldn't say you're dreaming — I feel rather real myself. So, what exactly did you see that doesn't make sense?"

She frowned, mouth working as if it grew uncomfortably dry. "Nothing — I'm simply tired. If I'm not asleep right now, then my brain's just... playing tricks."

"The thirst is a side effect of the draught — it'll pass," Ronen said, pouring water from a carafe and sliding the glass towards her. "Your exhaustion has been apparent since you first arrived at Hogwarts. Why do you fight sleep so persistently?"

"You wouldn't understand," she said quietly, then rushed to take the offered glass and drank deeply, swallowing in large gulps.

"Perhaps you could help me understand," Ronen suggested gently.

"No," she snapped all of a sudden, voice rising sharply. "I won't help anyone understand. I'm bloody sick of everyone demanding answers from me — I can't give them to any of you!" The draught seemed to fuel her newfound energy as she shifted restlessly in her chair, gesturing angrily. "Why can't I just get through my last year like everyone else without people hounding me about the Ministry, about my damned sleeping habits, about fifth year? Every single day! All I wanted was a normal life — keeping my head down, not bothering anyone, not involve myself in anything — why can't you lot with a scrap of authority just leave me the bloody hell alone?"

Abraham suppressed an instinctive urge to recoil from her sudden outburst, but kept his composed posture. "Because leaving you alone isn't an option, Miss Blackwood."

"Why?" she burst out. "Because you're all scared of me? Because I'm dangerous?"

"No," he replied, his tone calm yet carrying a hint of tension. "Because you have a unique potential—"

"That's rubbish and you know it!" she hissed, cutting him off. "You all just want to control me, draw me to your side, turn me into some puppet you can manipulate just because I was unfortunate enough to be born with—" she gestured jerkily at herself "this— this thing inside me!"

Ronen clasped his hands together on the desk, maintaining his calm expression as if handling something volatile. "That 'thing' you were born with is power this world hasn't witnessed in four centuries — it could bring tremendous change. Everyone in authority knows it, Professor Fig knew—"

"Don't you dare speak his name!" she snarled, leaping up and slamming her palms on the desk. "He was no better than the rest of you — treating me like something to be shaped and guided and controlled because of my instability. Even now you're sitting here like I'm some explosive you're afraid might go off!"

Abraham's clasped hands tightened, though his facade remained gentle. "Please calm down. Have I ever given you reason to distrust me? Was I not in the caverns to help you when Ranrok attacked Hogwarts? We only want to help you live a normal life — like you deserve."

She hesitated visibly at those words before her expression hardened back with renewed anger that forced her to bare her teeth. "Professor Fig spouted the same rubbish — and he was a bloody liar."

A slow, deep sigh escaped Abraham's nose as leaned back in his chair, lowering his gaze thoughtfully. "It pains me that you view us this way. Perhaps words won't convince you — only time and actions will." He looked up at her. "You may go and rest. Don't concern yourself with the test paper — we both know your marks are hardly an issue anymore, don't we?"

She straightened, drawing several tight breaths before backing away. Once at the door, she turned and burst through it quickly.

Alone in his office, Ronen rubbed the bridge of his nose with a quiet grunt, adjusting his sleeve to ease the wand he'd kept at ready access deeper into its hiding place. Better safe than sorry.

Rising from his chair, he cleared his throat before gripping the door handle.

"Right then!" His voice spilled with strained lightness as he descended the stairs back into the classroom, offering the students his characteristic warm smile. "I trust no one's been clever while I was away?"

He could never understand it. How one could vanish so quickly after being in plain sight — or sense, in his case — just a moment ago. Ominis had spent the remaining half of the day wandering between classes, scanning corridor after corridor for any trace of his missing friend while the sensations flowing through his wand created a map of nothing but emptiness around him.

She couldn't have just disappeared from the castle — otherwise, the Aurors would be in a frenzy, not standing there like brick walls. No, she had to be on the school grounds still. Common room? He'd detected no trace of her there. Dorms? Nerida had checked for him. The roofs? Nothing but the brisk wind in his face. Undercroft? Empty. Room of Requirement? Possibly. But she'd never vanished there without at least a word to him before.

After what felt like hours of search his frustration over her disappearance after Charms began to boil over. Was his grip on her loosening? His influence waning? After what happened the evening Sebastian left, the possibility seemed more real. But why would she disappear like this, especially in such a tender, distressed state he'd witnessed during Charms? Was she doing this deliberately, to make him worry? Did she want to hurt him? What had Ronen done to her upstairs? Had he done anything at all?

The questions made him angry. Questions, always questions — and never the blasted answers.

With Sebastian gone, Apocrypha missing, and Eliza still away on her trip, he was left with the unravelling of everything around him. By the time his mind had spiralled through these thoughts and had completely worn him down, dinner was upon him, and he found himself in the Great Hall, the bench beneath him half-empty in the most uncomfortable places.

The sensation was eerily familiar — in the most dreadful way. He remembered sitting in this exact spot at the end of fifth year, when Headmaster Black's voice had rung out announcing Gryffindor's House Cup victory, then faded into exaggeratedly mournful calmness upon mentioning the dead.

Sebastian hadn't been there, drowning in guilt somewhere in the Undercroft, as Ominis later discovered. Apocrypha had vanished that day as well, tucked away in some hiding spot of her own. But Ominis had no hideout. He was here, in this same spot. Alone.

He doubted his friends felt the same loneliness when he'd decided not to show up for the feast at the start of their sixth year — worried, perhaps, but not lonely. He could never impart this lesson to them, and this failure weighed heavier with each misstep, each upheaval they brought into his life. Was he caring more than they deserved?

Ominis tapped his fork against the plate absent-mindedly, blind eyes staring nowhere in particular. The familiar dinner sounds surrounded him — student chatter, cutlery against plates, sporadic laughter cutting through his brooding — until a set of quick, hurried footsteps approached, their rhythm unmistakable and oddly urgent.

"Where the hell have you been?" he asked bitterly.

Apocrypha dropped onto the bench beside him, breaths coming in short, sharp huffs as if she'd been sprinting. "Looking for you. Where've you been?"

He rubbed his eyes with spread fingers of one hand and sighed, swallowing his accusations. "What was that during Charms?"

She shifted restlessly beside him, movements unusually sharp and twitchy. "Do you think I'm dangerous, Ominis?"

Frowning, he took a moment to sense and decipher her body language — she seemed off, too energetic, too animated, too... normal for her.

"Er... No, I don't," he said hesitantly. "What's going on with you? You're acting odd."

"I don't know," she whispered hurriedly, almost breathlessly. "Ronen gave me something so I'm full of life." She dismissed her own words with a quick wave. "But that's not important — I need to tell you something."

Ominis's frown deepened, both unsettled and confused by her sudden vitality. He'd never seen her like this — almost unguarded. "Is this about everything Sinclair said that n—"

"No," she cut in, leaning into his space. "There's something wrong with my head. Remember when I said I didn't feel alone?"

"Yes?"

"It's because I'm not," she continued impatiently, her whisper hurried. "There's this thing in my head—"

"It's because you're not sleeping at all," Ominis interjected, keeping his voice low to avoid eavesdroppers.

"It talks to me while I'm asleep!" She cut him off with an urgent hiss as her next words came out in a rush. "The Repository thing — Isidora — she's in my head now, and I can't wake up — you have to help me wake up—"

Ominis leaned closer, both alert and frustrated by this incomprehensible delusion. "For Merlin's sake, Kryph, you're not sleeping—"

"Where's the proof I'm not?" she whispered impatiently again. "Nothing makes sense—"

"Where's the proof you are?" Ominis hissed back. "Just calm yourself so we can properly discuss what's troubling you."

"Why won't you believe me that something's wrong?" she pleaded.

"Because you're not yourself and speaking nonsense!" he retorted angrily.

"Ominis?" a third voice called gently from the side, warm and lilting.

They both turned towards the sound, where Eliza stood awkwardly, clutching what appeared to be letters in her hands.

Ominis hurried to clear his throat, hastily adjusting his tone as he leaned his elbow on the table in a futile attempt to shield Apocrypha's strange state. "Eli. How was your trip home? Your step-mother feeling better?"

Eliza nodded quickly, her gentle blue eyes crinkling behind the glasses as a wide, tender smile spread across her lips. Ominis had clearly accepted the story of her brief absence — visiting ill family. Good. No suspicions raised.

She settled onto the bench beside him — the same spot Sebastian had always claimed as his own — glancing past his ineffective attempt at concealment. Ominis's blindness did him no favours — Apocrypha remained fully visible, glancing at her with a sharp, almost confused frown upon registering the new vibrant colour playing in her sight. The challenge in Eliza's newly-dyed fiery red hair and vintage shirt of a similar shade clearly struck a nerve — perfect.

"Trip was very nice — I miss home," Eliza said, her accent hardening the words as usual. She fidgeted with the letters before placing them on the table, deliberately leaning into Ominis's space to slide them across. "Guards ask me to bring this to you, Blackwood."

Ominis made an awkward sound at her proximity, but managed to keep his voice even. "Why would the Aurors ask you specifically?"

She withdrew, shrugging. "I do not know. Perhaps they know I am friend with your group?"

In truth, delivering these letters had been entirely her initiative. Ophelia's praise back in London, combined with her arrangement with Osborn had given her unprecedented confidence she'd never known before — she felt bolder now. More daring. Her presence here was a clear message to the one sitting beside Ominis — that thing he called a friend should not stand in Eliza's way, whether regarding her romantic interest or the Ministry's pursuits.

Apocrypha raised an eyebrow, snatching the letters sharply. "I do not know. Perhaps becoz zei know I am frand wiz your groop?" she parroted mockingly in an exaggerated Polish accent. "You're not a friend of our group, so keep your nose out if it, yes?"

"Stop it," Ominis snapped suddenly, turning towards her with clenched teeth. "You're behaving like a child."

"How's anything I said wrong?" Apocrypha retorted, curling her fingers in air quotes. "Kochanowska's about as much a 'friend' of our group as Peeves is."

With a frustrated groan, Ominis turned back to Eliza, attempting to steer the conversation elsewhere. "Tell me about your trip, Eli?"

Eliza maintained her warm smile, resisting the urge to broaden it at the sight of Apocrypha's shoulders tensing upon being dismissed. "Oh, Wales is beautiful in autumn. My step-mother, she feel much better now. And my brother, he ask about Hogwarts—"

She kept her story flowing, recounting something mundane while smoothly spilling the details she'd rehearsed beforehand, but her gaze repeatedly flicked to Apocrypha behind Ominis. She sifted through the letters — already unsealed, naturally, as was protocol. No correspondence reached her without thorough Auror inspection. Apocrypha seemed unsurprised by this, registering this fact with a brief tightening of her mouth before diving straight into reading.

"I've never been to Wales, sadly," Ominis commented in the meantime.

"Maybe when we finish school, you come with me?" Eliza suggested brightly, ensuring her voice carried loud enough for Apocrypha to hear. "Wales is very pretty."

But the thing she was aiming to provoke remained engrossed, then jerked slightly to lean over to Ominis. "Sebastian's letter came through."

"Yes, we'll discuss it later," he muttered back distractedly before shifting his attention to Eliza. "A trip would be lovely, though I'm not certain I could manage it."

"Do not worry!" Eliza clapped her hands together cheerfully. "We think of something, I promise."

Unsure if Apocrypha was even listening to their conversation, Eliza leaned on the table, sneaking another glance at her. Conveniently, Ominis couldn't see that Eliza's attention was divided.

The second letter lingered in Apocrypha's hands longer — and though Eliza wasn't permitted to know its contents, she knew for sure it was from her mother. A crease formed between Apocrypha's brows, followed by a visible swallow as her green eyes scanned the paper back and forth repeatedly, trying to decipher the words. A confused blink preceded a deep frown that twisted her expression into something unreadable, more troubled, her earlier restless energy giving way to stillness.

It was the first time Eliza had such a clear opportunity to observe Apocrypha up close, to actually sense her presence without cowering away. Their closest encounter had been during the strangling incident — hardly an ideal moment for analysis — but now, with her newfound boldness, she could finally focus on what others had termed as 'instability'.

The Sight was a complicated thing, but for Eliza, this gift produced a unique perspective on magical signatures — much like seismographs tracking earthbound tremors, she was hyper-sensitive to the magical energy radiating from those around her. Each wizard and witch carried their own distinct pattern, a combination of energy, sensation, and barely visible threads that wove through the air, as individual as fingerprints yet as fluid as sound waves.

Professors emanated steady, deep frequencies and currents that felt like ancient riverbeds. Young students sparked and fizzled like morning frost on window panes — erratic, playful pulses. Ophelia's wavelengths commanded attention like summer thunder, while her own brother's magic felt strong but scattered, like radio static breaking through. Sebastian's signature settled like heavy fog, controlled but dense, and Ominis's magic flowed gentle as a stream, though fractured in places like cracked glass.

But this — this thing before her — felt like something else entirely, defying natural comparison. Its energy writhed and twisted like serpents knotted together, hummed with the dangerous vibration of a disturbed hive, crawled across her awareness like a large spider trapped beneath clothing — you know it's there, feel its movements on your skin, but cannot locate it no matter how frantically you search. It felt like ink dropped in water but moving against currents, like glass about to shatter but held in endless suspension, like shadows cast by objects that weren't there. No magical signature she'd encountered had ever felt so wrong, so artificial in its essence.

How could anything feel this way? What could cause magic to manifest in such a distorted way?

"Which school did your brother attend?" Ominis asked, his voice seeming distant against her focus.

"Private school for him," Eliza smiled wider, maintaining her rehearsed responses. "I do not remember name."

She barely registered what else Ominis was saying, though thanks Merlin he sounded engaged in their conversation. Eliza's eyes bored into Apocrypha's face instead, fighting every heightened sense. The wrongness of it all sparked a troubling thought — how could Ominis not feel it? Or perhaps he did, yet chose to remain beside this creature anyway?

As if sensing the scrutiny, Apocrypha's attention finally snapped from the letter, her head turning to meet Eliza's gaze. It took every ounce of courage not to look away immediately, the urge to retreat from her own provocation suddenly too urgent and visceral. Eliza maintained her smile as tender and friendly as the standing hairs at the back of her neck would allow, tilting her head in a display of soft, good-willed curiosity.

Those green eyes looked back at her, then dropped to Eliza's mouth, lingering there with unsettling deliberation before the corners of Apocrypha's mouth twitched briefly. Her lips pressed together, then relaxed and shivered, eyes locked on Eliza's mouth while she seemed to search for the right angle — until her lips stretched in a parody of the same friendly smile, too wide and knowing to seem soft, and her head tilted in perfect mirror of Eliza's position.

Eliza pulled back slightly. She was copying her.

Unsettled, she finally broke eye contact and let her face settle into neutrality, turning back to Ominis. "Was your trip to home good?"

"Yes, nothing unusual," he lied easily.

"Good, good," Eliza said, lifting her glasses to rub at her eye. "Maybe we do homework together tomorrow?"

Her vision had suddenly become too blurry, and she frowned at a faint rustling noise entering her ears — not from outside, but as if tiny, pointed legs were scuttling directly against her eardrums. She scratched her ear pointedly.

"Eli?" Ominis leaned towards her. "Are you alright?"

"Yes," Eliza forced an awkward laugh, waving her hand dismissively. "Give me moment."

She placed her glasses on the table and pressed her palms against her eyes. The darkness she sought didn't come even with her closed eyelids — instead, the scratching persisted, now accompanied by small shapes starting to form in her vision. It was unusual for her Sight to intrude so boldly in the middle of the day, uninvited and insistent.

She wasn't ready, not now — but the shapes pushed through her resistance, unwilling to be held at bay.

Through the haze of her vision, dark spots began arranging themselves into eyes — eight of them, scattered in uneven rows, some larger than others, all fixed ahead. Below them, two glistening fangs worked around something softer, smaller, struggling. The wet sounds of breaking tissue accompanied the sight of delicate, powder-covered wings caught between the moving parts, crumpling and tearing as they disappeared beneath what Eliza could only assume was the creature's mouth. What looked like ten legs — thick, jointed things — spread all around, tapping and probing the space around its meal as if testing the air. Small pieces of wing-dust scattered with each movement, floating away into nothing.

Eliza flinched at the sounds of consumption, trying to look elsewhere, anywhere but at the dismantling of that poor meal. But her stubborn vision expanded further, revealing a vast tapestry of threads spreading beneath like a sticky shroud. The web didn't hang like ordinary spider silk — it lay like a warm, living blanket across everything in sight, its glueish strands connecting white knots and bulging sacs that hung at uneven intervals, swaying slightly: some heavy with unknown contents, others deflated and torn. Already consumed.

Eliza's eyes followed the threads outward, where they wrapped around something pale and serpentine — a snake, but wrong, twisted violently upon itself, with its spine snapped in multiple places until it resembled nothing more than a rotting clot. Its jaw hung open in permanent silence, clouded eyes staring at nothing.

The same sticky network reached closer, to where two thin bird feet — a swallow's, he realised distantly — were trapped in the adhesive strands. Without thinking, Eliza tried to pull them free, yet the moment her movement shifted her perspective, revealing another shape caught in the silk, she stopped. Something large and spotted lay nearby — with a sloped, powerful back, shaped like a dog but broader, more brutal, with its neck wrenched at an unnatural angle. The recognition of what — who — it represented hit her with physical pain: Osborn.

The web trembled at her movement, sending vibrations across its entire surface of the sticky tapestry, and the slick sounds of feeding ceased abruptly. The creature released what remained of the powdery wings, letting them fall like torn paper, before its eight eyes locked on the source of the disturbance and it began moving towards the trapped bird.

Eliza struggled harder, attempting to separate the limbs from the tight grip, until the second realisation hit her with a chill that made her blood run cold — those weren't just any swallow's feet. They were hers. She was the swallow.

"Eli?" Ominis's gentle voice cut through the vision as his hand settled carefully on her back. "Eli."

Eliza jerked in her seat, coughing as her lungs struggled to remember how to work.

"I fine," she managed between gasps, pressing a hand against her chest. "Sorry, sorry. Must be ill - Wales have very cold winds this time."

Ominis rubbed her back soothingly whilst passing her the glasses with his other hand, expression pinched with worry though he clearly held back his questions. "Let me walk you to the common room. You should rest."

"Ah, no," Eliza made an uncertain sound, shaking her head. "Must see Nerida first. We go together after. Do not worry for me."

Her fingers found the cross beneath her shirt, clutching it through the fabric as she risked one final glance at what she knew had triggered the vision. Apocrypha remained exactly as before, head tilted at that same angle, wearing the smile she'd stolen from Eliza's own face. Eliza had no doubt now — this was nothing but a—

"Demon," she stated urgently, wiping foam from the straight razor against the towel beneath Osborn's wrist.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Osborn sighed beneath her, rolling his eyes. "Give it a rest with your religious bollocks already."

The midnight gloom pressed in around them, held at bay only by the softly crackling fireplace across Osborn's office and the lamp perched on the table beside his reclined chair.

"But is true—"

"Blackwood's not a bloody demon," he cut her off sharply, turning his head to give her better access to the stubble along his jaw. "How many times do I have to tell you? You're getting on my last fucking nerve."

Eliza kept silent, drawing the razor carefully along her brother's chin, mindful of the lingering bruises where Sebastian had struck him. Most of the damage that mongrel inflicted had faded under the Ministry healers' expertise, but traces still remained. She didn't dare to hurt Osborn even slightly — pain put him in one of his foulest moods, so provoking him was a risk she couldn't afford. Still, she had to try and tell him, to warn him – for his own sake.

"I seed hyena in vision today," she attempted carefully. "Dead hyena—"

"That was father's Patronus," Osborn spoke over her sternly. "And I don't have one, as you well know."

His mother's Patronus shaped her magic in this image too — he'd glimpsed it in those fleeting moments of his early childhood when Ophelia still knew true happiness, before their father's betrayal destroyed their family as he knew it. The matching Patronuses had been a testament to how deeply that love had run, once. It still baffled him at times, how one could love so deeply and have their heart broken so completely.

He, however, had never managed to summon enough joy to conjure a Patronus of his own. While the likelihood of his spectral guardian matching his parents' was statistically probable, Osborn didn't deal in unproven hypotheses.

"Yes, I know," Eliza replied, "but my visions—"

"Are absolute rubbish," he finished for her. "Who's been filling your head with this nonsense?"

Eliza stilled the blade beneath Osborn's jaw, looking away uncomfortably.

He clicked his tongue. "Was it mother? Feeding your daft delusions about your 'gift'?"

Eliza made a small, sad sound, drawing the razor down while carefully avoiding her brother's healing injuries. "Mother say I must develop the Sight," she murmured.

Osborn scoffed loudly, the sudden movement sending the blade to nick above his Adam's apple, drawing blood. The moment stretched like pulled taffy as Eliza watched the red bead form on his skin - and all colour seemed to drain from her face. The blade trembled between her fingers still hovering dangerously close to his throat, and she instinctively flinched away with her shoulders hunching inward as he roughly grabbed her wrist with a tight hiss. He was going to hit her.

"Trying to kill me, are you?" His voice was deadly quiet.

"No, no," Eliza shook her head rapidly, fear flaring across her face as she remembered the consequences of truly angering him. "I never—"

He shut her down with a sudden, unexpected chuckle, releasing her wrist and throwing his head back dramatically while gesturing for her to clean the cut. "Good, because I've been saving myself for a particular someone."

Eliza took a dry corner of the towel and pressed it against the shallow cut, soaking up the blood, when his words finally sank in. "What?"

A deep, resonant laugh rumbled from Osborn's chest as he sucked in air through a spreading, toothy grin. "Relax, I'm joking — but it's romantic, don't you think?"

Eliza's mouth twisted with uncertainty, both hesitant and distressed at the implication behind her brother's jest. She was all too aware that Osborn's humour was only partially playful — years of witnessing his twisted understanding of attachment had taught her that much. His destructive tendencies weren't just part of his personality — they were crucial to how he perceived relationships, how he processed attraction itself. They had moulded him into who he was.

He seemed indifferent to what he destroyed, be it others or himself. The parallel with a particular someone in this matter made Eliza deeply uncomfortable — they seemed disturbingly alike at times. Perhaps this was why Osborn was had become so fixated on her — the more time passed, the clearer this unhealthy attraction became.

Eliza finished cleaning the cut and wiped the blade once more before applying a bit more shaving foam to Osborn's cheek.

"She will kill you if you are not careful," she murmured, "I see it in my—"

"Yeah, yeah, your visions," Osborn cut her off dismissively. "Actually, I'm sick of hearing about them, so keep your mouth shut about this nonsense. And I mean not just to me, but to everyone else too — especially mother."

Eliza sighed heavily, licking her lips on the exhale while searching for the right words. "Mother said—"

"I don't give a toss what mother said," he snapped quickly. "You work for me and with me. You do what I say. Understood?"

He'd never fathom how one could be so naive, so stupid, and yet so equally gifted. But no matter the gift, Eliza was certainly not the type he'd allow within the Ministry's ranks — too soft, too kind, too trusting. In their particular situation, being gifted was akin to being cursed — and one had to possess a tough hide to pull through. Or at least an ounce of suspicion.

But Eliza would never even think to question why she'd witnessed so few Seers at the Ministry. Encountering a retired Seer was as rare as spotting a unicorn, but she never delved into the reasons behind this scarcity, never wondered why things were the way they were. Osborn, however, knew the truth — Seers were the Ministry's most valuable resource. Because what could be more precious than the ability to predict the future? Knowing your enemy's next move? Foreseeing when the next war could erupt?

His mother's intentions regarding the girl had become clear to him long ago — and he'd been working to thwart them ever since.

From a very young age, he'd witnessed first-hand the way senior Seers were pushed to their limits, most talented — pushed beyond those same limits. Even his own Legilimency had been exploited since he was thirteen — and whilst he'd complied throughout, he was aware of his fate once his mind could no longer withstand the strain. He'd become useless — a liability to be discarded. His only chance to survive longer with his sanity intact was to take his mother's place as Head of the Auror Department, and Ophelia knew this perfectly.

But Eliza had no such protection, no privilege of being connected to Ophelia by blood. In his mother's eyes, Eliza was, to say the least, disposable.

Her lips pursed bitterly as she visibly searched for the gentlest way to object. "But why—"

"Because you're bloody stupid and completely useless," Osborn rolled his eyes, teeth clenched as he fought to contain his temper. "No one needs your pathetic visions because they're not reliable. You are not reliable. Never have been, never will be."

Eliza's expression crumpled painfully at his words, but she continued dragging the blade beneath his cheekbone, removing the sparse hairs with gentle care.

Of course, he took into account everything she told him about her visions. He'd be a fool not to — she'd proven herself genuinely capable of seeing the future. And while her quiet acceptance of every insult he hurled unsettled him at times, he would never alter his approach — for her own sake. Life had given him a sibling, even if only half of one, and he wasn't prepared to watch Eliza share the fate the Ministry had designed for their kind. He himself was already too deeply ensnared in this web to escape with his brain in one piece, but Eliza — she might still have a chance at something resembling a normal life. If only she'd stop flaunting her gift to those who were all too eager to exploit it.

The least he could manage, without betraying that he might actually give a damn, was to berate her into feeling miserable enough to keep her true abilities hidden from the world.

"No vision talk," Osborn whispered theatrically, raising his hands with fingers spread wide. "Got it?"

Eliza nodded bitterly without meeting his eyes, silently handing him the towel before turning to clean the blade.

Osborn took the towel, roughly wiping remaining bits of foam from his face. Eliza was certainly improving at shaving him. Not that he couldn't manage it himself — but his injuries provided the perfect excuse to bind her more tightly to him, to accustom her to caring for him. A mental chain he'd been forging link by link since the day Ophelia decided to adopt her into their family, even though Eliza was never offered their last name.

He tossed the towel back at her. "Get out now. I've got a date."

"A date?" She caught the towel, blinking up at him. "But today is not—"

"Well, you delivered the letters, didn't you?" He adjusted his shirt collar. "Blackwood's going to come running tonight, even though it's not her scheduled memory check."

Before Eliza could press further, rapid footsteps approached the office door.

"Go," Osborn shooed her.

She hesitated, shifting her weight uncertainly, and glanced towards the door as it swung open forcefully with a loud crack. Apocrypha swept in, sparing Eliza only a fleeting look before locking her attention on Osborn.

"What games are you playing?" she demanded, brandishing a letter. "Is this fake?"

Osborn nodded at Eliza, crossing his arms over his chest. "Leave us."

Eliza glanced anxiously between them, visibly reluctant to leave her brother alone with her, but ducked her head and hurried past Apocrypha, nearly colliding against Davis with a muffled squeak.

Once alone, Osborn gestured towards the entrance. "Shut the door." He leaned against his desk with a smirk. "How's your dear mum faring?"

"This isn't bloody funny," Apocrypha hissed, slamming the door in Davis's face. "Is this fake or not?"

"You wound me," his eyebrows lifted in theatrical surprise. "Implying I would forge your mother's letter. But no — this wasn't my doing. Nor anyone else's."

She wheeled around, advancing on him with quick steps while unconsciously drawing herself up as if attempting to diminish their height difference. "Your precious sister, then? She's got quite the history with forged notes, as I recall."

Osborn mirrored her posture, straightening to his full height to neutralise her attempted advantage. "That letter's in your mother's hand. You have my word on that—"

"Your word means nothing," she spat, withdrawing sharply. Her breaths came in deep, distressed gulps as she paced back and forth like an animal in a cage, clutching her head.

Osborn's mouth pressed into a slight line as he observed — she seemed more agitated than usual. Twitchy. More volatile. The only comparable state he'd witnessed was during her 'feedings', when they allowed her to consume Ancient Magic from small discovered storages. Those episodes always left her with a peculiar rush they'd studied separately in the labs — something close to pure adrenaline, but different in nature. Still, those were experimental, confined, conducted under laboratory supervision. Could she have found another source? If so, how? And more importantly — where?

Yet the questions felt oddly remote, overshadowed by his own perspective that nearly drew a dreamy sigh from him. He relished seeing her challenge him so brazenly — she was like a dying ember he tried to stamp out, but even after days of forced submission, she never failed to flare back to life with that temper, that defiance, that fire.

"I must see her," she muttered, continuing her restless pacing.

Osborn had anticipated her say this — had counted on it, in fact. According to the chaotic nature of the letter, Nadine's memory loss had deteriorated rapidly. Though the cause of this quick worsening was unclear, it hardly mattered — this shifted his primary leverage over Apocrypha completely. Obviously, a parent outweighed a friend — making Sebastian's position increasingly precarious. He was now thoroughly, entirely expendable.

"That could be arranged," Osborn shrugged, keeping his arms loosely crossed. "What'll you give me in return?"

She looked up at him sternly, stopping mid-pace. "What the bloody hell do you want from me?"

Osborn pushed away from the desk, circling her with slow steps. The exchange wasn't strictly necessary — he'd arrange her trip home regardless, preferring to establish this new leverage without overt pressure. Still, he was curious to test the waters.

"You know precisely what I want," he drawled, eyeing her up and down suggestively. "Something you've never given willingly. Something I can't simply... take by force."

She turned rigid at his proximity, though her head followed his circling movement. "Speak plainly. What's the price?"

He halted before her, leaning close.

"Something that's in here," he murmured, tapping a finger against his temple. "Something you've always kept from me. Sadly, I can't break deeply enough into that mind of yours to see it myself."

The missing piece of that night when the shore on Skye burned. The memory was there, he knew it, but buried beneath layers of natural trauma response so deep even his abilities couldn't penetrate to reach it.

Though visibly tense at the small distance between them, she held his gaze steadily, hesitating only briefly before nodding. "After I see my mother."

Osborn scoffed, genuinely surprised by her bold agreement — she'd always claimed to remember nothing substantial from that day seven years past. She was bluffing, obviously. But he knew this game well enough.

His head tilted, and he smirked before stepping closer until their noses nearly touched. Her jaw clenched at this proximity, but she remained glued to her posture.

"Make the Vow," he whispered.

Apocrypha's eyelids twitched almost imperceptibly, yet she stubbornly maintained her stare from beneath those thick, tightly drawn brows.

"Once I see my mother."

Osborn suppressed an urge to withdraw, suddenly wrong-footed. Something felt off about her easy acquiescence. What advantage did she imagine she held that made such a bluff come so effortlessly? Still, this pressure point seemed more effective than others — he should have found a way to exploit it sooner.

"Splendid," he said lightly, brushing his nose against hers before straightening and returning to his desk. "When would you like to leave?"

"Now."

A harsh bark of laughter escaped him. "Now? Rather urgent, aren't you? I can arrange it for tonight — with one more condition, though."

She exhaled sharply, clearly impatient. "What else?"

Osborn bent to open one of the lower drawers, extracting a package they both had seen before — the one he'd given her months ago.

"Wear this," he handed it over. "I'm rather curious to see you in it."

She eyed the offered clothing she'd previously refused, then snatched it roughly without a word.

Osborn's smile was exaggerated happiness as he clapped his hands once. "Do put it on here. Don't worry — I won't look."

He would, though. He always did.

Sure enough, he didn't bother with the pretence of turning away — they both knew he wouldn't. Instead, he leaned back against the desk, hands sliding into his trouser pockets as he watched with casual interest.

Of course she offered him no satisfaction of facing him, turning away and peeling off her uniform shirt. The sight gave him a slight pause — her spine was a grotesque picture on its own, each vertebra standing out like a knot under paper-thin skin, but what caught his attention were the peculiar bruises. Deep purple marks dotted the entire length of her backbone, like some twisted constellation. He'd never noticed those before. Had she lost more weight? The thought flickered through his mind, but he dismissed it, focusing on the task at hand.

Once she pulled on the armoured clothing and faced him, he straightened up once more. Trust her to make even this look defiant — chest belts hanging loose, waist strap dangling, sleeves askew at different lengths. Her hair looked positively wild, as though she'd been dragged backwards through the bush.

"Happy now?" she asked, voice flat.

Osborn clicked his tongue. "Not quite."

Striding over, he reached for her chest belts, drawing them tight before securing them with a series of clicks.

"So ungrateful," he mocked, twisting the waist belt around his fist and sharply drawing their bodies together with a rough tug. "Any idea how much effort I put into this little gift?"

Apocrypha turned her head away, keeping her mouth tightly shut — but notably didn't withdraw, clearly enduring his proximity for the chance to see her mother. He recognised the calculation but wasn't about to waste such an opportunity.

His hands lingered as he threaded the belt through the loops around her, fastening it with exaggerated slowness. Rather than step back, he left one hand resting on her hip, ostensibly smoothing the thick fabric, while the other moved to adjust her high collar and tame her hair. He had to admit — she looked striking in black. It suited her nearly as much as it did him.

Leaning closer, he inhaled deeply at the spot where the collar left a sliver of skin exposed on her neck, and swallowed against the familiar stirring in his groin.

"You smell like me now," he murmured huskily. "Good."

A small, shaky breath escaped her, startlingly timid against her anger-tight voice. "I've done what you asked. Can we go?"

Osborn stepped back with reluctant slowness, crossing to his chair and lowering himself with a satisfied groan. "Yes, just need to send notice." He reached for parchment and quill, then called, "Davis!"

The door swung open immediately, as if the guard had been standing just beyond the threshold the entire time. "Sir?"

"Notify the southern wing." Osborn's quill scratched rapidly across the parchment before he held out the note, waiting for Davis to take it. "We'll be departing shortly."

Davis crossed the room with heavy steps, accepting the note with stern air. "Understood."

Apocrypha's head followed the guard's movements until he left, then snapped back to Osborn expectantly. "What now?"

Osborn leaned back in his chair, draping his legs onto the desk. "Now we wait. Can't apparate from Hogwarts, can we? Stop fidgeting — twenty minutes won't hurt you. It's not as if your mum's going to run off."

She glanced aside, gaze growing distant and unfocused, as though some unsettling thought or memory had gripped her.

"Sit down," Osborn patted the desk invitingly. "We've time to talk."

She swayed slightly before obeying, dropping into the chair while rocking impatiently. "About what?"

He squinted at her. "Why are you so restless? Have you taken something? Something I don't know about?"

She scratched her cheek absently, expression thoughtful but transparent — knowing he'd probe her mind if she attempted deception. "Ronen gave me a draught. I was tired — he wanted to help, is all."

Osborn raised an eyebrow. What sort of draught produced symptoms so similar to those he'd observed in the Ministry's labs? He'd need to examine whatever Ronen had given her.

"Interesting," he rubbed his chin. "Any idea where he got this—"

"Sharp made it," she cut in impatiently, visibly eager to change the subject. "Tell me about Professor Fig."

Osborn's eyes widened at the unexpected query — she typically refused any mention of Eleazar's atrocities, yet here she was, asking for details. Odd.

"What exactly do you want to know?"

She dropped her eyes to her hands, pinching her fingers restlessly. "Everything you know. From the beginning."

Osborn's eyes darted across her, taking in her expression, body language, and the occasional tremors rippling through her body. What might happen if he revealed everything he knew about Fig? Would it help her piece together the fragments, letting him later pluck and steal the complete picture from her mind? Would honesty buy even a shred of appreciation from her?

He reached for his drawer, extracting his pipe. "This sort of talk needs a proper drink. We've time." Lighting the packed tobacco, he bit down on the stem while pouring golden liquid from a nearby decanter — a pleasant habit. "You do realise this won't be pleasant?"

She frowned at her hands. "Just get on with it. I don't care."

Osborn inhaled deeply, gazing at the ceiling in thought before releasing a heavy sigh.

"They created you — Fig and the others. You and your brother were their little experiment — a product of scientific madness. Told you before how Fig was dead set on you and your ability — that's because he put it there in the first place. In both of you."

She glanced up, mouth twisting unpleasantly. "How?"

He took several long drags before huffing out smoke. "Listen, if I explain all of it, we'll be here till morning. And we don't want that, do we?" He pushed the glass across the table towards her. "Your mother was forced to have you both, as you well know. Fig's early notes implied triplets — but something went wrong during it all, and sadly, we never learned what. End result was two children born under Imperius, meant to stay bound by it. Controlled." He gestured between their eyes with a knowing smirk. "Bit trickier with you though, wasn't it?"

Apocrypha shrugged weakly, avoiding his eyes as if only half-comprehending. She lifted the glass, sniffing its contents. "Don't remember."

"Children don't," he nodded, chewing the stem. "Not at that age. Besides, he favoured your brother — makes sense you wouldn't recall." He dropped his feet from the desk, sitting upright. "After your brother died, Fig declared you dead too. Your mum played it clever though — hid you away. But when your magic finally woke up, it drew Ministry's attention — after all, children were dying like flies. And wouldn't you know it — Fig got assigned to investigate." His shook his head slightly, as if only partially believing in such a coincidence himself. "So, he found you again — this gave his plans new life. 'Course, your mum wouldn't just hand you over, so Fig..." He gestured to his head in circling motions, suddenly irritated. "Well, tore her mind to bits, let's put it mildly. Exactly what you get when some half-wit thinks he can play at Legilimency. Bloody amateur couldn't tell a memory from a thought — mucking about in her head like a bull in a china shop. Reckon that's why her mind's beginning to spiral."

Her hand froze, glass hovering near parted mouth as her eyes widened in shock. "He caused it?"

"Hard to tell for sure — no proper evidence. It's like looking for a needle in a haystack when the brain's that damaged." Osborn smacked his lips. "I tried, mind you. Really did."

The glass slammed against the desk as Apocrypha shot to her feet, leaning on the wooden surface with both hands. "You... forced yourself into my mother's head?"

He frowned at her outburst but kept his voice level. "Listen, the investigation required—"

"Bollocks!" she spat, baring her teeth. "You could be the reason her condition's getting worse—"

"I am not the reason for that," Osborn shot back, reaching across the table and snatching the glass with a rough motion. "You know perfectly well I'm always careful — I know what I'm doing. Never damaged anything in your head, did I? Was gentle with her, I assure you."

She swallowed audibly and dropped back into her seat, twisting her fingers one by one until the joints cracked. The question came out softer, more hesitant and timid than her previous outburst.

"Can it be cured?"

Osborn kept silent, thinking through his words. A lie would bind her to him indefinitely — but would surface eventually. She'd never cooperate after such betrayal, let alone trust his word again. Though the truth would hurt her just as deeply.

"I'm afraid not," he said on an exhale. "Otherwise our kind would never know what dementia is."

She glanced up at him from beneath that still-lingering frown. "But you're a professional at this — piecing memories, sorting, erasing, creating them. You could fill in the gaps with new ones, like you did with Leander." Her voice grew eager. "I'd help."

Osborn looked away, drawing a long drag from his pipe. The temptation was overwhelming — she'd be indebted to him for life for even attempting it. But for some reason, he couldn't bring himself to agree to this deceit — and felt unpleasantly weak for it.

"She'll keep losing memories no matter how many I plant in her head," he said regretfully. "I can't change that, Blackwood. I'm sorry."

He scraped his tongue against his upper teeth, unsettled by that last word. The display of empathy made him want to wretch.

She bored her eyes into the floor, nodding slowly. "What happened next?"

"Next?" He took a sip of his drink, rolling the liquid around his mouth with a slight grimace at the burn — the distraction was pleasant. "You know what's next — Osric's death, the Gringotts vault, Ranrok, Hogwarts. Though the Ranrok business makes Fig look even worse in my eyes, if I'm completely honest."

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, you didn't know?" His brows shot up briefly. "Fig had quite the arrangement with that goblin. Similar goals, those two. Never trusted each other, obviously, but they kept studying Ancient Magic together, searching for ways to resurrect it."

"That's nonsense. Ranrok murdered Miriam, Fig would never—"

"The deal," Osborn raised a finger, speaking over her, "lasted until Fig discovered you were alive. And well, simply put — he decided not to share with his so called partner. Obviously, goblins aren't the forgiving sort, so once Ranrok learned about a living carrier," he pointed at her, "and realised he'd been played, he went straight for Eleazar. Only managed to get his hands on the wife, though. Rest you know."

Apocrypha's face twisted with a mix of anger and pure, almost helpless confusion. "What did they even want from me? What do you want?"

Osborn chuckled softly, sliding the glass back towards her. "Slow down. I'm not about to spill the beans on our plans for you. Fig's intentions, though — those I can share."

"Please, do me the honour," she muttered sarcastically, taking an impulsive sip of the drink. Her entire face scrunched immediately, and she let the alcohol dribble back into the glass.

Laughter bubbled from Osborn's throat and he shook his head at her reaction to alcohol. It felt oddly strange, just sitting here talking — not without conflict, certainly — but pleasant. They'd never had this before, though he felt somewhat entitled to this moment. After so many months under the same roof at the Ministry, after being inside her head more times than he could count, he felt he'd known her far longer than reality suggested. She didn't share the sentiment, though — that much he knew perfectly well.

"You're disgusting," he smirked, reclaiming the glass and taking several deep gulps, completely unfazed by her saliva. "Can't say I know the full scope of Fig's long-term plans, but what I do know is he meant to snatch you after the Repository here at Hogwarts. Obviously wanted you to absorb that power first — clever bastard even had a cell ready for you. Goblin metal — only thing that could properly contain you." He exhaled the smoke as he spoke, the vapour leaving his mouth in uneven puffs. "And what a lovely touch — had it built on Skye. Bringing you home, in a manner of speaking. Almost poetic."

"Why Skye?" she asked impatiently. "Why is it always the bloody Skye?"

"Everything will make sense soon enough." Osborn emptied his pipe with several sharp taps, rising from his seat as footsteps approached the door — their time was up. "Just be patient."

She followed, trailing behind in silence despite the restlessness still rippling through her twitchy movements, and watched as Osborn opened the door with a nod to Davis.

"All ready for departure, sir."

And it was. The Portkey, delivered just beyond Hogwarts' protective enchantments, acted swiftly — the autumn chill of Scottish midnight vanished instantly, giving way to the relentless, icy winds and freezing rains of southern Iceland. The temperature plummeted, even the sparse grey light itself feeling damp and hostile. Waves threw themselves against the cliffs with a ferocity that matched the storm, while the frost-crisped grass crunched beneath their feet. A handful of weak lights flickered in the sleeping village, barely visible through the darkness and distance.

Osborn adjusted the hood of his cloak against the cold, jerking his chin towards a solitary house — though how he spotted it through this murk surprised even him. "Want me to come with you?"

Apocrypha squinted through the rain, wiping her already-soaked face with a sleeve while her breath formed white plumes in the cold air.

"No — you don't belong here," she bit out, then darted towards the dark silhouette of her home.

Her stomach twisted painfully at the absence of light from within. The worst possibilities began slithering through her mind before she could stop them.

At the porch, she shoved the door with such force she nearly tripped, stumbling into dead, suffocating silence. No fireplace, not a single candle — just the wind's mournful lullaby to the waves, and the distant, muffled chants of the magical bounds being placed around the area by the squad that had delivered them.

"Mama?" she called out loudly and stepped deeper into the house, navigating by touch to the wall cabinets. She needed light — anything to stop her mind from conjuring horrors in the dark.

The sound of claws scraping on wood echoed through the silence, and soon a wet nose pressed against her thigh with a high, keening whine that made her blood run cold. Cetus had never sounded so distressed.

"I know, boy, I know," she whispered hurriedly, trembling hands scattering items across the kitchen table in her chaotic search. "Mama!" she called again, louder, more desperate.

Finally, the clink of glass and rusty metal announced the discovery of an old oil lamp. Matchsticks lay nearby, and with fumbling fingers, she struck one, lighting the lamp and taking hold of its creaking handle. Wavering light filled the kitchen — Nadine wasn't here. Cetus paced restlessly beside her, tail stiff with alarm, whimpering continuously now as if trying to warn her.

She lurched into the corridor to check each room in turn, lamp swaying wildly. "Mum!"

Bedroom — empty. Guest room — empty.

With little left to search, she pushed open the door to her own room — and gulped down a rising lump in her throat.

Nadine lay curled on her side atop the bed, wrapped in her old knitted cardigan and clutching something to her chest. Breathing. Cetus whined loudly, circling the space between them as Apocrypha stepped closer, holding her breath to suppress her quivering bottom lip and fighting to keep herself together.

Nadine looked so impossibly small and thin on her bed. So heartbreakingly defeated, so wretchedly broken.

Setting the lamp on the floor, she lowered herself to her knees before the bed.

"Mum?" she called, as gently as her trembling voice would allow.

Nadine's wrinkled eyelids twitched, then opened slowly, revealing those tired, gentle green eyes. So loving, so soft, so painfully devoted.

"You're home, my darling," she whispered with a soft smile upon registering the face before her. "My little moth."

Apocrypha managed a small nod, voice finally beginning to break. "Mhm."

With sight already blurring from the tears she fought to hold back, she spotted what her mother was clutching — a frame with a photograph of both her children.

"I'll make dinner in a minute," Nadine whispered slowly. "You should call your brother. It's too cold today for him to play outside for too long."

Apocrypha's expression cracked visibly. She rubbed her forehead roughly, trying to contain the emotion in order not to break down.

"Okay, I'll call Alben a little later," she whispered back, voice fracturing completely. "Can I... can I lay down with you for a minute?"

"Of course, dearest," Nadine managed quietly, shifting towards the wall to make room. "Come to mama."

Apocrypha sniffed wetly and crawled onto the bed with shaking legs, quickly patting the space between them. Cetus jumped up almost immediately, pressing his snout against Nadine's knees and settling down with a high, breathy whine.

She pushed herself against her mother, curling into a tight ball against her chest and pulling Nadine's arms around her like a protective cocoon. The strain became unbearable — Nadine felt like ice to the touch. She'd never been this cold before.

Small, violent sobs began breaking through, betrayed by shaky twitches in her shoulders with each suppressed wave. She was losing her mother now, too. Right here, right now.

"You look very tired, darling," Nadine murmured gently, drawing her child closer. "Do you want to sleep?"

Apocrypha managed a shaky nod, the weight in her chest and throat too dense, too painful, crushing any attempt at speech.

"Sleep then," came a quiet response. "I'll stay here with you, until Alben comes back home."

Her mother's cool palm found her face, fingers drifting to the sharp edges of dark eyebrows. The pad of her thumb began tracing them with slow, loving strokes — the same motion that had never failed to lull her to sleep since childhood. A low, hollow sound rumbled from the empty pit of Apocrypha's stomach, raw and foreign after an entire autumn away from home.

Warmth trickled down her upper lip, settling between them with a sharp, metallic tang that she couldn't bring herself to care about. Instead, she wrapped her hands around her mother's shoulders and pressed closer, nudging the crown of her head beneath Nadine's chin with a gentle, needy nudge.

A child clinging to the edges of a nightmare which refused to end.

Chapter Text

The air felt wrong. Not substance, not emptiness — just wrongness, as if someone had replaced oxygen with something heavier, something that carried ash and memory of flame. It pressed against her skin, uncomfortably warm — the kind of invasive, suffocating warmth she'd always despised, reminiscent of aftermath rather than active fire. Like standing too close to dying embers, that residual heat that makes one step back instinctively. But there was nowhere to step back to.

She couldn't remember opening her eyes. The world simply existed around her, visible despite the absence of any discernible light source — nothing cast shadows here, yet everything remained surprisingly clear in the grey gloom. Her feet moved across uneven ground, each step crunching an echo in the dense silence.

Time felt wrong here too. Had she been walking for minutes or hours? That peculiar dream-like logic should have revealed itself immediately, but her mind felt scattered, fragmented. When had she fallen asleep? The last clear memory slipped away like water through cupped hands — hadn't she been in the kitchen just now? Or the bedroom?

A bitter smirk tilted her mouth at the thought — she'd fallen asleep. Again. Despite everything, sleep had found her.

She forced herself to look down at last. Her feet were bare, skin slick with mud and dried blood, toes raw and torn. The forest floor lay scorched beneath them, still warm against her soles. Blackened stumps jutted from the earth like broken teeth, thin whispers of smoke still curling from their cores. No grass, no undergrowth — just ash and char stretching between the remains of centuries-old trees.

A young unicorn foal lay curled near what was left of an oak, its silver mane dulled to grey with soot. Its legs were twisted inward, as if it had tried to retreat into itself in its final moments, hiding from the heat. Near a hollow, a massive Acromantula remained half-shielded in its burrow, limbs twisted at several angles until it resembled a dead spider in a sink instead of a majestic beast that used to dominate the food chain in this place. It looked as though it had tried to escape whatever had come through here, only managing to drag half its body underground before the end.

This wasn't natural — even the most violent storm or dragon fire couldn't have devastated the Forbidden Forest like this. The destruction felt targeted, purposeful even, despite being seemingly chaotic — the scorch marks followed deliberate lines, as if something — or someone — had wanted to ensure nothing survived. But what could possibly —

A soft creaking sound drew her gaze upward. Dark shapes hung from the surviving trees at varying heights, suspended from the remaining branches. Bodies. Some dangled by their necks, others by their wrists bound cruelly behind their backs, shoulders broken and twisted under the strain of their own weights. Despite the complete absence of wind, they swayed ever so slightly, ropes grinding against raw flesh with quiet, wet sounds.

The sight of the hanged made her step back instinctively, though her eyes remained glued to the swaying shapes above. It wasn't death that frightened her — rather, some deep-seated recognition pulled at her memory, an unsettling familiarity she couldn't quite place. As if she'd witnessed this exact scene before, though she believed she hadn't. The discomfort felt oddly specific, yet completely foreign.

Her heel caught a charred branch with a sharp crack, startling her into turning around. The landscape had shifted. Where moments ago there had been scorched forest, now stood the remnants of what must have been an imposing structure. Broken walls reached towards nothing, their tapering edges disappearing into the gloom. Massive pillars, some still standing, others collapsed into heaps of rubble, still cast not a single shadow across the scorched ground.

The grey light began to change, seeping into deeper shades. Burgundy crept across the ruins like spilled wine, painting stone and earth in muted crimson hues. Her stomach clenched at the sight.

Red. She despised it with an intensity that defied reason — the shade Alben had cherished and had claimed as his own. It followed her into every nightmare since that day in the Repository, staining her dreams like fresh blood on white cloth. Some people feared darkness or heights — she'd learned to fear a mere pigment, a simple trick of light. But there was nothing simple about it — not when it meant both fire and flesh, not when the mere sight of it sent her mind reeling between blind anger and paralyzing dread, not when it sent ice through her veins despite the surrounding warmth.

She'd never found a way to see it differently, to separate it from what it meant and had come to represent. From what it promised.

"Where are you?" The words left her mouth strangely muffled, as if she were speaking through water. "Show yourself!" This time her shout came out even more distorted, swallowed by the dead air before it could properly form.

Nothing answered except her own breathing, which sounded distant and warped in her ears. Then — a sound. Faint at first, but growing clearer: the gentle sloshing of water. She moved towards it instinctively, climbing over crumbling walls and charred beams that blocked her path. The scale of destruction suggested something massive had once stood here. Whatever force had levelled it must have been extraordinary — perhaps impossible.

She picked her way forward, frowning. Her dreams had never shown her places she hadn't visited before, yet nothing about these ruins sparked recognition. At least, not yet.

The debris grew shallower as she advanced, layers of shattered stone thinning underfoot and giving way to more distinct shapes until she found herself in what must have been a vast courtyard. Soon, patches of intact flagstones gradually revealed themselves underneath the rubble — half-destroyed yet recognisable in their pattern.

Ahead, the source of the sloshing sounds finally emerged from the gloom like a ghost — a large fountain, its basin cracked in several places yet somehow still functioning. Four stone pathways split from it like compass points, dividing the courtyard into neat quarters, while a broader path encircled the entire structure.

Something about the layout pressed against her memory. The stone paths, the positioning of the fountain, the architectural remnants surrounding it — she had seen this place before, but whole. Untouched. Different.

She realised with a start where she stood — these were the Hogwarts grounds. But which part of them? And why did they lie in such complete ruin?

Sweat trickled down her temples as she approached the fountain, her bare feet making dull slaps on the stone as she walked towards the cool mist, hoping the spray might offer some relief from the surrounding heat. But something was wrong.

The smell hit her first. Sharp and metallic, like a handful of Knuts left too long in a pocket. The kind of smell that made her gorge rise instinctively — that unmistakable mix of iron and salt that had always been constant in butcher shops and battlefield dressing stations. This wasn't water at all.

Blood. The fountain pumped endless streams of blood.

She stood rooted before it now, gagging slightly as the full force of the stench assaulted her nostrils. The liquid ran hot and steaming, like freshly spilled arterial blood drawn from living veins on a winter morning. It sloshed lazily in the basin, forming a thick soup of crimson that bubbled and congealed at the edges, hitting the cracks in the basin with a wet, meaty sound. Dark glutinous clots floated on the surface, breaking apart and reforming in endless patterns.

The stench grew overwhelming. She gagged, pressing her hand against her mouth.

The temperature seemed to spike rather than drop — the blood splashed and gurgled, each droplet hitting the collected pool with a sound like raw meat being slapped onto a counter.

It was fortunate, she supposed, that her psyche had been somewhat prepared for sights like these — years of violent dreams that plagued her since childhood had left her oddly resistant to such horror. Without that reluctant familiarity with violence, someone more susceptible to religious imagery might have believed they'd stumbled into Hell itself.

"Hell?" A voice echoed from every corner at the same time, precise and crisp. "Hardly. Muggles tend to imagine it far more creatively than this little display of yours."

She whirled around, eyes frantically jumping across the ruins until they landed on the figure above. It sat atop a fallen pillar that leaned against what remained of the wall, legs dangling down with an almost childlike nonchalance some fifteen feet above the ground. The same blank void where a face should be, the form still suggesting a human shape without quite committing to one.

"Dramatic species," it continued, sounding almost fond. "Always did have a flair for the theatrical."

"Theatrical?" Apocrypha gestured at the ruins around them, scowling. Her own voice rang clear for the first time, the watery distortion suddenly gone. "What do you call all this that you've conjured, then?"

"Me?" The blank face tilted to one side, the gesture somehow conveying amusement despite its featurelessness. "Oh no, this isn't my doing. It's your head after all - there's nothing here you haven't imagined or contemplated at least once."

Her eyebrows flickered at those words before settling back into a deep frown. There was something maddening about how much sense everything made while she was here, dreaming — even as her waking mind's habits pushed her to deny it all, relying on what she believed to be real and true when awake. The rules of reality she clung to felt oddly hollow here — she couldn't quite convince herself they held any real power in this place. Though she knew that upon waking all of this would seem like nonsense, right now she couldn't deny the uncomfortable logic of it all.

It angered her — having someone voice thoughts she'd never dare voice in her waking hours, thoughts she deliberately avoided examining too closely. Denial felt pointless; it always seemed to know exactly what thought she was about to voice next. Almost as if it was inside her head.

"But I am inside your head," it said matter-of-factly, then dropped from its perch, landing on the rubble without disturbing a single stone. "No use pretending you don't understand that much."

"Cut it," she snapped, clearly uncomfortable with this confirmation. "What am I here for? What do you want?"

It drew itself to full height, somehow managing to look both amused and reproachful despite its blank face. "You already know that too. You're thinking it right now, in fact. Why ask questions you already have answers to? You've always hated that sort of thing."

Apocrypha's scowl deepened as she took several steps forward. "This is still about the Repository then? About me taking its power and using it."

It matched her advance with its own, step for step. "Correct."

She halted, jaw set. "To do what?"

It mirrored her stop, gesturing at the devastation around them. "To do this. Your future."

"Don't be ridiculous." A scoff escaped her, but the defiance in it couldn't quite mask her uncertainty as she glanced around, as if trying to mask deeper thoughts. "This isn't— why would I want this?"

"Because this," it said simply, "was your very first thought when the Repository's magic entered your veins. Your first true impulse. Don't pretend you've forgotten."

Apocrypha looked down to break the visual contact, her left eyelid jumping anxiously. The memories from that day felt fragmented, distant — but it wasn't wrong. She did remember those thoughts now — the ones that pushed her to finally open the Repository. But why did they always slip away once she woke?

"Because I decide what you take with you," it said authoritatively, "and what stays here."

When she looked up again, her muscles tensed to stop herself from recoiling backwards. Where the featureless void had stood moments before now stilled a woman's figure she knew all too well. The fitted bodice with its high neckline, dark dress flowing to the scorched ground, intricate lacing down the front, tight sleeves puffed dramatically at the shoulders. A classic chignon crowned the neat oval face, partially obscured by the gloom. Isidora.

"How?" Her voice came out steady despite her racing heart. "You're just part of my mind."

It hummed softly, shifting its arms behind its back.

"True enough. But I am, shall we say, an independent part." One of its hands lifted, gesturing behind Apocrypha. "As are they all."

Her chest tightened as she turned to where it was pointing. They stood in perfect stillness — the same countless dark figures from her previous dreams forming a perfect circle around the area. Some tall, some barely reaching waist-height, their silhouettes suggesting men, women, children. All silent. All watching.

"You're dead," she said, turning back. "You couldn't possibly have this much power."

"But I do." Isidora took several steps forward, slowly but surely closing the distance between them. "Thanks to you."

Apocrypha tensed as the distance shrank, but held her ground. "I don't understand."

"Rackham and the others were cowards," it stated with a clear note of disdain. "They never saw our true potential. But now you're here. The Repository is open. We're going to make things right."

Apocrypha leaned back instinctively, anxiety seizing her chest. Those words — the same ones she'd said to Sebastian. Her own definition of 'right' would horrify those close to her — what this thing considered 'right' was something she feared to contemplate at all.

"I know what you want," it said. "This is what's right. And I'll help you — if you'd stop being so bloody resistant."

Apocrypha took a step back. "I'm not ready."

"You'll never be ready if you keep acting like such a damn coward," it shot back sharply.

Its arm flung sideways, finger pointing at the rubble. Stone groaned and shifted exactly where it pointed, and from beneath the debris crawled a figure — broad-shouldered, masculine, its features completely consumed by the void. But she didn't need to see its face to understand who it was. The rifle in its hands was enough.

Terror shot through her limbs and she staggered backwards, tripping over her own feet and landing hard. Her elbows hit the ground as she tried to crawl away. "S-stop it—"

"I won't. Not until you accept this need," it said coldly. "To kill him. To kill them both."

Apocrypha struggled to her feet while swaying, then squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her palms against them. But no darkness came — he was still there, approaching, weapon gripped in those big, strong hands.

"Wait," she stammered. "I'm not ready—"

"Kill or be killed. You know what needs to be done. You've always wanted this."

Complete blackness finally swept across her vision, and she slowly lowered her trembling hands. But nothing was there — no fountain, no ruins, no blood-red sky. Only the Void.

She clutched her chest, heart threatening to burst through her ribs. Nothing else in this world terrified her like he did. No one else sparked such deep, violent hatred.

But he wasn't here. This was just another of its tricks, playing with her mind. She had to calm down. Had to find something — anything — to anchor herself. To locate and latch onto a memory she knew was real and reshape it into something stabilising.

Natsai's voice echoed, distorted but clear enough. This was the same courtyard where they'd shared one of their real, comforting conversations. The setting sun painted the sky in deep oranges and purples, and the warm autumn breeze played with Natsai's hair back then. Golden rays caught on her beautiful dark skin. Oh, she missed Natsai desperately — why had she left her?

But this wasn't the quiet moment Natsai had described. Nothing here was safe either. But... one finger. Just one touch she could almost tolerate. From someone who might make her feel marginally safer right now.

She kneaded her palm absently before reaching out into the darkness, willing the contact into existence. Just the index finger, like Natsai showed her.

The air thickened beneath her searching hand, and she grasped the small pocket of warmth with curved fingers — different from the unsettling heat before. This warmth felt... bearable. Gentler somehow.

Her breathing steadied gradually as she stared into the darkness until a shape materialised — a hand. Larger than hers, warm-toned, with veins trailing across its surface and faint freckles dotting up to the wrist. She held his index finger exactly as she'd imagined, and it curled in response, shirt fabric rustling ever so slightly with the movement. Looking up, she made out the outline of broad shoulders set above her height, the green tie hanging loose as he preferred it — he'd never liked anything constraining around his neck, ties or collars.

This was real. This she knew.

"How touching," it purred from the darkness somewhere beside her.

Apocrypha startled, breaking contact and rubbing her eyes to dispel the darkness. When she opened them again, everything had settled back into place — the ruins, the fountain, the dark red sky looming above. Isidora stood uncomfortably close now, but the rifle-bearing figure had vanished.

"You're learning," it said. "Good."

She stumbled backwards, retreating. "How are you doing this — controlling what I remember when I'm awake?"

Isidora remained motionless. "Rather simple, really. You're pathetically weak."

"But I want to remember," she replied stubbornly, frowning.

A thoughtful hum preceded Isidora's step forward. This close, Apocrypha could properly see its face — alive yet frozen, as if crafted from something not quite flesh. Too pristine, too polished, nearly reflecting the red hues around them. The eye sockets gaped empty, though she'd been certain she'd spot the red glow inside.

"Oh, I see you've got a plan," it mocked. "Fascinating. Very well, you may keep this particular memory."

Apocrypha rubbed her temple absently. Now that she'd got what she needed, she had to return. But how? Could she even manage it alone?

"Let me out n—"

"Though you've never truly relied on plans, have you?" it continued. "Because the moment you lose control, you resort to killing. Small wonder murder comes so naturally — you were properly designed for it."

Apocrypha flinched at those words, suppressing her automatic denial. But lying would be pointless here.

Looking back, she could trace how things had unravelled since Alben's death — completely unable to process it, she'd sought to understand death. To recreate it. No surprise her dreams showed hanged corpses in trees — copies of those she'd strung up herself.

Like that seven-year-old boy from the neighbourhood seven years ago — one of her first. They never found him. He must still be there, suspended by his wrists bound behind his back deep in those woodlands she'd led him to. By now, nature would have claimed most of him — whatever the arctic foxes hadn't torn away would be little more than bones tangled in rotting rope and tatters of clothing caught in branches as evidence he'd ever existed.

"That one? I wouldn't dwell on it. Planned, clinical — hardly your finest work, in my opinion." It moved closer, bending to bring its face level with hers. "However, what you did to Fig — now that was something."

Apocrypha looked up. "What?"

Isidora tilted its head. "Oh no, we can't have you forgetting that — not here, at least."

Her brows knitted and relaxed repeatedly, eyes darting about as she struggled to extract the details from her memory. But there they were. She'd murdered him. Using the Imperius Curse — the one she fortunately knew how to cast, thanks to Sebastian. She'd watched Eleasar's eyes cloud over, his movements becoming puppet-like. The cut she'd made him draw was deep and messy, with arterial blood spraying in an arc before he'd even registered what she'd made him do — just like Sebastian had done to that goblin in Feldcroft. A big, extensive slice from ear to ear that opened his throat like a second mouth. The blood had barely finished pooling when she let the rubble do the rest.

No one discovered the truth because his body was found beneath the ruins, crushed beyond recognition. The debris had obliterated any evidence of her involvement.

"He tried to stop you... remember?"

Yes. She did.

After Ranrok lay dead, she'd moved, bloodied and exhausted, to seal the Repository. But she hadn't, and when goblin metal began groaning open, Eleasar had been there, supporting her initial decision to close it permanently.

It chuckled. "Poor fool changed his mind in the end — and his plans for you. Must've grown rather fond of you."

Apocrypha looked down, teeth clenching visibly. "Doesn't matter now, does it? He only wanted to use me anyway."

"Oh, I know." Its voice dropped lower, more intimate. "Just as you know what he did to you on Skye. You remembered it then, in the Repository chamber."

She nodded slowly but confidently, still staring at the ground. "He deserved what I did to him."

The words seemed to surprise her even as they left her mouth. She blinked, startled by her own candour, but found no desire to retract the admission. No one else could hear them — it felt oddly liberating to voice her true thoughts for once, even if only to herself.

"Good, good," it whispered with hungry satisfaction clear in its tone, bending lower until she could physically feel its proximity. "He deserved it. They all deserve it. Every. Single. One."

Apocrypha lifted her eyes to meet its hollow stare, swallowing hard at the nearness. Isidora's face hovered mere inches from hers, lips stretched into a grotesque grin that seemed to split its face.

She held her breath. "Not all."

Its smile dropped instantly, empty eye sockets narrowing with suspicion. The air around suddenly grew thick with unbearable, suffocating heat. This unexpected shift made her skin prickle with warning.

"You will do what needs to be done," it hissed, suddenly reaching out and seizing Apocrypha's face with unnaturally elongated fingers. The palm spread wider than humanly possible, squeezing her cheeks roughly and forcing her to meet its eyeless gaze. "Or I will wear your skin like a suit and do it myself."

The threat emerged in a deep, distorted growl that seemed utterly inhuman. It shoved her face away roughly, and she stumbled backwards, anticipating the impact with the ground — but instead jumped awake in an armchair with a sharp inhale.

Over. The dream was over. It had released her.

She exhaled slowly through parted lips, rubbing one eye while scanning the room with the other — must've dozed off in the armchair beside her mother's bed. Nadine lay motionless, her breathing barely perceptible.

Alarmed, Apocrypha pushed herself up and hurried to the bedside, leaning over to check her mother's breathing. Only after confirming Nadine was merely in deep sleep did she straighten up, glancing at the nearby clock. Nearly five in the evening — she must have succumbed to exhaustion around noon, after three sleepless days. Nadine, however, spent most of her time either sleeping or resting these days, speaking less and less as time went on.

"Mama," she called softly, unsure if Nadine could even hear her. "I'm going to prepare something to eat."

Eleven more nights had passed since her arrival. She still didn't understand why they'd allowed her to stay, but she wouldn't question this mercy.

Sebastian's letters arrived daily, carefully worded to avoid revealing anything significant. They reached her already unsealed, of course — the Auror patrol had abandoned any pretense of discretion with her, though they maintained their concealment from Muggle eyes. Not that it required much effort, given how neighbours avoided the vicinity of her house.

This morning's letter, dated November 19th, contained no mention of what should have been a significant milestone — his eighteenth birthday. The day must have slipped his mind entirely, unsurprising given his relentless attempts to untangle the Ministry's web even while suspended. She'd have to write back in the evening.

Ominis wrote every other day, characteristically avoiding direct mentions of the Ministry at all. Always more cautious than Sebastian, more prone to paranoia even. Both of them knew Nadine's condition by now — and never failed to inquire after her health in their correspondence.

Only Natsai remained unaware. Three letters from her friend, received since her departure from Hogwarts, lay on the kitchen table where Apocrypha would periodically re-read them. She couldn't bring herself to respond, paralysed by guilt over refusing a proper farewell and raw hurt of Natsai's absence simultaneously. Why? Why had she left her? Had she taken Natsai for granted — was this her punishment?

The only slight consolation regarding Natsai's absence was knowing she'd settled well at Uagadou, already connecting with her new classmates. Though Apocrypha would readily admit to harbouring a deep, irrational hatred for these strangers who now shared Natsai's daily life. She didn't need to know them to resent them — they possessed something she desperately wanted back but couldn't have, and that was reason enough.

Cetus's claws clicked on the wooden floor as he followed her into the kitchen. The dog had also adapted his own routine lately — spending most hours lying beside Nadine's bed and venturing out to accompany Apocrypha on necessary trips to the sheep farm or market.

She'd never been to these places before — Nadine had always forbidden it. And now she could fully see why.

The villagers' reactions ranged from wary glances to outright hostility, some spitting at her feet while others pretended she didn't exist, even when she was merely trying to purchase supplies. She accepted their treatment without protest, knowing full well she'd earned their hatred — she was, after all, responsible for the disappearance or death of their children and grandchildren. Though they lacked concrete proof since she was never caught, they knew. They all knew it was her. The child murderer from the house up the hill.

Only now did she truly comprehend the burden Nadine had carried all these years, absorbing the community's backlash while keeping her remaining child hidden at home. Despite the years that had passed, changing her appearance, blending in still proved impossible — Apocrypha remained instantly recognisable. That underweight, pale girl with black hair and tired green eyes — the markers everyone knew to watch for.

A handful of villagers did treat her like any other neighbour — but whether motivated by fear or having been spared direct tragedy, she couldn't tell. These rare, kind-hearted souls made survival possible, providing food for the table and wool for the basket.

"Here you go, don't make a mess," she murmured, handing Cetus a substantial lamb bone after trimming the meat onto the cutting board.

The dog claimed his prize and lumbered to his preferred spot by the fireplace, dropping down with a weighty thud. He attacked the bone with his head cocked at an awkward angle, thoroughly absorbed in his task to destroy it.

The scent of raw meat hit differently after her recent dream, but she forced down her discomfort. With no one else to cook, she had no choice but to manage.

Her initial doubts about cooking had proved unfounded — she'd surprised herself by managing to replicate Nadine's cooking almost perfectly. Years of passive observation had apparently embedded the recipes in her memory — the timing, the proportions, even the exact size to cut the turnips. Every detail had somehow stuck. Perhaps her memory wasn't entirely defective — just ill-suited for traditional academic subjects at Hogwarts.

Soup had always been her version of comfort food, as others might call it. She preferred it salty and thick, ideally full of haddock but sparse on vegetables — simply drinking the food felt more pleasant than chewing. After spending half an hour coaxing spoonfuls into Nadine's mouth with eventual success, she finally settled down with her own bowl to face the remainder of her day.

The routine here felt sparse compared to Hogwarts life. Cleaning, preparing meals for later, watching the sea grow steadily colder as winter approached. Most of her time went to wrestling the wool — a week's worth of sorting, cleaning, drying, and attempting to card and spin it. This she couldn't replicate from memory — it required technique Nadine had never managed to teach her, thanks to her daughter's notorious impatience. Still, she persisted with her clumsy attempts at spinning, determined to produce something suitable for knitting in order to replace her mother's old woollen cardigan, now worn through in several places.

By the time her fingers ached from repeating the same mistakes, it was nearly nine in the evening — time for a break. It was usually around this time that Osborn made his appearance, as he had done these past ten days. Whether he came to check on her or simply to be an insufferable prick remained unpredictable, though his visits had grown mercifully calmer and briefer as time passed.

She collected Nadine's pipe from the window-side table and grabbed a candleholder for light before heading outside, Cetus padding eagerly behind her, desperate for fresh air. Wrapping herself tighter in a sweater scrounged from her old room, she deliberately crunched across the frost-hardened grass, still crisp from frequent rains and sleet.

Her first attempts at lighting the pipe had been clumsy affairs just days ago — too much draw, awkward puffing, and more than one coughing fit. Now she struck the match with growing confidence, drawing the stem between her lips with careful measured breaths. Having watched others smoke all her life, curiosity had finally won out. Now she understood its appeal — the gentle lightheadedness, the tart sensation of relaxation spreading through her muscles. The biting November air only enhanced the feeling, as did the ethereal lights gathering for a dance overhead.

The northern lights were another thing she'd missed desperately while away — never as bright in Scotland, just pale imitations of home. Aurora borealis appeared dimmer there, muted by air pollution and lower latitude. Here, they painted the sky in vivid greens so vibrant it ached her with how much she'd missed them.

This was the life she'd always imagined wanting — a solitary house on the hill, the fierce sea nearby, frozen grass underfoot, her dog beside her, and a loving parent close by, regardless of condition. Yet Scotland tugged at her heart. Not the country itself, nor even Hogwarts specifically — but them. Her friends. Particularly the two still waiting at school.

Sebastian reminded her of that first wave of warmth after hours in bitter cold, when numb limbs begin to tingle and frozen nostrils start to thaw. Like finally stepping inside the house while a snowstorm rages behind the windows, like peeling off snow-soaked clothes in blessed warmth. She couldn't pinpoint why he felt so much like home — perhaps it was that shared summer here. School was one thing, but seeing each other at dawn, sharing meals with no one else around, him tolerating her insect books despite finding them boring, playing with Cetus, writing letters to Ominis together — that had been different entirely.

Maybe this was why him not being here right now felt so oddly wrong. Three months of shared summer might not seem significant to others, but it had changed everything — she felt the subtle shift in their relationship without being able to locate exactly when or how it happened. But now, standing here, feeling simultaneously at home and desperately homesick, she couldn't shake the thought that he should have been here. She wanted him to be here.

Ominis brought to mind that perfect first spoonful of soup — hot enough to warm but not burn. That comforting sensation of rich, hearty liquid spreading through one's chest, carrying that fleeting moment one wishes would last forever — the moment of absolute contentment and freedom from worry when nothing else matters. She'd never quite understood why his presence brought such immediate calm, such instinctive security from the first moment she met him. Initially, she'd attributed it to his resemblance to Alben — the gentle demeanour, those knowing eyes, that soft-spoken manner. The realisation came late that Ominis was nothing like her brother had been — no one could be.

When she'd first met him in fifth year, Ominis had been exactly what he was — a teenager like the rest of them. Funny, occasionally awkward, hopelessly lost in some subjects, laughing at Sebastian's terrible jokes, getting flustered when put on the spot in Charms. Not the aristocratic snob some at Hogwarts insisted on painting him as, not the sophisticated pure-blood heir others romanticised him to be. Just a boy with a gentle heart who happened to carry a heavy surname.

Yet even after this understanding settled, that feeling of safety persisted. Perhaps it stemmed from his attempts at being the voice of reason, the rational one, the most restrained — which inevitably crumbled into dramatic outbursts at her or Sebastian. They could never take his scolding seriously, not when he so spectacularly failed to maintain his facade of perfect composure.

He'd always tried to stir them away from harm, despite lacking the proper means to do so. Perhaps that explained her fondness — his constant, unwavering effort, his genuine intentions to guide them right, even while being just as prone to mischief as Sebastian when it came to teasing others. She'd never witnessed him cause real harm — save for the occasional sharp word at Duncan Hobhouse. Ominis remained dependable and consistent enough that she could lower her guard around him, allowing herself small moments of genuine relaxation, if only briefly. A rare luxury she couldn't always afford even with Sebastian.

And Natsai... Natsai defied comparison to anything familiar. Like an exotic shell from distant, warmer shores — something that stirred entirely new sensations, unlike anything life had offered before. Apocrypha struggled to define it, even in her private thoughts. Perhaps because Natsai represented her first true female friendship — she'd always appreciated girls' company when they weren't scrutinising her unkempt appearance or reacting to her reticence. Natsai had seemed fearless from the start, initiating conversation and maintaining it despite Apocrypha's deer-in-wandlight paralysis — terrified to respond, unable to fathom why anyone would seek her company.

They had been through so much since her first arrival at Hogwarts — more than two years compressed into stark flashes.

Fifth year felt impossibly distant now, like another lifetime: the dragon attacking their carriage, that first memory in the Pensieve, seeing the common room for the first time, Anne and Solomon, the relic, the blasted Keepers and everything they brought with them. Then came sixth year with its new faces, the Black Lake, the Forbidden Forest, the Ministry's cold halls.

Their friendship had proven resilient through it all, each challenge somehow bringing them closer after trying to break them apart — which made her current compulsion to mentally catalogue these past two years deeply unsettling. Why did she feel this pressing urge to recollect every detail, as if preparing for some final accounting? She couldn't shake the premonition, heavy as November frost.

It felt almost like a warning — as if some part of her sensed an approaching end. One their friendship will not survive.

"Stealing mummy's bad habits now, are we?"

Apocrypha exhaled, lowering her eyes from the sky. In his prick mood tonight, then.

She turned to spot him some twenty feet away, standing on the slope with one hand tucked in his long coat pocket. The fact she hadn't heard his movements on the crisp grass suggested he'd been there a while. Just watching.

"Must've picked it up the same way you nicked it from your daddy," she said flatly, eyeing the pipe in his free hand.

Osborn sauntered over, smirking at her bite. "Missed that one. Father wasn't much of a smoker."

She turned back to her original position, tilting her head up to continue watching the aurora. "Inherited from Ophelia then."

"Mhm," he nodded, joining her in looking skyward before pressing the stem between his teeth. "Not going to invite me in? I'm an important guest, you know."

"No."

Osborn's cackle carried across the frozen grass — but was cut short by a deep growl that escalated into a sharp bark. Cetus burst out of the darkness where he had wandered after being let out, jaws snapping with such force that sent spittle flying in thick strings. The furry mass bristled along his spine as he planted himself between them, lips peeled back in an aggressive snarl as yellow eyes fixed on the intruder. An ironic sight — yet another dog that despised Osborn to its core.

"Shh," Apocrypha swatted her thigh weakly. "Down."

Cetus dropped onto his haunches beside her leg, but kept his black lips pulled back from the sharp canines. The low rumble in his chest continued, eyes never leaving the stranger. Strings of saliva hung from his parted jaws, steaming in the cold air.

"Always a warm welcome," Osborn observed indifferently, expression settling into something more neutral as he glanced back at the house. "How is she?"

She shook her head slowly, a self-deprecating grimace twisting the line of her mouth. "Worse."

Osborn nodded shallowly, releasing a deep sigh. His lack of surprise suggested he'd expected Nadine's condition to worsen, but he wasn't about to dwell on the topic — instead, he leaned closer, causing Cetus's growl to deepen noticeably. He sniffed the air around her.

"What've you got in there?" Without waiting for an answer, he snatched the pipe from her fingers and switched the stems, taking a long drag. "Let me try."

The difference from his expensive tobacco was stark — he coughed, then grimaced, smacking his lips in quick succession that bordered on comical.

"Right, that's atrocious," he raised his eyebrows, extending his own pipe. "Try mine."

She blinked tiredly at the offered pipe but took it, thoroughly wiping the stem with her sweater sleeve. Her first few draws were shallow, experimental, before she inhaled deeply and released the smoke through parted lips, staring absently ahead. The taste was too sweet — honey. But lighter, softer, inhaling more easily than the tart, heavy blend that scraped her throat. In her peripheral vision, she noticed him watching intently, as if waiting for her reaction with poorly hidden satisfaction on his face. Cetus pressed closer to her leg.

After one final drag, she stretched the pipe back. "You're a bad influence."

"Keep it for now," he waved her off, pulling out a small metal box from his pocket and tapping out the contents of Nadine's pipe before refilling it from his stash. "Bad influence? I'm flattered."

She scoffed, looking aside while puffing quickly to maintain the heat in the cold air. "Take me back to Hogwarts."

"Back?" he mumbled around his pipe in the process of lighting it. "Why? Miss your mates more than you care about your mum?"

"I have it."

He paused mid-motion, glancing at her sideways. "Have what?"

She took another drag. "The memory."

Osborn struck another match, feigning indifference. "How?"

"Does it matter?" She turned to face him fully. "I'll make the Unbreakable Vow. Like you wanted."

He frowned minutely, catching the pipe with his teeth before it could slip. "The Vow is a two-sided deal. What's stopping me from extracting that memory right here, right now? No sacrifices needed on my part."

He already knew how she would counter this — could practically taste the words before they left her mouth. Part of him simply wanted to hear her say them — there was something compelling about drawing words from her, even if they were biting. She rarely engaged with him beyond what their arrangement strictly required, making these exchanges oddly precious.

She drew another breath of smoke, holding it. "I'll never give it freely. You'll botch my head — and that'll be the end of it. Of you."

"Hmm." He drew out the sound appreciatively. "What if I send Sallow to Azkaban early? Or take your mother away? Perhaps both? Not much choice, is there?"

"You are the one without choices," she said evenly. "Try either — I'll make sure you lose any chance of using me, permanently." She made a deliberate pause, letting the words settle. "Chain me, sedate me — I'll find a way kill myself. Then you and the Ministry can enjoy looking for someone else with my ability."

Osborn bit down hard on the stem, eyes narrowing. Her threat unsettled him — he couldn't dismiss it as empty, and the fact she was now playing this card meant she was utterly convinced about sealing their deal through the Vow.

Over this past year he'd spent closer to her, he'd noticed how she carried herself through life — like a ghost already, passively clinging to living, but not openly seeking death either. Never quite belonging. She wasn't actively pushing the world away — rather, she moved along with it as though it had already rejected her long before she could confront it.

Of course she feared death — he'd seen that terror in her eyes during their confrontations. But there was something else there too, a peculiar detachment, as if she were simpy waiting for permission to stop existing. A certain readiness to slip away if the anchors holding her here were cut.

To him, the things keeping her tethered seemed to be obligations rather than desire — her parent, her promises, her deals. Without those chains... Yes, half the time she barely seemed interested in living, and the other half she appeared to be simply waiting. This was where Ophelia was wrong — his mother's reliance on written reports and second-hand accounts could never capture what he'd witnessed first-hand. The countless subtle signs that painted a fuller picture, the weight behind each hollow stare. His mother had never truly known the person they kept captive, never understood what drove such profound detachment. But he did.

This wasn't a bluff.

The thought sent a thrill down his spine — equal parts unease and sharp excitement. He caught himself nearly grinning, having to bite his lower lip in order to suppress the smile. His ears warmed, collar suddenly too tight. This display of control was entirely unlike her — and that's what made it thrilling. Not that she'd ever been spineless, no — he'd seen enough of her steel. But this was different. She'd never acted quite so... ready. So certain of her position. She must have something planned, something significant enough to make her step so far out of character.

No one else intrigued him quite like she did. She was indeed extraordinary. And he wanted to see where this game would lead — wanted to play along just to watch it unfold.

"Bit full of yourself, thinking you're the only one, are you? Irreplaceable?"

Another bluff — they had no evidence of others existing, at least not yet. She might indeed be the last one. The Ministry couldn't find any new records of another with her ability in the past four centuries, and their foreign contacts had turned up nothing. They were too close — the Department couldn't afford to lose her. He couldn't afford to lose her.

"Finding another might take a while," she responded flatly. "You lot seem rather pressed for time. So yes, at the moment, I'm all you've got."

A low chuckle escaped him before he could catch it. She was exactly what he wanted — now he was absolutely certain. Such obstinate pride, such fire, rekindling no matter how much he tried to extinguish it. Not many possessed that sort of backbone, especially among women.

No amount of degradation seemed to truly alter her character for long — it slid off her like water, leaving her core unchanged. Unlike Eliza, who bent and shifted to his every demand like a willow in the wind, this one remained steadfast. His sister was too soft, too kind, too loving — her eagerness to please him had always left him rather cold, but here stood someone who challenged him at every turn.

The thought bordered on obsessive — he wanted it to stay this way. Wanted to chain her to himself, take every bit of her, have every facet of her existence for his own, his alone.

This has been a long game — a game that had played out exactly as it should, reaching its natural conclusion without him even having to rush it. He could afford to savour these final moves and play a while longer.

"Let's head back to the house then," he said around the pipe. "Can't very well seal any deals while I'm freezing my arse off out here."

She shifted on the frost-covered grass, gaze drawn upward to the aurora rippling overhead. "No. We do this at Hogwarts. After I see Sebastian and Ominis unharmed."

Osborn's lips smacked against the stem, the sudden irritation forcing his mouth to curve. She was trying to outmanoeuvre him, secure her friends' disposable positions now that the Ministry held stronger leverage. He'd need to delay Sallow's trial arrangements — the ones he'd already accelerated, certain the bastard could be removed entirely. What had those two even done for her to care so damn much?

He exhaled one harsh plume of smoke and tapped out Nadine's pipe. "Smart. You're learning."

She stared upward with those hooded, tired eyes, holding the smoke in her lungs as if lost in thought. The tendrils curled slowly from her nose as she finally murmured, "Yeah... I suppose I am."

Osborn straightened with a sigh, reaching out to switch their pipes back. "What now then?"

She made the exchange without looking at him. "Could you look at her?"

His smirk felt forced, not quite reaching his eyes. "So I am invited after all."

The teasing fell on deaf ears — as it often did with her. She just nodded towards the house and led the way back, Cetus following closely behind.

She let the dog in first, then Osborn, following last. He shrugged off his coat, hanging it without prompting before making his way directly to Nadine's room — this wasn't his first examination. Cetus caught up with him regardless; no matter how familiar a presence he'd become in this house, the dog never trusted him.

Nadine lay quietly on her side atop the bed, her hand twitching only briefly when Cetus's warm tongue lapped at her fingers with wet sounds. Her eyes were open but unfocused, staring at the wall ahead, not registering even when Osborn sat on the edge of the bed beside her. He withdrew his wand, inhaling uncertainly as he twirled it between his fingers before finally pressing the tip to her temple — gentle, careful.

In his peripheral vision, he saw Apocrypha at the doorway, shoulder pressed against the frame, arms crossed tightly over her chest. Just waiting — silent, composed, betrayed only by the sound of a tight swallow.

Frowning, he pulled his wand back and turned towards the doorway. "It's a right mess in there," he said, almost regretfully. "She'll need round-the-clock care soon, if she doesn't already."

Apocrypha nodded hollowly, looking away as her jaw worked back and forth, muscles clenching against the emotion threatening to break through.

"Does she still recognise you?" he asked, uncertain if he wanted to know the answer.

She cleared her throat. "Yeah," her voice cracked on the word before she could catch it, and she roughly rubbed at her eye, forcing evenness into her tone. "Sometimes."

Osborn looked aside, uncomfortable. Her hatred he could handle, but this raw emotion she fought to contain — he wasn't enough of an arsehole to mock that. "I can arrange a security detail while you're away. To look after her."

"That's exactly what I was going to ask of you." She straightened against the door frame. "I want only female Aurors here."

His azure eyes lifted to study her face, lingering in a heavy silence. He didn't need to ask why — given the circumstances of her birth, the thought of leaving one defenceless, unresponsive woman in the care of men — even those he trusted personally — was... He pushed the thought aside, unwilling to form it even into a rhetorical question. He had no desire to hear the answer.

"You really trust no man, do you?" he asked finally, still watching her.

She held his stare through the long silence that followed, broken only by the high whistle of freezing winds against the windowpanes. "Take me back tomorrow night."

Twelve nights had passed since both his friends left Hogwarts. Ominis had never been the one to suffer loneliness acutely — temporary separation shouldn't affect him this profoundly — yet still it felt wrong, existing on his own. Without them.

His days filled themselves readily enough: dawn to dusk consumed by academic obligations, an endless parade of books, tomes, notes, countless hours at the library, writing the letters to send across the cold sea, more books. And Eliza.

The thought made him uncomfortable, one he preferred not to dwell on, but he couldn't deny the peculiar freedom in spending time with her without constraint. Not openly, of course — but free from Apocrypha's scrutinising disapproval. The absence of constant worry over Sebastian's next impulsive action brought its own strange relief. It felt almost as though he'd needed this respite from both of them, guilty as that realisation made him feel.

He'd written to Sebastian only twice since that day — once to relay the Quidditch match results from the day after his departure, and again yesterday, a perfunctory birthday greeting that felt hollow even as he wrote it. They all understood any celebration would be inappropriate under current circumstances.

He couldn't deny how much he enjoyed Eliza's company. Everything felt uncomplicated with her — no hidden meanings, no grudges, no accusations, no tangled web of emotions, no weight of history. Just her presence — open and sincere — her constant warmth, and that smile he could always hear in her voice. He loved hearing her smile.

"And then Professor Bergin say we must look at crystal ball from other angle," Eliza was saying beside him. "But I tell her — how we know which angle is right? Maybe we look wrong entire time! Maybe futures don't want be seen from front, only from side, yes?"

It was a chilly Sunday evening, that peculiar autumn weather that made clothing choices difficult — too warm for a coat but too cool to go without the uniform cloak. These days, they often took their walks after classes or on weekends, always looking for quieter corners. The secluded spot of the Quad Courtyard had somehow become theirs by default — a peaceful spot where other students rarely bothered interrupting their conversations.

"And what did Professor Bergin say to that?" he asked with only a mild interest in his tone, not particularly invested in the answer. He just wanted to hear her speak more.

She seemed so painfully excited whenever someone actually listened to her — he found himself caring less about the subject and more about the joy in her voice.

"Oh, she say I ask too many questions," Eliza explained, gently tugging his sleeve as they walked. "But how she know what side is right? Ball is round!"

Perhaps she didn't know him well enough to truly like him, Ominis thought bitterly. Didn't she understand who he was? Her unfamiliarity with British wizarding politics were shielding her from the full picture — the weight of his family name, the twisted beliefs about blood supremacy, the Sacred Twenty-Eight and all it entailed. Was he deliberately misleading her by withholding these details, by choosing not to tell her about his own future? Was it unfair? Would he end up hurting her?

He swallowed tightly at the thought, aware of her fingers still gently kneading the fabric of his robes where he held his raised forearm to navigate with the help of his wand. She was too good, too untainted by all this mess, half-blood or not. Wasn't he being utterly selfish, letting this continue when he knew it had to end after graduation? Was he a bad person?

The answer was there, yet he couldn't bring himself to care. Because this — whatever was growing between them — felt real. Unlike the arranged marriage waiting for him after school, unlike every other decision that had been made for him since birth. Just this once, he wanted something — someone — that was only his own, even if temporary. One simple freedom that others took for granted but he was denied — a choice.

"And then I think maybe we not need to see future at all," Eliza continued earnestly. "Maybe future must to be surprise. Like... like Birthday present!"

Ominis nodded absently, completely disconnected from her actual words, and lowered his wand.

Her hands slipped away from his arm, startled by the sudden movement, but before she could pull back completely, he caught her hand in his. His broader palm easily enveloped her smaller, colder fist.

"I've been wanting to do this," he said quietly. "Tell me if it's not okay."

Eliza stilled suddenly, her stride stopping and forcing him to halt. When she moved to face him, her movements were more jerky than usual.

"No, no, is okay," she hurried to say, her voice catching slightly. "I... I like when you touch me."

Ominis nodded slowly, tilting his head downward despite having no natural inclination to face any particular direction. He knew it would give her the impression he was looking at her. He wanted her to feel seen.

"Good," he said quietly, acutely aware of how small she felt before him, standing so close. Her fist trembled slightly in his palm, making him frown. "Are you cold?"

"Little bit, yes," she stammered, then carefully took his wrist. Untangling her hand from his grip, she turned his palm upward before pressing it against her cheek. "This okay. I just... really like when I am with you."

His mouth opened, then closed, twisting into something self-deprecating. She would get hurt if she continued acting so... alive. No hesitation about physical touch, genuine responses to cold, that raw sincerity in her voice. He'd almost forgotten how genuine other people could be after being trapped so long in his closed-off world.

"I'm glad," he managed, brushing her cheekbone with his thumb as he pressed his palm more firmly against her warm cheek.

His heightened senses picked up the loud thumping from her presence, disrupted by slow, deepened breaths. Her heart hammered so forcefully against her ribs that he worried it might hurt her.

"Eli," he leaned down slightly, concerned. "Are you alr—"

The words vanished as her hands suddenly gripped his collar, gently tugging him down before her lips covered his, warm and soft and startlingly alive. She smelled of peaches.

The shock of it froze him for a moment before dissolving into something that made his limbs heavy, like sinking into warm water. She remained perfectly still, seemingly afraid to move without permission and trembling slightly — from nerves or the strain of standing on tiptoes to reach him, he couldn't tell. The fog in his mind made thinking difficult, but he found he didn't want to resist. Perhaps it was selfish, perhaps it was rebellion against a life of decisions made for him, but he didn't want it to end. Just this once, he wanted something real.

He responded by softly working his lips against hers, drawing his other hand up to brush away the curls at her temple before cradling her face between his palms. His sightless eyes fell shut as he exhaled slowly, giving himself over to this one thing that was entirely his choice.

Chapter Text

Sleep came differently now.

Without Sebastian's train-like snoring — a constant that had been plaguing their dormitory since that initial broken nose in third year — Ominis discovered what true rest felt like. His other dormmates weren't exactly silent, but their quieter breathing rarely troubled his sensitive hearing, allowing his typically light sleep to remain undisturbed.

Mornings felt different too. The tension that used to greet him whenever Apocrypha was at school had dissipated, leaving his shoulders looser, his thoughts clearer. He'd spent considerable time lately trying to remember when that tension had first appeared — when his muscles had learned to instinctively tighten at her approach. Looking back, he couldn't identify any moment more significant than the start of sixth year. When Eliza had first entered their lives.

He often found himself contemplating how things might have unfolded if Eliza hadn't transferred to Hogwarts then. The exercise usually left him frustrated — imagining alternate paths that could or couldn't have happened. Without her, perhaps this newfound lightness in his chest wouldn't exist. The quiet corner of the Quad Courtyard might have remained just another empty space. That night in Fig's classroom, with its revelations about the Ministry, might never have happened. At seventeen, he likely wouldn't have experienced his first kiss. The scent of peaches wouldn't hold such specific meaning.

Perhaps he would have remained a better person. Or at least felt like one.

Maybe if she hadn't appeared that autumn, he would not feel this crushing selfishness now. Wouldn't feel like someone using another person just to taste rebellion, to grasp at freedom, to experience something deeper than friendship. Wouldn't feel like a liar.

He was a bad person. His past, his present, his future — all of it littered with poor decisions. And the worst part was how desperately he wanted this particular choice not to feel wrong, even though it was. He wanted to keep this sweet lie, as if somehow it might fill the empty spaces he yearned to close, even temporarily. Perhaps being a bad person was precisely what he was meant to be right now.

Ominis pushed open his dormitory door, adjusting his tie and combing back his fair-blond hair. Mondays had always been the hardest, though one comfort remained — tonight would be his last night of undisturbed sleep before Sebastian's return from suspension tomorrow. With no certainty about when Apocrypha would be back with her inevitable entourage of Auror patrols, he'd prepared himself to face the day as he had grown accustomed to these past fortnight: Eliza's soft voice waiting for him by the dungeon stairs, shared breakfast, separate classes, and those peaceful walks in their spot.

Last day of freedom.

Walking towards the stairs with his wand raised for navigation, he slowed to a stop. The spot where Eliza usually waited was empty.

"Eli?" he called gently, moving his wand in careful arcs. She was never late for him.

A faint disturbance in the air behind him rippled through the sound waves — subtle footsteps from somewhere deeper in the common room's direction, unobstructed by walls or corners. He knew that particular tread — light, careful, almost stalking.

"Am I not enough anymore?"

There was something bitter underneath the softness of her question, a resentment she didn't quite manage to hide. She sounded like an old wound reopening.

Ominis turned around, deliberately keeping his movements steady despite the slight tension creeping into his shoulders. There it was again — that same feeling.

"Kryph," he managed softly, moving towards her voice. "When did you get back?"

"Night," she replied, approaching him in turn.

Ominis nodded shallowly. Eliza's absence made sense now.

"Should have known," he huffed with a faint smile. "Don't suppose you ever do anything when the sun's up? Bit too ordinary for your taste, that?"

As the distance between them shortened, Ominis instinctively raised his arms in an aborted embrace, catching himself mid-motion. Despite her well-known aversion to touch that was still an unspoken law in their group, the gesture seemed the most natural response given her prolonged absence and her mother's condition.

She made an uncertain sound but remained rooted to her spot, giving no response to his faltering arms — a clear indication that physical contact wasn't welcome. "Did you miss me?"

Ominis casually lowered his arms but kept his wand slightly raised at his side. "Of course I did."

"You smell different," she stated clinically, leaning towards him.

Though her breathing was nearly silent, Ominis could feel the air rippling between them — she was drawing deeper, slower breaths than usual, as if analysing his scent.

"Sweeter," she added, pulling back.

Ominis cleared his throat, managing a calm shrug. "Can't say I've noticed."

He waited through the ensuing silence, prepared for the questions about Eliza he knew would come, and he had prepared his defences carefully. He had responses ready.

But she just stood there, defying every expectation of what should have turned into a mild confrontation he'd emerge victorious from, as he usually did — she never truly challenged him. This deviation from their pattern left him unsettled. Why wasn't she asking? Why wasn't she following the script he'd prepared for?

Having her stand there without a single question about his scent or his companionship during her absence, without any accusations, gave him an uncomfortable pause. It reminded him of what sighted people described about spiders — the initial anxiety of spotting one was nothing compared to the terror when it vanished from view.

He broke the silence. "How's your mother?"

She shrugged with feigned indifference, but he could feel her unrelenting stare. "She's alright."

Ominis nodded at the obvious lie. "Right... Shall we go to breakfast?"

She stepped closer, uncharacteristically invading his personal space. "Is there anything you want to tell me?"

Ominis leaned back slightly, caught off guard by her sudden proximity. What sort of question was that? Was she expecting something specific? He had always hated whenever she was like this — abandoning that blunt, refreshing directness and speaking as if there were meanings hidden behind meanings. What sort of web was she weaving?

"Yes, actually," he said calmly instead. "About the conversation we never finished before you left. About your dreams."

She looked aside. "Oh, that... You didn't seem particularly interested when I was ready to tell."

He could almost taste her next words on his tongue — was too busy with Kochanowska. But the accusation never came. She didn't bite.

Why?

He found himself wishing she would accuse him of his connection with Eliza — at least then he'd have something to defend against, to address and dispel the tension disturbing the air between them. But this? What was she doing? Had her mother's illness affected her this deeply? Or was there something else troubling her that he didn't know about?

"I'm ready whenever you are," he said gently. "We can discuss it. I'm worried about you — you seem... different."

Apocrypha huffed. "Haven't really noticed that — your letters weren't exactly bursting with concern, were they?"

Ominis suppressed a relieved sigh — finally, a small, irrational bite he could easily counter. "A bit difficult to ask anything proper when the letters reach you already opened, isn't it? Just being careful, that's all."

"Mm," she hummed in agreement, rubbing at her eye. "Want to eat an orange with me?"

Ominis nodded gently, already turning towards the stairs. He's won. "Do you really need to ask? No one else peels them quite as clean as you do."

"Has anyone else been peeling oranges for you?" she asked absently, following next to him.

He let out a weak chuckle. "No, but I'm certain no one else does it precisely how I prefer it."

Truth be told, he'd never cared for citrus — but her eagerness to accommodate his need for clean eating that had first formed back in fifth year had gradually won him over. He ate them solely because she cared of his aversion to sticky fingers.

"Can't lie," he clicked his tongue on an exhale as they walked. "You are proper scary sometimes."

"Am I?" She stopped just as they reached the dungeon door. "Are you scared of me?"

"No," Ominis stated simply, pushing the door open and waiting for her. "That was meant as a compliment. You've come quite far since we first met. Grown loads."

She made an uncertain sound and followed again, deliberately quieting as they entered the expectant flurry of activity in the halls. Of course the the Aurors had returned with her, though not in quantity he'd expected.

Only once they'd passed the crowd did she speak again. "I slept rather often while at home. Are you proud of me?"

Ominis raised his eyebrows in genuine surprise, keeping his head facing forward as his wand guided their path. "Did you now? Was being home... calming, then?"

"No," she said. "Had rather strange dreams."

Ominis inhaled slowly, realising they were finally steering towards the conversation they should have had a long time ago — ever since that night she'd come to him, scared and desperate, claiming she didn't feel alone. "How strange, exactly?"

Apocrypha remained quiet until they'd passed another group of students and rounded the corner. "I think I'm either going mad or Isidora somehow lives beyond death."

Ominis frowned, lowering his voice. "Death's impossible to cheat. You're seeing her in your dreams, then? Thought you only sensed her presence somehow, like you mentioned before."

Their pace slowed, and he took several steps before registering she'd stopped altogether. He turned halfway towards her.

"She's in my head," she said with an oddly detached tone, as if working out a puzzle rather than confiding in him. "She wants something from me..."

Ominis faltered before extending his arm towards her — not to touch, but to prompt her to keep moving. "What does she want?"

She fell into step again, pressing her fingers firmly against her temple. "I... I can't remember. I did whilst I was there, on the other side, but the moment I wake up, it just... always slips away."

"Mm, that's rather common with ordinary dreams — even I can't remember every single detail from mine." He paused thoughtfully. "Are you certain it's Isidora?"

"Yes," she nodded. "Somehow I'm almost certain it's her. Who else would it be?"

Ominis crossed the threshold into the Great Hall, privately relieved that the surrounding noise would mask their conversation from potential eavesdroppers. "Could be anyone Isidora extracted pain from."

He sensed her following behind, her footsteps turning slightly more rigid than before — she'd never shared such details with him.

"Sebastian told you," she stated tightly.

"Yes, he did," Ominis said. "We've been both trying to sort out the logic of it all, particularly while you were away last year. It's not terribly difficult to piece things together once you've got the backstory. And Rackham's journal."

They settled onto the bench in their usual spot, adopting an exaggerated air of normalcy — the topic was precarious enough that both instinctively knew to act as though they were discussing nothing more significant than the weather. The castle had far too many eyes and ears these days.

"What else have you lot discovered in that journal?" she asked.

Ominis drew his tea closer, warming his suddenly chilled hands against the cup. "You've been rather reluctant to learn anything from it before. Now we know why, of course... but what's changed? Are you certain it's safe if I tell you?"

She shook her head while reaching for fruit from the basket at the far end of the table, settling into her seat to begin peeling. "It's not safe — not yet. But I want to know."

Ominis sighed, taking a thoughtful sip of tea. "Rackham's notes read like a diary, though there's plenty of research mixed in. He and Bakar documented Isidora's mental decline over the years — how she gradually isolated herself, becoming more and more absorbed in her research until this notion of extracting mental pain from the soul became her obsession."

He heard her movements slow beside him, the orange skin crunching softly under her fingers. "You do know they murdered her, right?"

"Yes," he nodded, accepting a perfectly clean segment she offered. "San Bakar did. Horrific thing to do — but necessary, all things considered."

Her hands stilled. "Who do you reckon was in the wrong? Isidora, for having ideas too advanced for her time, or the Keepers, for killing their own student they failed to guide properly?"

Ominis frowned, pausing mid-chew. "Isidora was out of control, Kryph. She was hurting people—"

"So was Solomon," she cut across him evenly. "Hurting Anne with his neglect. Yet you never considered him wrong. Sebastian was the villain."

Her words gave Ominis pause, making him blink several times while maintaining his frown. How could she draw such a comparison?

"That's entirely different and you know it—"

"Would you murder me?" she asked with unnerving calm. "If I were out of control? If I started hurting people?"

He pressed his lips together, swallowing the lingering sweetness in his mouth — a deliberate pause to gather his thoughts and buy time for a proper response. "No, I don't reckon I could. You're my friend."

She resumed her movements around the fruit. "I am. And Isidora was Bakar's student. Solomon was Sebastian's blood uncle. Yet they both managed it."

Ominis contemplated this, uncertain why she'd steered their conversation in this direction. "What exactly are you getting at?"

She leaned over, carefully arranging pristine orange segments on his plate. "Who's qualified to judge right from wrong? Who decides what's good and what's evil?"

He remained silent for a long moment, turning an orange segment between his fingers. "Someone who's good. And kind."

"No," she leaned back. "The one who survives does. Neither Solomon nor Isidora had a chance to justify their actions — yet people still side with the living, who can breathe and speak about how things were. Because the other side's rotting in the ground."

"Well, I haven't chosen sides through this logic," Ominis muttered stubbornly. "Sebastian was wrong, and even he acknowledges that."

"Or perhaps that's just his guilt talking," Apocrypha suggested evenly. "Guilt before the law, before what's proper, before his self-imposed blame for Anne's death."

Ominis exhaled sharply, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Look, the business with Sebastian might be complicated — we're both rather biased by friendship. But Isidora — she did things that might be considered even worse than murder. Destroying the soul like that — and children, there were little children, Kryph, as young as twelve, all trapped now—"

"I know," she said quietly. "I've seen them."

Ominis felt a chill run down his spine, barely suppressing the urge to draw back. "What?"

Apocrypha nodded slowly, tone still unnervingly vacant. "Yes, they're all still there." She tapped her temple gently with one finger, the gesture almost tender. "Here. I can hear them."

Ominis shifted in his seat to face her, leaning closer as his voice dropped even lower. "How is that even possible?"

"She's in my head," Apocrypha repeated without turning to face him. "They all are — talking. Even now. But it's worst when I'm exhausted enough to fall asleep."

"Nightmares," Ominis breathed, pieces falling into place.

"Mm," she hummed in agreement, placing a piece of fruit in her mouth without chewing — a motion to occupy herself during this visibly unsettling topic. Her demeanour remained forcefully calm, but her leg bounced restlessly under the table, betraying her.

Ominis drummed his fingers on the table, anxiety creeping into his movements as he organised his thoughts. Her odd behaviour before made sense now. "But they're just dreams, right? They can't harm you here, in reality."

"Thought the same — until I woke up one time with a bruise shaped like a handprint on my throat where Isidora had grabbed me in the dream."

His fingers froze mid-tap, blind eyes widening — this took a serious turn quickly. "Why didn't you tell us anything?"

She turned her head towards him, voice suddenly twisting with bitterness. "So you and Sebastian could decide I'm dangerous and abandon me like Natty did?"

Ominis's expression soured slightly at the pain in her tone — he'd never realised how deeply Onai's absence had affected her. "Why tell me now, then?"

She let out a humourless huff, an almost imperceptible note of hysteria buried in the sound. The pause that followed stretched uncomfortably, as if she were weighing whether to continue. "Because last time I slept, she promised that if I didn't do what she wanted, she'd wear my skin like a suit and do it herself."

Ominis's frown deepened at the unpleasant twist in his chest. Even with everything they'd gleaned from Rackham's notes that painted a disturbing picture on its own, he felt like a drop of water in an endless ocean — small and insignificant. Their knowledge seemed meaningless against the unfathomable depths beyond what human could comprehend.

"Do you reckon she's actually capable of... whatever this means?" he asked hesitantly.

"Don't know," she shrugged. "But once Sebastian's back, I've got business to finish. Afterwards, I need to put some distance between us. Just in case."

Ominis sighed deeply, lifting his cooled tea — another welcome distraction. "You really think that's wise? Isolating yourself? Might be better to stay tethered to something you know is stable. Like ships in a storm — they need their chains to hold steady."

She turned away, rolling the orange segment in her mouth absently. "You might be right. But I need to get this one thing done first."

Ominis shifted his hand beneath the table, fingers tightening around his wand to sharpen his heightened senses. He focused on her heartbeat — that calm, steady rhythm that often betrayed what words wouldn't. "Does this business involve the Ministry?"

"Yes," she stated plainly. "No point denying it now that you both know. Can't tell you more, but don't worry — I'm not doing anything worse."

Her heart never faltered — slow and honest. Ominis nodded approvingly. "Bit unfair to hear such a threat and not even know what she wants from you. Are you certain you don't remember what Isidora's after?"

She drew a deep breath, pausing before exhaling as if searching her memory. "No."

The lie revealed itself in her physiology — her heartbeat slowed with the held breath, then caught and twisted before quickening with the sudden rush of oxygen. An attempt to mask deception through deliberately controlled breathing.

Ominis stilled, adjusting his grip on the wand while maintaining his neutral expression and keeping his voice carefully even. "Think it might involve hurting others?"

The silence stretched uncomfortably long. Her breathing remained eerily steady and unbothered, and Ominis soon understood why — she had no intention of answering.

"When was the last time you sensed Leander about?" she asked instead.

Ominis's brows furrowed at the abrupt change, but he decided to let her guide the conversation despite the mention of Leander stirring uncomfortable memories. After her disappearance, Leander had become little more than a shadow in the castle corridors — his presence so diminished that some days, people wondered if he attended classes at all. The cocky, spirited Gryffindor who'd challenge anyone to a duel with that insufferable, but merry smirk of his now kept to himself, speaking only when called upon. He kept strictly to his housemates, and even then, interaction seemed minimal — he'd withdrawn so completely from his peers that most had simply stopped trying to engage him.

"Haven't noticed him much since you vanished last year," Ominis said. "Thought something had happened between you two. Because he just... changed entirely."

"He wanted to be friends," Apocrypha said with an audible hint of regret in her voice, and Ominis caught the slight disturbance in the air as she turned her head. The subtle shift in her breath suggested she was looking at something distant but specific. "I think I wanted that too, despite our differences. Did you know he ended up like this because of me?"

Ominis held a pause of his own, feeling the morning air in the Great Hall suddenly turn heavier at the implication in her words. The distant chatter of students seemed to fade into white noise, leaving their corner of the table in an isolated pocket of tension.

"So something did happen between you two," he stated.

She nodded shallowly, regret starting to clearly lace her tone. "Leander started to care about me — that was his mistake. He discovered things he shouldn't have, and that's why Osborn got to him."

Ominis lifted the cup back to his mouth, using it as a shield against potential lip-readers. "Is Sinclair here now?"

"Yes," she said distantly. "Watching from the Gryffindor table. He's always watching us." The air shifted as she turned towards him. "That's why you and Sebastian shouldn't dig any deeper into this. I can't promise your safety if you do."

Ominis set his cup down and faced her in return. "I understand you feel responsible for Leander, but if Sinclair could act against us, wouldn't he have done so already? We know far more than the Ministry would permit, yet he does nothing."

She shifted on the bench, the wood creaking softly beneath her. The silence she responded with felt heavy and uncomfortably long, as if she were hesitating whether to speak once again.

"We're friends, Kryph," he continued. "We're in this together. I know it's difficult for you to accept, but there's nothing wrong with letting people who care about you help."

A small, bitter huff escaped her — a sound that suggested disbelief rather than amusement. As if she found his words almost painful to hear.

Ominis sighed, leaning closer. "Things between Sebastian and me might be strained right now, but you should tell him — about the dreams, the bruises, what's happening to you. It might be—"

"Dangerous?" she interjected in that same, hurt tone.

Ominis exhaled slowly through his nose. Her new tendency to twist his words frustrated him deeply — it felt deliberate now, as if she were actively refusing to hear his meaning. When had she stopped listening? When had she started treating him — of all people — with this cold detachment? This new distance felt different from her usual reservedness and boundaries — more permanent, more final. Like a bridge being dismantled rather than just closed.

"What keeps you grounded," he finished patiently, softening his tone. "What keeps you here, with us. Promise me you'll tell Sebastian when he returns — he deserves to know. He cares about you as much as I do."

Her muscles tensed at his request — he could hear the slight shift in her clothing, sense the sudden rigidity in her posture. He'd always known promises were difficult for her, but this reaction seemed excessive, almost alarmed.

"Alright," she said, voice forcefully steady. "I'll tell him."

He despised Drumnadrochit with every fibre of his being.

Not that he was ungrateful to his relatives. Their modest home near the loch had offered everything one could need — warm meals, clean sheets, mild concern for his wellbeing. His mother's distant cousin had proven a decent man, caring for Anne in her final moments and later letting Sebastian stay when the rest of their bloodline lay in the ground. The man's wife possessed the sort of gentle warmth that made their home welcoming to most. Their eight-year-old son brought life to the otherwise subdued household with his endless questions.

But Sebastian couldn't bear living there. Every street led to the graveyard where Anne rested, far from where she belonged. She should have died in Feldcroft, should have been buried in the family plot — not in this foreign soil that had no right to claim her. That thought alone made the entire village feel wrong.

Hogwarts at least felt real — it had become more than just a school, grown into something he couldn't quite define, something vital. Through the years he'd spent here, the people he'd met, the friendships he'd forged, the castle had transformed into something he couldn't picture himself without.

The corridors stretched empty before him well past noon on Tuesday, pressing around him pleasantly after two long weeks of exile. His first stop was meant to be Weasley's office — and despite speaking with the Deputy Headmistress being the last thing on his mind, he was still obliged to visit upon return while the classes carried on behind closed doors. There were final details about their new arrangement to settle.

Matilda sat behind her desk, peering at him over her glasses as he entered. Her quill paused, hovering above what appeared to be a letter to the Board of Governors. "You seem rather restless, Mr Sallow. Was everything well during your trip back?"

Sebastian stilled the nervous shifting in his feet, maintaining his straight-backed posture with hands clasped politely behind him. One thing that was good about Drumnadrochit had been the complete lack of distractions — the past fortnight had left him with too much time to think, too many suspicions to process, too many conversations that plan. The amount of time he'd spent mulling over the questions in the privacy of his assigned room was ungodly, the volume of information he needed to discuss with people he could trust — torturous. But Matilda wasn't one of those people. Not yet.

"Everything went smoothly," he replied calmly, absently adjusting the ravelling cloak still draped over his shoulders. "Just excited to return to my studies."

Weasley nodded, a knowing smile playing at her lips. "Particularly excited to see Miss Blackwood and Mr Gaunt, I imagine?"

"Naturally." Sebastian offered a casual shrug. "I trust our arrangement remains the same as before my departure?"

"Almost." Matilda adjusted her glasses. "There's one additional detail — Professor Sharp should be your first point of contact regarding any concerning changes in Miss Blackwood's behaviour. As Head of House, he's best positioned to intervene if needed. And of course," she added in a slightly more pointed tone, "any pertinent information regarding Ministry activities should come directly to me."

"Understood," Sebastian said with a curt nod. "May I go?"

"Yes, you may." Matilda dipped her quill in ink without looking up. "And Mr Sallow? Do try to keep your fists to yourself this time."

Sebastian turned without comment, his expression crumbling into sourness the moment his back faced her. Making such promises wasn't something he could afford, not with everything at stake.

The moment he eased the door shut behind him, the rigid posture melted from his shoulders, composure falling away entirely. His strides lengthened, quickened, carrying him through the castle while his mind raced ahead of his feet. They should both be in classes now — Ominis certainly would be. Apocrypha had mentioned being back in her last letter, but he doubted she'd bother attending anything that didn't align with Ominis's schedule. He needed to find them both, and quickly.

His belongings would have been delivered to the dungeons already. The plan was simple enough: make himself somewhat presentable, change, and track down his friends. His hurried pace drew heavy breaths from his lungs as he walked. So consumed by thoughts of what needed to be done, he failed to notice the statue-still Auror patrol he passed. He needed to gather himself. This restlessness wouldn't serve him well.

The snake statue slithered around the stone wall at his approach, revealing the entrance to the Slytherin common room. He took the stairs two at a time, descending with steps quick and uncoordinated. At the bottom, he caught his breath — and faltered the moment a subtle movement on one of the leather couches caught his peripheral vision. A familiar head turned towards him — the silhouette unmistakable in its sharp angles and dark palette.

"Kryph," he sighed with relief, crossing the distance at once. "What are you doing here?"

She rose to meet him, closing the space between them and stopping just our of reach.

"Waiting for you," she said, as though nothing in this world could have been more obvious.

Sebastian pressed his lips together, suppressing the urge to smile even as his chest still rose and fell with deep breaths through his nose. "And Ominis?"

"Charms," she shrugged simply.

His gaze shifted aside, the wall behind her suddenly looking fascinating. The realisation that she'd chosen to wait for him, sacrificing time with Ominis that she typically guarded so carefully, settled warmly in his chest. Such a small thing, yet the urge to simply scoop and gather her close, to reacquaint himself with her after his absence, to wordlessly acknowledge everything she was facing — especially her mother's illness — pressed against his restraint. He didn't dare. He knew she wouldn't allow it.

Yet whatever was changing in her, he found himself hoping it would stay.

"Thought you'd be with him," he said casually, aware of her steady gaze from the corner of his eye. "It's your shared class."

"Well," she tilted her head slightly, "you don't come back from Drumnadrochit every day. Seemed worth the exception."

Sebastian rolled his eyes, exhaling a quiet huff, though his mouth remained a tight line. The common room's stillness wrapped around them like a shroud — both welcome and disorienting. The privacy it offered was a rare gift after fifth year, and he found himself not knowing how to use it properly — he'd grown unaccustomed to having her to himself. Words seemed to gain weight in his throat, weariness suddenly seeping into his limbs.

When his hazel eyes returned to her face, he found her closer, leaning slightly forward and looking up at him through hooded lids with clear expectation. "You don't want it?"

His gaze darted across her stance, trying to decode the meaning in her posture.

"I do," he hurried to say, despite not quite knowing what he'd just agreed to.

Apocrypha swallowed quietly, leaning closer still with hands clasped behind her back. "The offer won't last all day."

Sebastian's hands twitched at his sides as understanding hit him. He raised them slowly, questioningly, showing his palms empty before her and watching as her eyes flickered to them briefly before returning to his face.

"My back's getting rather sore," she muttered, still maintaining her slightly awkward pose.

His head bobbed in quick, shallow nods before he finally allowed himself what he never thought she'd freely offer. His arms encircled her carefully, drawing her against him, the contact pulling a deep sigh from his chest.

Too emboldened by an impulse he couldn't be bothered to restrain, Sebastian slipped his arms beneath hers — just as he had done that last time — leaving her little choice but to rest her elbows against him. The position granted him the leverage he craved, and he used it — drawing her closer until her feet nearly left the floor.

His impatient inhale caught the scent that immediately overwhelmed his senses — she smelled of cold winter nights, citrus, and something distant, like a memory. Nothing sweet or flowery like their female classmates favoured. His eyelids grew too heavy to resist closing as he drank in the sensation of finally, finally having her this close.

Merlin, but it felt like coming home after being lost in the wilderness for far too long. He couldn't help himself but marvel at how perfectly she fit against him, how right it felt to have her like this. Even with her hands hovering awkwardly, even without returning the embrace — it felt right in a way that made his chest ache.

"What's the occasion?" he muttered into her hair, fighting to sound casual. "Some holiday I've missed?"

She balanced on her toes, the movement slight but noticeable.

"Your Birthday present," she murmured, making a small apologetic gesture with her suspended hands. "Sorry. Haven't got anything else."

Sebastian huffed in disbelief, then released a slow breath that nearly approached relaxation, despite the slight tremor in his fingers betraying his nerves. "I'll take it. Good present, this."

Apocrypha made a small, uncertain sound but nodded, remaining still — no sign of withdrawal, he noted with relief. "Don't get used to it."

His arms stayed firm around her, though he carefully monitored the pressure on her spine, wary of startling her into alertness with too much force or restraint. "You don't like it then?"

He knew she'd deny it just to be contrary — same as she did when they'd first met, when he'd press her buttons just to tease reactions out of her.

"A tiny bit," she clicked her tongue. "Perhaps."

Sebastian rested his chin on her shoulder, eyes still closed. "Your bloody heart's hammering."

Even without looking, he sensed her immediate frown — that same expression that questioned his audacity whenever he pointed out something that made her uncomfortable. But he wasn't lying — the steady thrum between them vibrated through his entire body.

She made to pull away, and his stomach dropped until he realised her face was level with his, one accusatory finger raised.

"That's yours," she retorted stubbornly.

A small, genuine chuckle escaped Sebastian's throat, the sound startling even to his own ears. He couldn't recall the last time he'd felt light enough to laugh like that.

"Maybe," he conceded, keeping his palms firmly pressed against her back as they remained frozen in the moment. He kept his tone deliberately steady and low, afraid of any potential shift disrupting whatever fragile peace had settled between them, lest she'd become aware of how close they still were. "Just... glad you're here."

Those green eyes looked at him for a prolonged moment, seeming to register the quiet admission he'd just voiced. She looked so absurd with her arms still suspended above his, yet neither of them moved to correct it.

When understanding gradually filtered across her face, he saw it being followed by the conflict that arose whenever emotions entered their dynamic — the same resistance she often showed when faced with genuine sentiment. She withdrew slowly, his hands lingering on her until the last possible moment before dropping to his sides.

Apocrypha cleared her throat, eyes growing more hooded before sliding away entirely. "Your hair's grown."

Sebastian frowned at the loss of contact and scratched the back of his head absently, fingers threading through the longer strands now curling at his nape. "Yeah. Need a trim."

"And a shave," she added immediately, gesturing towards his chin.

He sighed, rubbing roughly at his stubbled jaw. "That bad, is it?"

"Mhm." She nodded matter-of-factly. "You look like a homeless dog."

Sebastian raised an eyebrow, unable to resist the familiar pull to counter her. "Thought you liked dogs."

Her eye-roll he'd anticipated almost drew out his smirk, but his mouth managed to stay relaxed.

"Shave," she muttered, turning to make her way back to the couch.

Sebastian remained pinned to his spot, shifting his weight uncertainly. Despite the urgency that had driven him through the castle minutes ago, this unexpected moment of closeness had scattered his focus entirely. There were pressing matters to discuss, vital information to share — yet here he stood, wrong-footed by a simple embrace.

"When does Ominis finish?" He cleared his throat. "Need to speak with you both."

"Should be here before dinner." She settled back onto the leather couch, drawing one knee up. "Though I've got things to tell you as well."

Sebastian nodded, already unclasping his travelling cloak and turning towards the dormitory. "Right then. Give me a moment to make myself look human, then we'll talk — wait here?"

He strode towards the dorm without waiting for her response, finding his trunk precisely where the house-elves would have left it. Fresh clothes, his shaving kit, toiletries — he couldn't recall ever showering so hastily, yet it still was reviving. Rushing through his shave proved unwise — the blade caught his jaw several times where it had sharpened into a more mature line.

His wet hair presented another challenge — now clean but unruly, it refused to cooperate. Frustrated, he shook it vigorously from side to side like a dog fresh from the rain, then attempted to comb it. The length had indeed exceeded his usual preference. No amount of combing could tame the lengthened strands that normally added to a neat wave above his forehead — they now hung stubbornly down, nearly touching his thick eyebrows despite his attempts to sweep them aside.

The fresh uniform settled something in him though, loosened tie and rolled sleeves falling naturally into place. He felt precisely as he ought to be. Where he ought to be.

Upon returning to the common room, Sebastian found Apocrypha still waiting on the couch. He beckoned her with a quick gesture, and when she rose without comment, led her back to his dormitory.

"What did you want to discuss?" He moved towards his trunk, lifting the lid to reveal a jumble of hastily packed belongings.

She hovered for a moment before settling on his bed and watching as him begin extracting various items. "You first."

"Need both of you present for this." Sebastian pulled out a stack of wrinkled shirts, attempting to smooth them. "Preferably in the Undercroft. Too many ears about."

"Almost everyone's in class," she murmured absently, reaching to help by removing several books from his trunk and arranging them carefully on the bedside cabinet.

"Well, still." He wrestled with a particularly stubborn knot of robes. "Given how things are between us right now, I'd rather not risk making it worse by leaving Ominis out."

She nodded hollowly, eyes fixed on the chaos of clothing he was attempting to organise. The silence stretched, heavy and uncomfortable, indicating she was clearly unsure whether to voice whatever she wanted to discuss.

Sebastian's hands stilled over a half-folded jumper. "Is it about your mum?"

She shook her head slowly, gaze sliding away as she blinked with visible fatigue.

"How is she?" he asked carefully.

"Worse."

He exhaled slowly through his nose, abandoning the jumper to settle beside her on the bed, shifting closer until their shoulders nearly touched. "Still no cure? Even the Ministry's healers can't—?"

He cut himself off when she shook her head again, watching her twisting slender fingers into painful-looking angles.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly. "For not asking the Keepers if they knew how to save Anne."

Sebastian's eyebrows drew together painfully, chest constricting minutely at his sister's name. "I'm not angry with you. It was my fault, all of it." He studied her profile for a moment. "But why bring this up now? Is your mum's condition somehow linked to your ability?"

"No." Her fingers continued their painful dance. "But even without it, she's ended up exactly how Anne would have if I'd tried to extract the pain — just an empty shell. No emotion, no soul." Those green eyes turned to him, hooded and knowing. "Would you have preferred that? Anne living like this, or dying as herself?"

Sebastian faltered at the abrupt shift in their conversation, but held her gaze steadily despite the unsettling knowledge in her calm stare. "So that's why you didn't ask them."

She gave a weak nod. "I'm sorry."

"It's done now." Sebastian smacked his lips uncomfortably, giving a small shake of his head. "Nothing we can change. I'm sorry for quite a bit from fifth year as well."

Her eyes narrowed suddenly, though her tone remained perfectly level. "Like the Scriptorium?"

He huffed, shrugging despite the tension that crept into his shoulders at her casual mention of that place. "Yes. And everything that followed. I regret it."

She remained unnaturally still beside him, those tired eyes unsettlingly focused even in their apparent exhaustion. "But you didn't regret it then. You told me that casting an Unforgivable requires strong intent." Her words fell soft and precise. "So you did mean to hurt me when you cast Cruciatus?"

Sebastian suppressed a reflexive swallow at such directness, refusing to show hesitation. "I won't lie to you. Back then, I did. I was willing to do anything to get that spellbook."

Her saturated green eyes lingered, searching for deception, before finally turning away. "I knew you were using me then. I didn't even mind. I'd have done the same — worse — in your situation."

"That's not—" he hurried to interject. "Listen, our relationship was... complicated at the start. Perhaps not entirely sincere initially, but I'm completely honest with you now. We both had our reasons for getting closer — mutual benefit so to speak. That's not the same as using someone—"

"It's alright," she spoke over him calmly. "I didn't mind being used. But..." Her eyes found his again. "Can I use you now?"

He frowned briefly in visible confusion, clearing his throat while maintaining eye contact. "I... suppose. What do you want?"

She leaned closer, the proximity making him hold his breath. "Teach me the Killing Curse."

Sebastian drew back slightly, involuntarily, an immediate 'no' forming on his lips before he properly processed her words. The urge to refuse was almost instinctive — he wanted nothing to do with that spell after fifth year. Yet something made him pause. Why would she ask this now? They'd both discussed the curse as legitimate defence in desperate situations, but she'd never once expressed interest in learning or using it.

He frowned deeper, tilting his head while leaning back towards her, into that illusion of a soundproof bubble their nearness created. "Why?"

Apocrypha's eyes dropped to her restless hands, fingers still twisting and bending in that distressed, painful-looking pattern. "I... I don't want to let anyone touch me again when I don't want it."

The silence stretched between them, heavy and meaningful. Sebastian watched her, now sensing his own turn in trying to parse any deception in her words or manner. Something nagged at him, even as shame twisted his gut at his own hesitation — after what Sinclair had done to her, refusing such a request felt both inadequate and cruel. She had every right to want to defend herself.

So why was this setting off warnings in his mind?

"Was the hug one of your ways to use me?" he blurted out calmly, without a single hint of accusation. "To get what you wanted?"

She glanced up at him once more, lips pressing together as her brows drew down in what appeared to be genuine hurt. "No. I gave you that because I missed you."

Sebastian barely managed to suppress a self-deprecating grimace threatening to form on his face before looking away. The act of doubting her carved something painful in his chest.

"I missed you too," he said quietly, then paused. "Alright. I'll consider it. Give me some time."

By the time Ominis found them, the clock showed nearly six in the evening. Despite Sebastian's insistence on searching after four, when classes typically ended, Ominis hadn't appeared anywhere in the castle until he chose to make himself known.

"Where the bloody hell have you been?" Sebastian rose from his armchair in the full common room the moment his best friend's silhouette descended the stairs. "We've been looking all over after classes."

Ominis frowned, sauntering over with his hand already raised in greeting. "Lovely to see you too."

Sebastian rolled his eyes but clasped his forearm in a rough shake. Ominis's skin was cold, his robes still carrying a crisp outdoor scent along with something softer, almost sweet. "Need to talk. Best move to the Undercroft."

Ominis's head tilted slightly, his clouded eyes blinking several times as he registered Apocrypha's presence as well. "Has something happened? Has Kryph spoken to you already?"

"Yes, we've talked, but there's news I don't want to discuss here. It's about—"

"Could we do it after midnight?" Apocrypha cut in from her own spot in the armchair behind them.

Sebastian turned his head back. "What? Why wait?"

She shifted uncomfortably, arms crossed over her chest and eyes averted. "I'm meant to see him tonight. If what you're telling us is sensitive, better I learn it after he's done with my head."

Ominis clicked his tongue, voice low despite the surroundings suggesting no one really bothered to listen to their conversation. "If he wants to extract something, he'll do it next time regardless. Waiting's pointless."

"It's not." Her voice was firm. "After tonight, he won't touch my head again."

Sebastian whirled to face her fully. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Is this the business you mentioned needed finishing?" Ominis's head angled towards her voice.

"Yes. After it's done, I can talk freely with you both. And listen."

Sebastian's eyes darted between them, bewildered by Ominis's apparent composure. Why was he so calm about this? What was this business?

"Right, and I suppose you can't tell us what exactly you're about to do?"

She shook her head — obviously. "No."

A frustrated groan escaped him. "This better not be something that'll get you hurt."

"No." She shrugged. "It's just a deal. No one gets harmed."

"What sort of deal?" This time Ominis's calmness wavered, and he stepped closer. "What you're getting is one thing, but what are you giving in exchange?"

Apocrypha shot to her feet abruptly. "Look, I said I'd make things right — I'm keeping my word. Once we're safe in the Undercroft after midnight, I'll tell you everything you want to know."

"Hang on," Sebastian's voice rose slightly. "You don't get to dangle answers like that without telling us what you're trading for them."

She sighed heavily, clearly irritated and visibly regretting even mentioning the deal. "I'm starving and it's time for dinner. Can we please just eat together like normal?"

Ominis withdrew first with a weighty sigh of his own, followed by Sebastian who rubbed the bridge of his nose in frustration.

"Since when are you hungry?" Ominis asked after a pause.

"Since Sebastian got back," she pushed past them, voice gruff and dismissive.

Sebastian raised an eyebrow at her retreating silhouette before turning to his best friend. "That's... that's good, right?"

"Let's hope so," Ominis muttered, following after her.

The Great Hall was packed when they arrived, their usual spot proving difficult to secure amidst the chaos. But once settled at the Slytherin table, Apocrypha broke their tense silence first.

"Need someone with me later — haven't got a wand to open the Undercroft door."

Sebastian, spooning shepherd's pie onto his plate, nodded. "Right, but sneaking about after curfew's a bit dodgy with all these Auror patrols."

Ominis reached across the table for a large green apple, passing it absently to Sebastian as was his habit. "Actually, patrols have thinned out — almost non-existent while Kryph was away. And well, we managed it once with the place crawling with Aurors, didn't we? Should be a doddle this time."

"Really?" Sebastian took the apple, automatically pressing his thumbs into the stem to split it cleanly. "So their primary interest is just Kryph then."

The attempt at normalcy from Ominis felt pleasant, he couldn't lie — perhaps a temporary truce, or maybe genuine forgiveness. Either way, guilt gnawed at Sebastian's chest. However much he wished to preserve this peace, tonight's conversation would likely shatter it. He'd need to tread carefully in the Undercroft.

"Mhm," Ominis nodded, filling his own plate. "Though word is they're bringing back Prefect patrols soon."

Sebastian placed both apple halves on Apocrypha's plate, eyes still on his best friend. "Since when do you keep up with castle gossip?"

Ominis shrugged, chewing his pork chop. "Since I found a decent source."

Sebastian cleared his throat, buying time by cutting his pie into unnecessarily precise squares. "Is that source why you smell like a pastry shop?"

Ominis stopped mid-chew, frowning. "What if it is? Got something to say about it?"

Sebastian sighed through parted lips — this would be a difficult conversation indeed.

Not wishing to start this topic just now, he turned to Apocrypha's side instead, surprised to see her plate piled high with roasted vegetables and lamb, the apple halves beside. He'd never seen her take so much food before. "Care to explain how I'm connected to this new appetite of yours?"

She scowled at him immediately, cheeks bulging with food and a long strand of roasted scallion dangling from the corner of her mouth. "Don' ashk."

He raised his hands in surrender. "At least slow down before your stomach tries to kill you."

She rolled her eyes but did ease her pace, then grimaced, quickly grabbing her goblet of pumpkin juice to wash down the too-large mouthful that caught in her chest.

Despite his satisfaction at seeing her eat, Sebastian couldn't shake the warning signals flaring in his mind still. His eyes found Professor Sharp at the High Table, deep in conversation with Professor Hecat. Was this the sort of abnormal behaviour Weasley had told him to report? Was it even abnormal? Uncharacteristic, certainly, but was it dangerously so? Should he say something?

His hazel eyes drifted absently towards the Gryffindor table, stomach lurching when he found Osborn staring directly back. The bastard had his jaw propped on his palm, working at a pumpkin pastry and tilting his head upon being noticed with that insufferably fond smile. How long had he been watching them?

Oh, for quite some time.

"You've been eyeing Blackwood since she walked in," Jasper nudged Osborn's elbow from his spot on the bench.

A sixth-year called Gavin — or Glen perhaps, Osborn rarely bothered with his housemates' names — leaned across the table. "Aww, is our Ozzy in vuv then?"

Osborn snorted, sliding his eyes to his housemates while maintaining his easy smile. These youngsters weren't even close to earning the right to shorten his name — that privilege belonged to his actual friends, not these necessary components in play. Still, he had his role to maintain — discomfort wasn't something he could afford.

But at least his time at Hogwarts was drawing to a close — he couldn't wait to leave this place behind.

"Watching the competition, darling," he drawled evasively, resting his cheek against his fist while deliberately licking pastry crumbs from his fingers with sharp, theatrical smacks. "Though I must say, your interest in my love life is rather touching."

Jasper made a gagging sound. "Bloody hell, tell me you're not serious. What are you, some mutt who fancies bones?"

Osborn raised an eyebrow. The sheer audacity of these children. "Care to repeat that?"

Jasper leaned back slightly, but another boy chimed in, hands tracing crude curves in the air. "Loads of fit birds about, mate — proper ones with something to them. Kochanowska, for instance — heard there's plenty more under all those posh robes she hides behind."

Osborn nearly choked suppressing a snort before biting into his fist to stifle the laughter. Merlin's beard, not his sister. The mere thought was absurd. "Right then, I'll defer to your excellent taste."

"Watch yourself though," their lanky Seeker spoke through a mouthful, "reckon that one's already under Gaunt's spell."

"Is that so?" Osborn pretended mild surprise, absently scanning the Slytherin table. "Better be careful then."

Eliza was notably absent — no doubt cowering in her dormitory, stuffing herself with sweets from his own stash she thought he hadn't noticed her pilfering, and lamenting every moment spent away from Gaunt. What a joke.

Jasper's swat against his arm jolted him from his thoughts. "Oi, watch this — Reyes is about to give Sallow what for."

Osborn's attention snapped back to his previous target to find Imelda storming over to Sebastian's spot, her rigid movements promising nothing pleasant. He took another pastry, biting half at once while observing the Slytherin Quidditch captain press an accusatory finger into Sebastian's chest — undoubtedly blaming their former Beater for suspension right before the season's first match. Their green replacement had apparently lasted all of three minutes before getting thoroughly walloped, or so Osborn's housemates had gleefully reported. Gryffindor's victory had been assured after that.

Sebastian appeared far from apologetic or even contrite though, visibly arguing back and attempting to dismiss Imelda. Not that they'd consider having him back after such a disaster, but he didn't seem particularly keen on returning to Quidditch anyway. Perhaps that chapter was firmly closed.

Osborn glanced sideways, noting how Gaunt had deliberately removed himself from the confrontation, not bothering to intervene — clearly having anticipated this. Apocrypha, whilst appearing equally unsurprised, seemed to be tossing verbal bites at Imelda between mouthfuls while Sebastian tried to shush her and handle the backlash himself. What a delightful shift in their group dynamic — Eliza had certainly worked her magic on Ominis.

When Imelda's agitated gestures pointed towards the Gryffindor table, Osborn caught a flash of viridian eyes before their gazes met properly and locked for a moment. Unable to help himself, he winked at her playfully, catching his bottom lip between his teeth when she scowled in response. They both knew how big tonight was going to be. And bloody hell, how he was looking forward to it.

"Stuffed," he muttered, rising from the table and loosening his tie — blasted uniform.

"Bit early, isn't it?" Jasper asked.

"Prefect duties. Bit of homework to sort," Osborn lied effortlessly, departing without a backward glance at his housemates.

He needed to freshen up, change, have a smoke, fix himself a drink — anything to feel properly himself again. The showers were gloriously empty during dinner, and he took full advantage of the solitude — clean skin, clean hair, clean scent touched with the barest hint of cologne, clean clothes with a fresh black shirt deliberately left only half-buttoned.

No one had authorised him to seal this deal with Blackwood through an Unbreakable Vow — indeed, no one knew of this arrangement whatsoever. This was something he considered exclusively his own, something that belonged solely to him and her. So romantic.

Of course, the Vow didn't have to be reciprocal — but he'd known from the start she wouldn't surrender what he needed just to help him play the hero who'd found the missing piece to crack the case. No — she'd demand something in return. Something to ensure her mother's care, that he knew for sure. Perhaps something to keep him from entering her mind again. The deal would have multiple points of interest from both parties, and he'd already thought them all through — in some ways, Apocrypha still remained wonderfully predictable.

Once in his office, Osborn stretched languidly, arms reaching upwards before settling behind his head as he surveyed his domain. Probably the only thing he'd miss about Hogwarts once his job here was done. Not that it rivalled his office back in Wales — that space practically breathed his personality — but there was something deliciously satisfying about claiming what was once Eleazar Fig's territory as his own. Even more satisfying, perhaps, was how the new Magical Theory replacement never got their hands on it.

He was here ridiculously early — but the anticipation had driven him here hours before midnight. Taking his time, he lit his pipe first, then moved to the cabinet to extract two crystal tumblers from the shelf. He set them on the desk, deliberately marking their future positions across from each other with a few picky adjustments. A decanter of sloshing gold inside followed, along with an empty, still unmarked memory vial placed exactly in the centre between the glasses. A sheet of parchment came last, placed on her side of the desk — a contract, covered in intricate runic patterns that emitted a faint, silvery glow. She would need no quill to sign it.

The hours stretched like treacle. By eight, he found himself pacing near the window, sending small clouds of pipe smoke curling towards the ceiling while mentally reviewing every detail for what felt like the hundredth time. Davis would need dismissing once she arrived — no sense giving anyone reason to question his whereabouts with her, even someone as trusted as Davis. Just a routine memory check, nothing more.

Finding a way around the standard procedure of the Unbreakable Vow — the requirement of a third party to serve as a Bonder — had consumed nearly all his time since she'd agreed to it three nights ago. He'd barely slept, spending hours in the Ministry archives searching for a solution that would keep their deal private. Few wizards had successfully bypassed the traditional method — but then again, few possessed his persistence. It was exactly what had earned him a place among those rare few.

The magical contract on the desk was the result of his hard work — an unorthodox solution, perhaps, but crucial when no third party was welcome to bind their Vow. This was something only for them two.

If things proceeded smoothly, he might give her a glimpse of the little present hidden in his desk drawer a bit earlier than intended. Perhaps, if she behaved, he'd even share the news she'd undoubtedly appreciate. But even if some theoretical flaw existed in his experimental approach, he'd already woven in a secondary binding measure to ensure the deal was sealed properly. To ensure she was chained to him properly. Until her last breath.

Unusual circumstances demanded creative solutions — and he couldn't help but feel rather pleased with what he'd accomplished in mere days.

By the time the clock struck eleven, the crackling fireplace illuminated one cosy corner of the office now thoroughly fogged with pipe smoke, leaving the rest in comfortable dimness. He couldn't remember the last time he'd chain-smoked quite like this. Perhaps it was the day after Regulus's wedding when the three of them got absolutely rat-arsed in his office with Lou. He'd been only fifteen back then — utterly ridiculous in hindsight, but that's what happens when you manage to nick a bottle of finest Firewhisky from the Head Auror's private collection and think yourself invincible.

Smoking always went best with good company — and oh, his company was one of the few things he genuinely enjoyed about life. Being raised together at the Ministry from such tender years had forged something lasting between the three of them, despite their assignments to different departments under their high-ranked parents. Their friendship might not have the same fierce intensity as Blackwood's little circle, but it had endured far longer — thirteen years and counting.

He'd be lying if he claimed not to miss them — but their necessary separation made their reunions rather special. While he might not approve of everything his friends did — Lou being the prime example — they remained steadfastly loyal despite whatever questionable choices he made himself. True, they'd likely resist adding another to their circle, but they hadn't much choice in the matter. She would spend the rest her life at the Ministry. With them. With him.

The thought drew a sharp breath through his teeth, and he couldn't quite suppress the grin that followed. He occupied his lips with the pipe stem, attempting to school his expression into something less telling — after all, the deal wasn't sealed yet. Far too early to get ahead of himself.

The smoke-heavy office needed clearing. Osborn pushed the window open, exhaling another cloud into the night air. Though clouds obscured most of the sky, the moon persisted bright and full overhead, casting its light through the autumn drizzle that trickled from the castle's eaves — all while carrying hints of approaching winter winds in its moisture. The cold season loomed close now. They'd be finished here before Eliza's seventeenth birthday marked the first day of winter. Just another week and it would all be over.

The midnight toll of the clock drew him from the window. He settled behind his desk at last, dabbing more cologne at his throat before resting his chin atop interlaced fingers in a deceptively casual pose. Nothing was casual about his state though — his leg bounced so restlessly beneath the desk he half-expected to strike the wood with his knee.

It was only a few moments later when two sets of footsteps echoed from the corridor, and his breath caught sharply at the flutter of anticipation in his stomach. He hooded his eyes deliberately, willing himself still — wouldn't do to let her see how close he was to bursting at the seams.

The knock came with a peculiar mix of gentleness and authority. Osborn caught himself just before responding too eagerly.

"Sir?" Davis's voice carried through the wood.

"Do come in," Osborn drawled, forcing his voice into evenness.

Davis entered first, his eyes catching on the arranged items across the desk. Apocrypha followed, looking rather calm yet unable to succeed in hiding her wariness fully.

Rising unhurriedly, Osborn circled the desk and moved to the chair she usually occupied during their meetings, tilting it back with exaggerated courtesy. "That'll be all, Davis. Leave us."

Davis frowned questionably. "Are you certain, sir—"

"Quite," Osborn cut him off immediately. "Join the others downstairs, if you would."

The guard hesitated, but offered a dutiful nod before departing, the door clicking shut behind him.

The neutral expression on Osborn's face gave way to a telling smirk, and he gestured to the chair with a tilt of his head. "Well?"

Apocrypha crossed the space between them, eyes downcast as she took her seat. "Sending your watchdog to his kennel. How unusual."

"Thought we might appreciate the privacy." He settled back behind his desk. "Rather marvellous occasion, wouldn't you say?"

She rolled her shoulders dismissively, eyes falling to the runic parchment, twin glasses, and the empty vial. "You've been busy preparing."

"Uh-huh," a low chuckle escaped him as he poured measures of liquid gold for them both. "The lengths I go to for you, Blackwood."

The habit of pet names for her had somehow faded without his notice, though she'd fought hard enough for that small victory. Even with their peculiar dynamic intact, he'd grown to respect her steel, now refusing to degrade her with trivial 'darlings' or 'sweethearts'.

"So," he lifted the glass to his lips, settling back. "Your friends — both whole and healthy, I trust?"

She nodded slowly, the slight furrow of her brow betraying her understanding of where he led this conversation. Her reluctance towards the Vow was plain, despite her agreement. But then, life rarely offered what one wanted. Born without freedom, she'd have to accept living without it too.

"Your mother's quite comfortable," he murmured into the glass. "Checked on her this morning myself."

That drew her eyes to his face at last. She lifted her own glass, turning it idly between her fingers. "Let's get on with it, then."

Osborn's chuckle rang louder this time, almost surprised. "In such a rush? We've all night."

In truth, despite his earlier impatience, he found himself wanting to draw out every moment that led to the deal. They'd likely never be more intimate than tonight — he intended to savour every second of it.

He reached for his desk drawer, withdrawing the metal box she'd already seen before, then started repacking the pipe — this time, not for himself.

"Since we're to be so... intimately connected after tonight, perhaps we should level the field somewhat." He extended the filled pipe and matches across the desk, holding the stem so that it faced her. "Ask me anything you like — anything you'd like to know about me. You have my word on honest answers."

She accepted the pipe without letting their fingers brush, placing it between her lips. The match struck, but her inexperienced puffs came too late, the tobacco cooling before properly catching.

Osborn sighed, leaning forward to strike another match himself. The sight of her lips around the stem made his pulse quicken as he held the flame to the bowl. "Draw now."

Her cheeks hollowed with the inhale, making her already sharp features more pronounced. The smoke left through her nose when she looked up at him again. "Where's your father?"

He sank back, eyebrows lifting slightly. The old wound had long since scarred over — the topic didn't bother him.

"Rotting in Polish soil, I'd imagine." He shaped his fingers into a pistol, pressing them to his temple with a smirk still in place. "Muggles and their charming little inventions."

Her steady gaze flickered with understanding — pieces falling into place about his notorious stance on Muggle weaponry she had a chance to learn about back in London. "The harpy's your half-sister, then?"

A derisive snort escaped him. "Obviously. Could you tell we were related if you hadn't known? Eliza never inherited my mother's 'charm', if you know what I mean."

"Makes sense then," she let out a bitter, insincere half-laugh around another drag. "Everything that's wrong with you."

"Oh, you wound me," he pouted in mock hurt. "I might not be like the rest, but then again — you're hardly normal yourself, are you? We're quite well-matched, wouldn't you say?"

The scowl of disgust that twisted her face almost drew another laugh from him, but he kept it to an amused smirk.

She looked away. "What happens to me after this? What's the Ministry going to do?"

"Ah-ah." He wagged his index finger playfully. "Questions about me only. Don't you want to know more about your future companion? We'll be spending so many long years together, after all."

Apocrypha sank back in her chair, refusing to meet his eyes. "What if I don't fancy spending those years as your plaything?"

"Let's see..." He tilted his head towards the ceiling in mock contemplation, counting off on his fingers. "Mummy dies a vegetable, Sallow gets himself some fancy Azkaban digits, and Gaunt... well, Eliza knows exactly what to do with him." His eyes dropped back to her, suddenly serious. "And you're not a plaything, Blackwood — you're a weapon. Weapons don't whinge about their fate — they do as they're told. Stop overthinking it and be what you're supposed to be. You've got a good future ahead — I'll see to that, long as you're as good to me as I'm being to you right now. Even giving you time to settle your nerves before the big moment."

Her face soured at the weapon remark, eyes crinkling beneath the weight of her deepening frown. "How bloody generous of you."

"Oh, you've no idea how generous I can be when you behave." Osborn shifted to retrieve a small key from his trouser pocket, leaning down to unlock the bottom drawer. "Look what I've got for you."

Rising again, he held out her prize — the one and only, Keepers' wand.

His smirk widened to show teeth as her eyes locked onto it, pupils contracting sharply in focus. The thought sent a hot rush down his spine — if she lunged now, if his reflexes failed him for just a moment, she could snatch it and kill him right there. His breath quickened slightly, mouth going dry as warmth pooled in his stomach. The danger of her made his skin prickle deliciously — just like before.

"Yes — the very same one Ollivander crafted for your Repository visit." He twirled the wand expertly between his fingers, not daring to look away from her face. "See? I do look after your needs. And unlike your friends, I've taken time to really get to know you."

She kept her eyes fixed on the wand, taking an absent sip from her glass and wincing briefly at the taste. "Right, because torturing someone daily counts as getting to know them?"

"Well, I'm a scientist at heart, you see." Osborn pressed his free hand dramatically to his chest, enjoying himself beyond measure. "Would've probably been one if I hadn't got stuck in mother's blasted department. So what you call torture, I call necessary research." His lips quirked as he watched her over the rim of his glass. "I do enjoy studying things in detail. Especially those I find interesting. And you, Blackwood — oh, you're fascinating. Ever wondered why they gave you such an odd name for a Scottish lass? What it even means?"

She raised an eyebrow and took another small sip from her glass, clearly humouring him more than actually interested. "Enlighten me."

"It's rather brilliant, actually." He took a loud, deliberate gulp of his drink, letting out an exaggerated 'ah' while savouring both the liquid and the moment. "Apocrypha — religious texts Muggles thought too heretical to be included in official doctrine, too dangerous for their holy books. Comes from Greek too — meaning 'hidden' or 'secret'." His smirk widened. "Rather fitting, isn't it? You and your brother — both meant to be secrets."

A scoff escaped her lips, distinctly unimpressed. "Would've been proper dramatic if my brother's name had any connection to it."

Osborn bit his lower lip, barely containing his delight at her engaging. Finally, a genuine interest, however restrained.

"Oh, but there is more connection than you'd think." He reached for the decanter, pouring himself another measure with movements slightly loose from the alcohol — not that it concerned him. It took far more than this to get him even close to buzzed. "Alben — aside from meaning 'white' in Latin, as I'm sure you know — also means 'bright'. And nothing hidden can be bright, can it? It shines."

Her deep frown remained fixed as she stared at the floor, clearly piecing things together yet refusing to give him the satisfaction of acknowledging it. "Where are you going with this?"

"Come now." He clicked his tongue. "You're not stupid — and I hate explaining obvious things. But alright, I'll make an exception for you." His finger traced a line through the office space, from the firelight-bathed corner to the side shrouded by night. "Darkness and Light. One inevitably replacing another. Unable to exist without the other — each meaningless without its opposite. Both crucial to preserve the balance. "

Her eyes snapped sideways to his face at those last words, brows settling into a line of dawning comprehension rather than anger.

He twirled the wand between his fingers as their eyes locked again, tongue sliding briefly between his lips for moisture. "What's even more interesting — you weren't supposed to be here at all. Perhaps not among the living — but definitely not at Hogwarts."

Apocrypha's eyes darted between his face and the wand repeatedly, a movement that didn't escape his notice — quick and sharp like an animal's. "What's that supposed to mean?"

He propped his feet on the desk, reclining with evident satisfaction. "Got my hands on the Book of Admittance — can you imagine? Well, not literally — sensitive little thing. But our dear Headmaster helped me work around that particular obstacle. Had a peek at the lists from the years I needed... " Pride coloured his voice as he savoured her rapt attention. "And would you believe it — you weren't there. Not in 1886, not in 1889 when Fig found you — not even now. So, either your magic was never meant to awaken, or you weren't meant to survive that night. Perhaps both."

She stared at him, lips parted slightly in the tense silence that followed. When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet. "And... Alben was on the list?"

"Mhm. The Quill put him there in 1885." He gestured for the cooled pipe she'd forgotten in her hand. "Pass that back, would you?"

She complied, still predictably avoiding any skin-to-skin contact. "Then what am I even doing here? How did I get sorted? Why didn't the common room reject me?"

"Because you fit." He tapped the pipe's burnt contents out with light strikes. "You know the answer — just need to think it through properly. Surely you remember Hogwarts was built with Ancient Magic? The castle sees you as part of itself, as its property even — these walls are both your cage and natural habitat."

Her nose scrunched up, eyes widening. "So that's why you put me here... to study me and prepare for something with minimal risks."

"Bah!" The sharp laugh burst from him. "See how much I know about you? How much I care? Bending all these rules just to give you answers. Even sharing classified information."

Osborn clasped his teeth around the freshly refilled pipe's stem, lighting the tobacco with his eyes fixed intently on her face. Revealing these puzzle pieces could land him in serious trouble — but watching her put it all together sent such delicious thrills through him he simply couldn't resist. Part of him hoped it might jog her memory — for the sake of the case he'd devoted himself to crack. The other part simply relied on planting the idea of mutual benefit into her head — after all, their future work would go much smoother if she came to see him as a partner instead of a captor.

He drew deeply and exhaled a cloud, leaning over the table while sliding the Keepers' wand into his trouser pocket alongside his own. They'd need both soon enough.

"We could skip the Vow, you know," he started slyly, gesturing at the empty vial between them. "If you give me what I need without it, we can find every answer left together. Just us. Why bind ourselves so young when we might be exactly what each other needs?" His voice dropped a few octaves lower, softer. "I could be all you need to understand everything. "

In truth, he was counting on her refusal. While his logical side made the offer, the private part of him — the part inexplicably, possessively attached to her — craved nothing more than binding her irrevocably to his side. And thankfully, he was almost certain she'd reject the offer. Her mother's safety might be guaranteed, but she'd still try to secure everything else. Everyone else.

Surely enough, Apocrypha's jaws clenched stubbornly as she rose to her feet. "No. We're doing it. I don't trust you."

A grin spread around the pipe stem as he feigned reluctant acceptance with a slight raise of his eyebrows. Standing as well, he fought to steady his wildly thrumming heart, his skin suddenly warm and electric with anticipation.

"Your wish is my command." He rose, circling behind her with unhurried steps.

Her head turned, following his movement until he stood at her back. The tension in her shoulders was immediate.

"But first, I need to check something," he whispered into her ear, finding the fold on her shirt with his fingers before drawing the fabric up slowly.

"What the hell are you doing?" She snapped, whirling around with sudden violence.

"Relax. Just need to see your spine."

Her nostrils flared with angry breaths, rapid pulse visible at her throat and thundering heartbeat audible even through the gentle patter of autumn rain against the windows mixed with the crackling fireplace. With a scowl, she turned back and lifted her shirt herself, exposing her back.

Osborn chuckled — this was going to happen on her terms.

His expression sobered the moment her sharp vertebrae came into view. The bruising he'd noticed earlier had spread significantly, dark patches stretching up her entire back like an infected cobweb. He pressed his fingers against a particularly dark area, making her twitch immediately. "Does that hurt?"

"No," she spat. "Get your hands off me."

"Hmm." Strange — she appeared otherwise healthy. He'd have to instruct Davis about her additional medical examination.

"I don't know much about the Vow, but..." she cut in impatiently, clearly eager to end their proximity, "shouldn't we have a Witness?"

"Not in our case." Osborn withdrew and positioned himself opposite her, drawing out both wands. "You see, one never quite knows how things will go with you. So consider this my own special adaptation of the Unbreakable Vow. Designed just for the two for us." He tilted his head adoringly, watching her adjust the shirt back into her uniform trousers. "Has anyone else ever gone to such lengths for you?"

His deepening breaths matched the quickening of his pulse as he caught her palm before she could reflexively pull it away. Turning it upward, he pressed the Keepers' wand firmly into her hand, watching as the contact sparked immediate life into the wood, suffusing it with a gentle, steady glow.

"Cut the right one," he instructed, capturing her other hand and twisting it to prevent her from curling it into a fist.

Her eyes dropped to the runic sheet, darting back and forth in a pattern that betrayed her creeping anxiety before she looked back at him. "What—"

"I said cut." The words snapped like a whip.

Apocrypha stared back before her gaze slid to her trapped hand, understanding settling in those green, widening eyes.

Yes. The Blood Pact. Not what she'd expected — but he did so love surprising her.

Her throat worked around a swallow, brows drawing back together not in that delicious anger he knew so well, but something closer to dread. She drew the wand to her palm's centre, hesitating for one small, final time before pressing the tip against skin and finally slicing across it. Only when dark blood began pooling thick and unhurried did Osborn release her, drawing his own wand across his right hand without a second thought. His blood ran quick and thin down the side.

He grasped her forearm without warning, impatiently yanking her closer with a harsh, eager sigh through parted lips. Their mingling blood smeared wetly between their skin, sticky and warm. "Take my hand."

Her fingers circled his forearm just above the wrist, anxiety vivid in the way she worried at her inner cheek. She felt ice-cold against his fever-warm skin — he wondered fleetingly if he might burn her.

A new glow drew Apocrypha's attention to the desk, where previously dormant runes now shimmered silver across the parchment. This magic needed no spells — only unwavering intent to bind.

"Our Witness is listening," Osborn murmured, heat crawling up his spine with sweat that dampened his shirt. His rehearsed demands sat ready on his tongue. "You will give me the memory of the night your brother was murdered — unchanged, preserved exactly as you remembered it."

She wrenched her rigid stare from their bloody grasp. "I swear."

A groan bordering on obscene tore from his throat as he tightened his grip on her arm, attempting to pull her closer until she resisted. A single white-gold thread appeared between their joined skin, stretching to circle their forearms and tangling their fingers in tingling loops. The Vow had taken.

A faint scratching sound drew his eyes briefly sideways — their first condition etching itself harshly in letters between the runes. "Your turn."

"Whatever happens to me, or between us," she started readily, "whether I live or die, you will ensure my mother stays properly cared for, but free."

Osborn's smirk widened expectantly. "I swear."

He knew she was trying to loosen his leverage, but his next demands would seal any gaps she might potentially seek in their arrangement — nothing to be worried about.

"You will not try to kill me or my sister. You will not harm any of your future Ministry colleagues." He winked. "Unless I ask for it myself, of course."

Something angry flashed across her face at those words — as if he'd just crushed a long-harboured thought. Which he understood perfectly — her desire to kill him or Eliza — preferably both — had never been a secret. And though binding her violence would rob him of some thrill, securing his position mattered more. He couldn't trust himself around that particular temptation — left unchecked, he'd likely let it win, let her do it just to feel those cold fingers around his throat again. Just to feel her take him.

"I swear." She nodded bitterly, teeth clenched so tight they scraped against each other. "You will not let Sebastian end up in Azkaban. Ever."

His smirk faltered slightly, but he recovered swiftly, snorting. "Impossible. Sallow's case isn't just my problem anymore. Can't stop the trial that'll be inevitable — bit above my pay grade, that."

A hint of panic crept into her eyes. "But you said—"

"I lied," he shrugged easily. "Sallow will face punishment for his crimes according to the law."

She looked aside, gaze darting rapidly in hasty thought. "You will not let Sebastian end up in Azkaban as long as I obey your orders."

Osborn's eyebrows lifted in pleasant surprise. She'd just voiced one of his demands herself. Clever girl.

Though the thought of keeping Sallow out of prison turned his jaw rigid. That insufferable prick had been nothing but trouble, always prying, always scheming. Same methods, same manipulative nature, same raw magical talent. Too nosy for his own good, too audacious, too clever — too bloody similar to Osborn himself, which made him particularly intolerable.

Still. Her complete obedience in exchange for Sallow's conditional freedom? That could wipe his slate clean at the Ministry, cover up every unauthorised step he'd taken. The scales tipped easily in his favour. Especially since in a week's time, she wouldn't be seeing any of her friends ever again. He'd ensure that personally.

"I swear."

Sharp letters scratched themselves onto the contract on their own, merging with the runes as each condition etched itself into existence.

Osborn pouted his lips fondly, watching her shift weight between her feet, distress growing more evident be the second. "Your little coping tricks — don't much care about those, but this you must swear. You will not kill yourself. Both mind and body stay intact enough to never disrupt our work."

The perfect condition to secure their future — leaving her no exits but to stay caged until her dying breath. Of course she'd considered it before — he'd seen it in her eyes more than once aside from that direct threat. The ultimate escape: damage herself beyond use, make herself worthless to them.

Apocrypha's eyes shot up to meet his, wide but exhausted beyond measure. An immediate refusal formed on her lips before she shut them tight — she knew better. Refuse now, and the rest of her demands would be off the table. The sight of her face told him everything — the way her features twisted in quiet agony, how her lips pressed into a thin line as if holding back tears she refused to show him. The realisation of what accepting this condition meant was clear in her expression — she was trapping herself.

Her lower lip trembled before she stilled it. The hesitation gave him time to drop his gaze to their joined hands. Every demand, every condition, every time he swore — he felt it. Parts of his soul merging into the contact as the white-gold thread pulled and spread across the Vow, binding them. He felt it from her side as well, though not quite as strong. Was her resistance dampening the effect?

"Scary, innit?" he whispered, fighting to contain his spreading grin while leaning over to her ear. "You're my first, you know. Rather romantic, if you ask me."

She flinched away from his nearness and squinted painfully, voice cracking slightly. "I... I swear."

The constriction in his chest drew a quiet groan from him, the heat reaching his ears. Finally.

That's it. Good girl. Sweet Merlin, she was his.

"You will—" she croaked, "ensure Ominis's future at the Ministry won't harm him. That he succeeds there."

"Aww," he clicked his tongue adoringly, leaning back from her. "Securing Gaunt's future now? Scared little blind bat won't make it on his own?"

Her demand made sense despite his teasing. With the Gaunts' wealth and reputation in decline, no one really wanted that particular family in their government's high ranks. Surely, they still were the force to be reckoned with, yet even school gossip labelled Ominis as 'one of the worst' for any position of power, gentle nature be damned. Gaunt was a Gaunt. Their blood ran perverted and twisted — centuries of keeping it in the family would show eventually.

"I swear to do what's in my power. Can't promise more — even if he gets in, different department and all that. But I'll see he's safe enough."

"And keep your sister away from him," she bit out.

"Ah-ah," he tutted. "Bit much for Gaunt alone, that. I won't mess with anything that develops naturally. My sister's happiness matters as much as your friends' does to you."

A pretty little half-lie. Eliza's happiness kept her obedient — and Gaunt was just her priciest caprice. Teenage love proved so wonderfully malleable.

She swallowed hard, looking at him through a deep frown. "Fix Leander's head then."

His chuckle rolled into immediate laughter. "Not bloody likely."

What a waste of energy and magic that would be — knitting that git's brains back together would take a week. Time he didn't have, not with the chaos waiting for him in London.

"If you're that bothered about Prewett, try building it up fresh. Real friendship should survive that, yeah?"

Apocrypha's eyes slid away tellingly. She wouldn't bother. Starting from scratch needed time and dedication she didn't possess. This wasn't about friendship — this was just her guilt over that nosy prat's fate.

"Anything else?"

She glanced up once more. "You will not touch my head anymore. After this memory, we're done. No more invading my mind."

He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, shifting to shake off the heat still scalding his body. Clever little snake — had she used his excitement to make him forget the memory check he was supposed to perform before they began? Or had he slipped up? What was she planning? Trying to hide something?

"Mmm," he drawled, looking down at her. "Right then. But you'll never breathe a word about us to your mates. Not the case, not the Ministry — nothing that's not their business or might let them interfere."

The deepening crease between her brows betrayed her intentions clear as day — she'd planned to tell them everything once her mind was safely locked, spill everything to those two bastards. Like hell she would.

"So what will it be?" He waggled his eyebrows knowingly. "Your privacy or their peace of mind in blissful ignorance?"

Her eyes hooded in resignation — she's made her choice. "I swear I won't tell them."

Osborn's smirk stretched wide, all teeth. "Then I swear to leave your mind alone. Forever."

Her head bobbed weakly, eyes drifting sideways. "Don't touch me anymore. Not like... back then. I don't want it."

His smirk faltered. How many times would she dredge that up? He wasn't proud of what happened — but regret wasn't quite the right word either. Still, with how thoroughly bound she'd be from now on, perhaps she deserved this small freedom.

"Want me to swear that?"

She scoffed, the sound raw with hurt. "Will you?"

He nodded slightly. "I swear I won't touch you unless you allow it or circumstances demand it."

The oath left him with less reluctance than expected — something he privately acknowledged with relief.

Apocrypha's face smoothed, anger and hurt melting away to leave only traces of defeat. But he'd seen this before. She'd spark up again later, and they'd start the whole dance anew.

"That's all."

His mouth twisted again, though less wickedly now. "Squeeze my arm. Hard as you can."

The pressure above his wrist came tentative and weak — her fingers couldn't properly circle his arm, let alone block blood flow. Good thing his blood ran thin, unlike hers — it would rush back the moment she released.

He squeezed her in return, his large hand easily encompassing her forearm. "Let go."

Blood rushed back into their palms as pressure disappeared, refreshingly warm but sticky still. Osborn shifted their grip above the contract, the white-gold thread coiling tighter around their hands. Its foggy strands stretched towards the parchment, now filled with their Vow's text.

He adjusted their position, pressing their palms together to connect the cuts. The moment their raw flesh met, blood properly mixing, he felt it — his entire soul, bound to this contract. No pretty metaphor — he was literally there, in this piece of paper. Breaking this would kill him.

Yet something caught his attention — he couldn't feel her the same way he did himself. She was physically present, standing right beside him, but her soul seemed... Partial. Incomplete.

Why?

And most importantly — did it change anything?

He glanced down at her secretly as weak light sealed into the contract. Her expression — defeated, broken, yet stubbornly contained — suggested full acceptance of their agreement and its sacrifices. No hint of deception.