Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It is February, and the frost of winter coats the world like powdered silver. The winter has been hard, and the spring is late. The hedges of Little Whinging are untidy with tousled and withered grass; even a few lustreless seedy blackberries linger. The grey concrete of the opulent town was overlaid with the mushy, dank, lifeless brown leaves from the previous Autumn. In the keen wind the dead leaves and stalks rustle like paper, and it might as well be incredible that this frost parched earth ever produced, or ever would produce, young life. Yet there is one, single, undeniable fact. The plants would flower again. 

    If you had ever decided to go out for a leisurely stroll down Privet drive, a road known for its ostentatious appearance; Every house is indistinguishable from the next. It was a respectable area, known for its comfortable lifestyle in the countryside, housing many thriving families. 

Tucked away in this vibrant picture of pure serenity, was house number 24, an inconspicuous looking house, with a pristine garden. Not one blade of grass was out of place, each bush perfectly trimmed and not a weed in sight. It very well could have brought a seasoned gardener to tears. 

The impeccable garden was an emblem of the Dursley family. Petunia Mary Dursley, a reputable homemaker. Wife of Vernon Dursley, the director at a drill-making firm. Now with such a prosperous couple, it would be a shock for them to not have blessed with a little boy; Dudley Dursley.

And of course, as the way of life goes, something unanticipated befell the Dursley family

That unanticipated something was called Harry Potter.

The shrill call of a banshee awoke Harry–wait banshees don't exist? Oh. Petunia. 

Reluctantly, Harry Potter squeezed out of his cupboard, his solace from the harsh outdoors. Blinking, he reached for his glasses as he finished waking himself. Today marked the day he was allowed out of his cupboard, after spending a week of being locked inside–only allowed out for hygiene–and that was the Dursleys being merciful. 

   “Boy!” Yelled Petunia “Why is taking so long! You better not make me come over there, or else” Petunia’s tone dropped to a deadly whisper, making Harry freeze on the spot, every fiber of his being telling him to run. He didn't need to ask to know what ‘or else’ meant. 

  “Yes Miss Petunia.” Harry said, already halfway inside of the kitchen. Petunia had the strange habit of wanting to be called Miss, even though she was married. Harry came to the conclusion that it was because she liked feeling young. He stopped calling her Aunt years ago.

 As he took over the breakfast that Petunia all but threw into his arms, he couldn't help but think: “Petunia is a gentle flower…Petunia flower and Miss Petunia are polar opposites…” he pondered, mixing the porridge a little longer than necessary

 “ I hope my mum's name was true to her character…..”

  Petunia never spoke of his mother or father, and when she did, it  was never kind-

*SNAP* “I knew it! I knew it!” Said Petunia, snapping her boney fingers in front of his face,

 “ Dozing off are we? Get back to work, I'm talking to Vernon about this when he returns.” She let go of Harry’s wrist, which was now a vibrant coral due to her iron grip. 

Any annoyance Harry had with her interrupting his daydreaming was now overclouded with fear. Anything but Vernon! 

  “I’m sorry Miss Petunia.” he mumbled. “As you should be, freak!” she began, wrinkling her nose as if she had smelt something particularly unpleasant– which was unfortunately, him.  Harry tuned out the rest of her screaming

After eventually creating breakfast, he saw a small ramekin with some leftover porridge. After practically inhaling it, and thanking whatever force had pitied him enough to leave him some food, he got ready for school.

St. Gregory’s Primary School. The name is inaccurate, it is not a school, it is a prison. The teachers only suck up to children whose parents pay….extra if you would call it. And for Harry, the Dursleys would rather jump off a cliff than spare a penny for him.

 Dudley, a child approaching the size of a small pig, was also not helping his school life, doing whatever his small brain could think of to make him suffer.

Harry’s eyes narrowed, and he briefly entertained the idea of running away, he could easily slip past the children when exiting the school and make a run for it.

But then what?

Harry was not stupid, either Vernon would catch him or the police would. He wasn’t exactly an inconspicuous looking 10 year old. 

He was scrawny– wearing a baggy shirt 3 sizes too big, oversaturated green eyes, and a scar in the shape of a lightning bolt.

He would be more shocked if he wasn't found.

Plus, he would rather not risk being caught by Vernon.

Swallowing his woes, he stepped out onto the pavement, and the moment the door to Number 24 closed, Harry felt the beginning of an earthquake.

Except it wasn't an earthquake. It was something worse.

Shoving Harry with his sausage hands, Dudley attempted to run past him. 

“Watch it, freak!”

Harry spent a good moment on the pavement, wishing he wouldn't have to get up. 

Collecting himself, he got up, ignoring the searing pain in his lower back.

Well his day couldn't possibly go any worse, right? He thought with false enthusiasm. 

How wrong he was.

Harry took his seat at the back of the class, it was a roughed up wooden seat with dozens of scratches on it. Even just looking  at it made him feel all the splinters.

He was treated much like a leper in his class. 

The boring class dragged on, the distance between each tick of the clock seemingly getting longer and slower. Harry was tucked away; out of sight, out of mind. Which was useful, considering Harry had been observing from the shadows most of his life. He loathed being treated like the circus clown, but children were crueler then adults would like to admit.

Almost like the rapture had begun, a bell rang through the school, signalling the end of the torturous class. Stuffing his bag with his books, he slipped through the crowd and out into the courtyard. 

Harry always adored plants. 

Even though some might have found it tedious, due to how often Miss Petunia would give him menial tasks in the garden, Harry doted on plants like they were his own children. 

Harry has heard all about the wonders of the world, where the air is laden with the perfume of thousands of flora; where the sky is painted like a sea of azure that washes away all, where each gust of wind carries the unspoken words between people.

Oh how he longed to explore the world around him! To not be boxed into his little cupboard, to stretch his wings and set out to fly.

In his hand was a fresh buttercup-colored petal, plucked from the Winter's Aconite.

Winter's Aconite is a wild flower which is nowadays more commonly found in parks or gardens. It was also primarily called a Buttercup, because it was from the same family.

It was a fragile little thing, barely even out of its babyhood. But nevertheless, it fought the harsh conditions of winter and still blooms into a vibrant yellow.

How Harry wished to be a Buttercup.

How Harry wished to be many things. 

Children began pooling into the courtyard, and a group of bulky boys – and Dudley began stomping towards him.

“Oh, freak!” They cried, and other children rushed to circle around them to observe the drama like sharks catching the scent of blood. He sighed, contained his frustration of being interrupted, and prepared to face them.

Harry stood up, and began trying to get as far as possible from them.

‘What now? Leave me alone’

“Where are you going?” they called after him, screaming and laughing.

“Oh look! His fingers are brown, and he is always In the mud, he must be a pig!” Yelled Dudley, as the gang of boys began chasing after Harry.

‘Look who's talking.’ Harry internally rolled his eyes. Dudley had no right to talk because his fingers were always in chocolate. Hmph.

But Harry was agile, and easily outran them.

“Leave me alone Dudley!” Harry screamed.

“What was that, freak?” Dudley yelled, snickering.

A boy–which Harry identified to be Piers Polkiss caught him, and restrained him.

Dudley reached them, panting like he had run a marathon. Which to him, it probably was. 

‘Let–let me go!” Harry struggled, thrashing around.

Dudley smirked, and raised his fist. WHAM

A searing pain burst through Harry’s right cheek, and he tasted the familiar tangy taste of blood.

Luckily for Harry, the impact also hit Polkiss, and he wriggled himself out. A thin, scrawny looking boy who resembled a stick tried to chase after him-- Gordon. Taunting him while the other boys stood and laughed. 

“Shut up! Just SHUT UP!” Harry yelled, wishing that the boy would just leave him alone.

Piers froze, and the laughing died down into an uncomfortable silence. Suddenly, the boy reached for is throat, and opened his mouth, choking. 

And out bloomed a buttercup. All the boys – excluding Dudley– rushed the boy to the nurse, as he began to struggle to breathe. The boy was crying and the others were panicking, thinking that he was going to die. 

“What did you do?!” Shrieked Dudley “This was your doing, y-your freakishness!” His face turned into a deep puce, rivalling that of Vernon's. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree afterall.

“I didn't do anything!” Said Harry “I swear, i-it was like magic!” 

Like the world had ceased to spin, it went silent.

Dudley’s face rapidly turned from puce to pale.

“Oh. Oh shite. Shite. Shite. Shite. If I didn't commit suicide by my breakfast stunt, then saying the M- word certainly did.’

But as if the gods had heard Harry's desperate internal plea, the walrus of a child just turned around and marched away.

Harry blinked once.

He blinked twice.

He blinked thrice to check he wasn't hallucinating.

Dudley, leaving him alone for once? Impossible! Harry was already suspicious, today was going too well in his favour. 

Well, 

Small mercies.

It wasn’t long before a teacher stormed out furiously, likely because the witnesses painted a narrative about how archangel Dudley Dursley had been attacked by the demon-child Harry Potter.

‘I am so doomed.’

‘Yes of course Mr. Peterson, we will discipline him accordingly. We are terribly sorry.’ Said Vernon with a saccharine tone and sickly-sweet smile. 

But Harry could read Vernon’s eyes. He was thunderous.

Harry’s throat closed up and he just stood there, hoping it would make him invisible. 

He heard the beep of the call ending and braced himself for impact, closing his eyes.

But he did not feel the familiar spit spraying his face, nor the fist to the gut, nor the harsh yank on his hair.

He hesitantly opened his eyes, and gazed into Vernon’s, who was just standing there with a menacing smile.

‘I believe we ought to discipline him properly, pet, do you?’ He said, turning to Miss Petunia. 

Harry’s heart dropped to his stomach when he saw Miss Petunia pull out his notebook filled with illustrations and descriptions of the plants he had collected over the years.

‘Why yes Vernon, I believe we its about time we did.’ Her smile widened, accentuating her horse-like features.

‘Come now, boy’ He said in a suspiciously soft tone. 

Harry didn’t move, standing there opening and closing his mouth like a goldfish, his eyes darting wildly around for any sign of escape.

‘Now.’ Miss Petunia’s sweet tone dropped into an icy-cold one, and Harry felt shivers crawl up his back.

He cautiously approached them. Eyes nervously flickering from Vernon's to Petunia's.

‘Now, come and sit here’ Vernon pointed to the fireplace.

Harry slowly sat down in front of it, shoulders tense.

He felt Miss Petunia’s hands put something around his neck– a collar?

Humiliation burned his cheeks, he was used to embarrassment from the Dursley's, but this was a low bar, even for them.

‘What?’ Harry tugged at it, but she smacked his hands away.

‘Now. In the fire. ' she gestured to the book 'We will watch you, so do it properly.’ 

Harry’s world froze.

‘They wanted him to destroy it?....’ 

'W-wait, no. Please! I'll do anything! Not this! anything else!' He began to plead with the Dursley's, hoping to find some some small shred of humanity they had left. But all Harry was greeted with was cold.

‘NOW BOY!’ Vernon spat.

Harry violently flinched, and put his hands in the fire. His face eerily vacant as his skin burned and his book was being burnt to pieces. 

 'Now for talking back, you will keep your hands there until I say so.' 

Petunia and Vernon stood there triumphantly, before she left to go cook dinner for Dudley.

His gaze absent-mindedly swept over the room looking for escape as the sweat droplets sprinkled his face. 

He was collared to the armchair, he couldn’t escape if he wanted to.

Five minutes passed.

Then ten.

Then fifteen.

The book was already reduced to ashes.

The burn of the fire was gradually becoming less painful as Harry got used to it.

But It wasn’t only Harry's book that burnt down that night.

Chapter Text

It had been two days. 

Two days and the burn hadn’t gone. 

After twenty minutes, Miss Petunia had come and ‘untied’ him

He had wrapped up his blistered hands in an old cloth and was lucky enough that half-term had begun.

He couldn’t dare go see a doctor. 

Because seeing a doctor would mean questions.

And questions meant pain. 

Miss Petunia had come to his cupboard, and she knocked thrice on the shabby, little door. ‘Boy’ she said. ‘Go to the Milkman's and return with a litre and a half.’ He could hear her receding footsteps, and Harry stretched outwards. He could do with a walk; He had been locked in his cupboard for a week and was starving. 

    He would usually have to go biweekly to the milkman's, even if the supermarket was nearer. Dolefully, he scrambled out of his cupboard and brushed the dust and cobwebs off of himself. Petunia was standing there, looking down at him disparagingly. She handed him exactly five pounds.

   Night had fallen, and the lack of the sunlight cast a long shadow over Surrey. He could faintly hear the chirping of crickets, but nothing more than him and the silence. After fifteen minutes he reached the milkman's, and he was briefly worried if he would allow him this late. Petunia would never allow him to return empty-handed. Luckily for Harry, he bought the milk. 

“What a nice child you are, doing chores for your mother.” Said the milkman. “Say, I think I have a little extra,” He pulled out a slightly melted sweet, and handed it to him. 

 “Thank you, Mr Poppers.” He took the sweet gratefully and stuffed it in his pocket.

“You’re very welcome, young boy.’ The man replied, he seemed to take notice of the bandaged hands but didn’t comment on it. 

That was what Little Whinging was like. They kept everything  behind closed doors. He bid his goodbye to the elderly man, and slowly made his way back to Privet drive. From what Harry could see, most plants the inhabitants of Little Whinging had were common easy-to-care-for flora. His hand still ached but Harry would secretly steal Aloe Vera from the bathroom and use it as a soothing balm. 

It didn’t take long before Harry reached Number 24. The lights were off in the house, which was weird since the Dursley family would often stay until midnight absorbed in the television. And Harry didn’t have much faith to believe that they had chosen something healthy for once. He put the milk in the Milk box next to the doorstep. And attempted to open the door; it was locked. He knocked on the door. Silence. 

‘They can’t have fallen asleep! The entire trip only took around thirty minutes give-or-take.’

Not only panic, but rage surged through Harry. Why? He had done everything to win their affection, and was only met with pain. He was burned for crying out loud! Harry thumped on the door again, this time louder. And the weight of his situation had begun to sink in. 

He was abandoned. 

He kept the change from the milkman, and began to run. He only had a pathetic two pounds and a sweet. Where could he go? But as the distance between Number 24 and Harry increased, Harry felt…relief. Worrying about where he was going to sleep was a problem for the future, but Harry exclaimed with joy. 

He was free. 

The previous joy had now evaporated into stress, where should he sleep? It was around midnight and he could only see a sparse amount of people, which Harry didn’t trust enough to go and ask for help. 

He entered the park and curled up on a wooden bench. The lights being his only source of comfort. He checked for any homeless people before settling down on the bench. He shivered, the night was getting colder, and Harry was still in the oversized shirt from Dudley. He curled up, and eventually pulled into a dreamless slumber.

Rustling awoke Harry, and his eyes shot open in panic. There was a scraggly, homeless-looking man in front of his bench.

 ‘Kid, you got any money?’ the man slurred, he reeked of alcohol and probably did drugs too. Harry was now acutely aware of the danger he was in. 

‘No sir.’ He replied, trying to keep as much of a distance he possibly could. The man was blocking him, so he couldn’t just make a run for it. 

‘Stop fucking lying!’ His face turned a shade of red that would make a tomato proud. He swung at Harry with what looked to be a knife.

 But fortunately for Harry, he was used to being attacked, and he was small enough to dodge and made a run for it. His blood cold the entire time.

After running for a long while, the adrenaline from the encounter died down. He found a small alleyway tucked in between two buildings. But Harry was still shaken up. The man would’ve killed him! He put his hands in his face and wept the rest of the night. 

The next morning Harry awoke hungry, he pulled out the sweet and ate it. He crawled out of his alleyway, and began to wander the streets. He noticed how the passers-by looked at him; like a street urchin. He curled into himself even more.

Much to the dismay of his pride, he rummaged through a bakery bin for breakfast and found a perfectly fine box of eclairs. His mouth watered at the sight, he had never tried an eclair before. Dudley would just lick his fingers and maliciously stare at him.

‘I’m going to call the police!’ Yelled a stranger. Harry froze gaping like a goldfish ‘No…wait! I’m not a criminal!..’  His throat was dry and no words came out. His eyes were wide with shock; adrenaline surged through his small body and he ran, like how he always does. 

He returned to his alleyway, teary-eyed. He feasted on the Eclairs which made him feel a little bit better. The clouds were gray, and Harry didn’t have an umbrella. His mood drooped even lower. 

A few hours had passed, and the time of day Harry was dreading most was looming at him menacingly. Night. He had been saving the Eclairs and had just enough for breakfast and dinner. He was sitting glumly next to a putrid-smelling bin. 

His eyes snapped open again to rustling, and his mind immediately feared the man had found him again. Luckily, it was just a stray cat. 

A month had passed.  It was now the nearing the end of Autumn. Harry had become a seasoned pick-pocket and 'bin rummager', and he was no longer overwhelmed by panic and sorrow. 

There weren’t many homeless people in Little Whinging, it was a rich area after all. The man who had attacked him on his first night had been arrested a few weeks ago for attempted murder. Harry would scavenge newspapers from time to time. 

He had also been mugged a few weeks ago of what little things he had.

He sighed. His burns had festered into a nasty infection. 

He laid down on the cold concrete and stared at the bricks across him. And drifted away into a sleep.

Harry, a newly minted light sleeper, woke up to scraping and rustling. He stood up into a protective stance. A crone was rummaging through his bin. She looked like the storybook definition of a hag, warts and all. 

 ‘Who are you!’ He demanded, trying to look as intimidating as possible, masking the fear underneath. 

The hag turned, as if only noticing him now. ‘Ooh!’ she cackled ‘look! A kiddie! I didn’t expect this pompous muggle area to abandon their youth to the streets!’ She snorted, laughing at herself, flashing her yellow and black teeth. 

‘She’s insane.’ Harry thought, narrowing his eyes. ‘Muggles?’

‘Go.’ He repeated, praying she would leave. 

‘Why should I, little boy? This alleyway is as much mine as it is yours!’

Harry backed away from her, she wasn’t worth the fight. Suddenly the hag froze, her beady grey eyes locked on his forehead. On his scar. 

‘What did you say your name was, child?’ She spoke. 

Harry wasn’t going to say his real name, so he took a name from a storybook he had read. ‘Poirier. Callum Poirier.’ 

Chapter Text

It was all nonsense. The old lady– who wasn’t much of a lady– spoke to him about a world of magic and wonder. Perhaps a small part of Harry would have believed her so, if he wasn’t so vehemently against the mere thought of it. For, if magic truly were real, that would mean the Dursley’s had been correct about him; that he was indeed something unnatural. 

“I don’t believe you” Said Harry, arms crossed. After all, he had met his fair share of lunatics. What makes this lady any different?

The crone simply inclined her head with a grin, showing her sharp, rotting teeth. ‘And you needn’t to, but I can show you.” Her voice dropped down to a whisper, and Harry stepped back, seriously regretting not running when he had the chance to.

The crone hobbled toward him, and reached out a wrinkly hand. Before Harry could process what she was going to do she grabbed his bandaged hand. 

A warm feeling spread throughout his body, prickling at his skin.

The hag made a noise of approval. “You’re one of us.”

Harry was trailing behind the woman as she went from bin to bin scavenging it. He still didn’t fully believe her but it was better to be safe then sorry. 

“I can take you to our world, child. However, if I am to take you, you need to promise me a small favour” She turned to him, acknowledging him for the first time in an hour. 

Harry caught himself before shouting ‘yes!’. “What kind of favour?” He asked suspiciously. 

“Smart boy,” she praised, “I live in a place called ‘Knockturn Alley’, and we have a place there for abandoned urchins like you.’ Said she. 

Harry shifted uncomfortably at the nickname ‘abandoned urchin’, the promise seemed almost too good to be true. 

After rolling the thought around in his thoughts, he finally agreed. 

The elderly woman looked at him triumphantly, but there was a glint of something else in her eye. 

After going through countless streets until Harry was sure they were no longer in Little Whinging and magically going from a green fire to another fire, they finally arrived in London. 

Harry looked around London with wide eyes, he had never been; the Dursley’s forbade it, and they never would have taken him anyway. Thought Harry miserably. 

He had asked once or twice if they could sit down and take a break and drink some water, but the hag seemed to not hear him or pretend not to.

Harry still had a small voice telling him in the back of his head telling him to turn back and run, but he ignored it. The lady was kind enough to feed him! And take him to the magical world! She had to be trustworthy. 

After a lot more walking, Honestly, for an old woman she sure walks a lot, the duo arrived at Charing Cross road.

If Harry were to voice his thoughts, the road was busy, yes. But it didn’t look all that magical to him. 

The crone turned to him in what felt like ages and threw him a cloak. ‘How cool! A real Wizard cloak!’ 

“Put it on.” Hey beady eyes flickered to a building which no-one seemed to enter. 

‘The Leaky Cauldron’ Huh, figures.

Harry had so many questions, but the hag had specifically instructed him to stay silent, so he did.

Harry pulled up his hood and followed the hag inside.

The bell announced their arrival, and Harry looked around in wonder. 

It had a musty smell mixed with tobacco. The interior was covered in oak woods and yellowed walls with orange light flickering from the candles. 

Very magical-looking if you were to ask Harry, who was preserving every detail to memory.

Harry noticed the pub was mostly filled with elderly people, and he wondered if she also would come here.

Apparently not. Harry thought. A quiet hush fell over pub, the people either glaring or sending scrutinising stares toward them.

Harry was now grateful for the cloak.

The hag murmured something to the innkeeper, a bald, hunched over man. He led them to a brick wall.

Harry was seriously doubting every choice leading to this moment.

The hag rhythmically tapped her hand on the wall, and Harry watched in awe as the bricks pulled themselves back like a curtain being drawn.

Diagon Alley, the irony was not lost on him, met his expectations and more. 

Gone was the smelly alleyway he would sleep in.

Gone was the world where he would have to constantly look over his shoulder. 

In front of him was a new world, and Harry never intended on letting it go.

"Where are we going?" Asked Harry, hurrying after her. He wished to analyse every store in detail, but she urged him to hurry along. Diagon Alley was a cobbled street filled to the brim with interesting things. Harry, who had only ever lived in a homogeneous area was obsessing over every atom which surrounded him. 


'People were wearing actual hats! Witch hats!' Did Harry die and was this heaven? 

Shopkeepers were shouting out and Owls were flying above his head, If Harry weren't in such a state of wonder he would've been overwhelmed.

The hag clicked her boney fingers and yanked him, snapping Harry back to the present. He followed her until the crowd of people going about their day died down and they were in a darker area. Harry felt the shift of atmosphere before he saw it. The alley was less cramped but felt imposing. It was darker, greyer then Diagon Alley. He saw a few hooded women, who looked much like the one he was following, eyeing him curiously, like fresh livestock. 

Harry felt a chill up his spine. Something was wrong. 

"Æthelberht, whose kiddie have you taken now?" One asked opening her mouth and laughing, revealing her toothless mouth.

Taken?! Harry was now aware how foolish it was to blindly trust this woman, yet he could not bring himself to move.

"Unfortunately, this one wasn't taken this time. He was some muggleborn abandoned to the streets." She cackled. "He has a scar which slightly resembles that potter-babe, do you think we could perhaps sell him for a good price?"

Harry screamed. A long, piercing, terrible scream –

–that never made it past his lips. His mouth was open, and he felt his throat working and his lungs loose their breath, but no noise came out. Utter silence, despite how hard he screamed. No one would ever hear...

The hags smiled even wider.

Harry stumbled backwards, hands out to either side, feeling for something or anything to ground him. There was nothing he could do. He couldn't run blindly deeper into the shady Alley. He didn't even have Surrey or even magic. He had nothing. 

And then the last tiny part of him that was still Harry Potter, angry and rightfully terrified, remembered he could run.

And so he ran,

But that was until magic blasted into his back, knocking him unconscious.

Chapter Text

Harry woke to the ache of his back against a hard wooden floor. His head throbbed. Everything was blurred, a haze of grey and movement, and for one terrible second he thought he’d gone blind.

Then the panic settled in.

‘Where were his glasses?’

The memories came back in flashes, disorientating Harry even more.

“—Oh Merlin! You’re awake!” A figure approached Harry, a boy, maybe seventeen. He had sunny blonde curls and pale blue eyes. 

He was gorgeous.

“I saw those hags drag you in,” the boy said, his voice a low whisper. “Can you remember anything?”

Harry’s throat felt dry. “Æthelberht…” he croaked. “Where am I?”

“You’re a part of the Nocturne now.” The boy glanced over his shoulder again, lower voice this time. But he didn’t explain. Not really.

Harry hated how his heart sped up. “Th—what?”

“The Nocturne.” The boy’s lips thinned, like he expected Harry to already know. “Are you a Muggleborn?”

“Muggleborn?” Harry echoed.

The boy let out a breath, annoyed. “Right. Of course you are.” He pinched the bridge of his nose as if pained by Harry’s existence. “How did you even get here?”

“I told you. I was homeless. And Æthelberht said there was a place for people like me—”

“Avarum,” the boy muttered, like it was a slur. “Figures.”

Harry blinked. The way he said it… like it meant something dangerous.

“…What’s that?” Harry asked.

The boy didn’t answer immediately. His jaw worked, like he was debating whether telling him was worth the trouble. Then he leaned closer.

“There are… groups,” he said finally. “Here. Within the Nocturne.”

That didn’t help at all.

Harry waited, but the boy didn’t continue right away. His eyes kept flicking to the door as though shadows themselves were listening. His shoulders were stiff...and he seemed scared of something...of someone. 

“There are seven,” he murmured. “But don’t think about all of them. Just think about the ones you really don’t want attention from.”

A cold weight settled in Harry’s stomach. “Who?”

“The Cogitari.” He said the name like a curse.

Harry swallowed. “And… what do they do?”

The boy let out a humourless laugh. “Everything.”

That wasn’t reassuring. It wasn’t even an answer. But Harry felt instinctively that it wasn’t supposed to be.

“The others…” The boy waved vaguely, as if listing them might summon them. “Different work. Different… talents. You’ll learn quickly.”

Learn what? Harry thought helplessly. Learn how to make his life any more miserable than it already is?

“The kid they took before you,” the boy went on quietly, “was probably sent to the Sanguis If he’s lucky.” Harry’s breath caught. There was something wrong with the way he said lucky. “And the Avarum?” Harry asked.

The boy’s mouth curved, not quite a smile. “You’ve already met them.” Harry’s chest tightened, unnatural fear clawing at his chest.

“And you?” Harry managed. “What are you?”

His expression shifted, guarded. “Augur.”

Harry didn’t know what that meant, but the boy didn’t offer more. No lists. No neat descriptions. Only fragments Harry couldn’t fit together. It was worse, somehow. “What does any of this have to do with me?” Harry whispered.

“You were smuggled in,” the boy said, a flicker of annoyance washing over his perfect features. “That’s enough.”

Harry stared at him. “Enough for what?”

“To make you one of us.”

Harry stayed silent, his mouth slightly agape as he stared at the boy before him.

“And tonight… you’ll learn your place.”

His stomach dropped. What?

He was suddenly a lot more conscious where he was. Him? A mafia? He was barely eleven for crying out loud! He’d barely ever touched a wand, and now they wanted him to be part of some crime group full of killers and Wizards?

Harry stared at the ground, his thoughts spiraling. How could this be real?... He should've never entered the Wizarding World.

Harry felt sick. His gaze caught on something at the boy’s throat, a black leather collar, with an oval opalite crystal glowing faintly at its center.

“What’s that?” he asked, pointing.

The boy’s expression hardened. “Our binding bands. They suppress most of our magic, and the crystal shows which coven we belong to. You can’t take them off unless the Syndarch or someone from the Inner Circle permits it.”

“Syndarch?”

“Leader.”

“Oh.” Harry looked down and noticed one around his own neck, white, gleaming faintly. “Then why do I have one?”

“When will you understand?” hissed the boy suddenly, voice sharp enough to make Harry flinch. “I’m risking myself even being here! You’re in the Nocturne now, a member. The Binding Rite happens tonight. Be careful, new kid, most don't survive it.”

Before Harry could ask anything else, the boy turned, heading toward the corridor.

“Wait!” Harry called. “Will I see you again?”

The boy hesitated at the doorway. “If you’re lucky, no.” Then he vanished down the hall, leaving Harry alone.

A lump formed in Harry’s throat. Harry tugged at the collar, panic clawing up his throat. It reminded him too much of the feeling when Miss Petunia burned his journal. 

He pulled harder. 

It burned his skin.

He tried the door next, frantically scrambling toward it. His fingers brushed an invisible barrier. He couldn’t leave.

The room itself was huge and dimly lit, stone walls surrounding him. Small windows spilled a sliver of light onto the floor. 

Harry peered through one, and gaped.

A castle. A massive one. Like it was straight out of a gothic storybook. Around the castle was a dense forest so thick you would probably only be able to get through it by using a saw.

Harry’s eyes flicked aback to the room around him.

He wasn’t alone, either. There were others lying across the floor, still as statues.

Harry knelt beside one, an older man, maybe in his thirties. He shook his shoulder gently. 

No response.

 The man’s breathing was shallow, his face blank, like he was asleep but not.

A magic-made sleep.

It hit Harry all at once.

‘That’s why he was surprised to see me awake.’

Harry sank down against the cold wall, burying his face in his hands. 

Why did I believe her? Why was I so stupid?

He pressed his palms to his eyes, willing the tears away.

‘How naïve can one person be?’

A few hours had passed, and night was dawning. Harry had been sitting in that room looking around for some kind of miracle exit.

Newsflash: there was none.

Whoever had enchanted the room had clearly done a good job at it, because if not for the windows, Harry wouldn't have even had a sense of time.

The room was located in some kind of tower, semi - detached from the rest of the castle. Harry had been mentally mapping out the fortress from the sparse view he had. 

The castle was big, obviously. With what looked to be many different wings and towers. If Harry weren't in such a dire situation he may have called it cool.

Harry was the youngest out of the group of people. There were about seventeen, including him eighteen. All of them were adults, the youngest looking at least early-twenties.

His stomach rumbled, a lonely sound in the room of gentle breathing.

Harry was used to going without food so that wasn't a main concern here. 

The main concern was that he was recruited for a fucking Wizard mafia.

Harry felt scandalised to swear, as he'd only really heard it from Dudley and never wanted to risk it with his aunt and uncle. He slouched back down onto the cold, stone floor, pressing his ear against the rough rock. The back of his neck prickled from the gust of air coming from under the door, a clanking sound was coming towards the door with a small speckle of light bursting from the crack under the door as if whatever was on the other side had just been enlightened.

Harry quickly closed his eyes, pretending to be sleeping like the others.

He heard some stomping, there were multiple people in the room.

“Shall we awaken them, Shade?” Said a deep voice coming from Harry's front left. 

Shade? Must be a name.

“No, not at once. One by one, start with the oldest.” The person Harry assumed to be Shade responded.

The footsteps receded from where Harry was feigning sleeping. And Harry, who was desperately trying to keep his breath even, let out a small sigh of relief.

They went to the farthest point away from him, and a bright flash of something happened and a deep gasp followed. The man was awake, and he heard him be dragged away.

“Take him to the ritual chambers.” Said Shade.

The man did not even protest. And Harry briefly wondered how many people had voluntarily signed up for this.

It didn’t seem too ludicrous of a thought, as perhaps new recruits are put into a magical sleep to ensure that this location doesn't get leaked while they take them here. 

 It was the most logical explanation Harry could muster, anyway.

One by one, they all were woken up and dragged to the ‘ritual chambers’ and Harry felt an increasing anxiety as they got closer and closer to him.

Until Harry was the last one.

“This one looks a bit young,” said an unfamiliar voice. “Even the usual street rats aren’t this petite. The kid’s not gonna survive a second.”

“You know how those in the Avarum are,” replied Shade, sounding almost bored.

Harry suddenly saw a bright flash behind his eyes, and a wet, slimy feeling engulfed his entire body.

Mimicking all those who came before him, Harry snapped his eyes open and took a deep gasp.

Finally seeing the people behind the voices, he counted five in the room. A man in a deep black robe with gold-embroidered fire licking up from the hem stood at the center. He had long black hair tied in a braid and cutting obsidian eyes. 

He didn’t wear a collar but rather a bracelet with a crimson-colored garnet in the center; he wasn’t from Goldilocks Coven then. The man stared down coldly at him, he was probably Shade.

Harry couldn’t entirely tell who the other voices belonged to, as the rest were all dressed the same: deep red robes with hoods pulled up, golden dragon masks with different faces, and golden-embroidered fire that actually moved.

They were probably some form of the Dominus’.

Two approached Harry and yanked him up by the arms, dragging him. Harry half expected the barrier not to work, but unfortunately, it did. 

He watched in horror as they hauled him through a maze of hallways and corridors until they reached an ashy-colored, sallyport-looking door.

They waited. Someone was probably still going through the ritual.

A shrill scream of pure terror rang from behind the door. Harry stiffened.

What the heck were they doing in there?

A wash of cold ran over him as the doors slowly opened, almost cinematically.

It was a dark circular room, lined with Corinthian columns stretching from floor to ceiling. Above, the ceiling gave way to a huge gaping hole, an enchanted blood moon peering down at them.

At the center stood a platform with a symbol engraved into it. It was strangely familiar to Harry, even if he'd never seen it before. 

Surrounding the platform was a moat.

The stench hit Harry’s nose, making his knees buckle.

He took a shaky breath.

The platform was covered in blood, like a sick painting.

“No!” Tears prickled at his eyes. “No! I don’t want to–this is a mistake! No!” He thrashed against the grip of the others, but they barely reacted.

Harry was shoved onto the platform, feeling like someone thrown under a spotlight. 

Tears streamed freely now as he looked up at the golden dragon mask.

He was in terrible danger.

Chapter Text

The Snowdrop. Galanthus nivalis. It has no color and barely perfumes, which is usually detected by the early bees of late winter, because the flower intends it for them. 

Galanthus nivalis does indeed emphasise their whiteness and purity, calling the plant ‘milk flower’

More often than not, people harvest the Snowdrop for its purity, but that results in it losing the very quality it had been chosen for.

‘The world may never notice if a snowdrop doesn't bloom, ‘

Harry screamed and thrashed, biting deep into the arms of the people restraining him. They loosened their grip and Harry felt an ever so small flicker of victory.

‘Or even pause to wonder if the petals fall too soon. ‘

“Crucio!” Harry was on the floor, writhing around, he didn't even realise he was screaming. It was pure agony, every pore was being set aflame and ripped apart. His head was spinning and he heard the Dursleys laughing at him in the back of his mind. “Make it stop! MAKE IT STOP!”

‘But every life that ever forms, ‘

The agony stopped, and Harry sat there curled in on himself, looking into the distance, panting heavily. He hadn't even realised it had stopped, he just lay there, whimpering.

‘Or ever comes to be, ‘

He heard a voice, maybe two? Telling him to get up. But it was all buzzing in Harry’s head.

 Suddenly, Harry found a tall man walking up to his side; he had not noticed him until he was quite close to him, breaking the trance of dissociation Harry was in. 

‘Touches the world in some small way’

The man’s eyes had a peculiar power that compelled one to look into them: they were so strange, so clear, so unfathomable. The deep cerulean hue appeared to erase the world, leaving only him and those eyes.

‘for all eternity.’

His eyes fogged up as the word ‘Imperio’ slipped out of the man’s lips like a cursed whisper, and Harry slowly rose.

He didn't fight the cloud taking over his mind, it was a pleasant feeling, he didn't have to think, he didn't have to feel, he didn't have to hurt.

 ‘The little one we longed for’

He took the blade obediently from the man and plunged the dagger into his arm. The blood pooled out, filling the room with a metallic aroma. 

The others were chanting something, and the crystal on the Binding bands began to shimmer. It burnt Harry’s neck, but he did not react, the fog still veiling his eyes. 

“Give me your hand,” said the man in the center. Harry put his bandaged hands into the man's without any thought. “You are to serve the Nocturne; from life unto death.” And he began to murmur, a Gregorian-sounding chant with drums sounding like one thousand galloping horses accompanying his voice.

“In tenebris nascimur, in umbra integri fiimus.

(In darkness we are born, in shadow we are made whole.)

Ante Nocturnum, flecto; caro ad flammas, voluntas ad voluntatem.

(Before the Nocturne, I bow; flesh to flame, will to will.)

Nomen quod meum erat trado, et signum accipio quod me vincit.

(I surrender the name that was mine, and take the stone that binds me.)

Sanguinem meum pro foedere, silentium meum pro causa.

(My blood for the covenant, my silence for the cause.)

Ubi luna videt, serviam.

(Where the moon sees, I will serve.)

Ubi mors ambulat, sequar.

(Where death walks, I will follow.)

Nam Nocturnus custos meus est, et ego eius gladius.”

(For the Nocturne is my keeper, and I its blade.)

The heat increased to an unbearable level, but Harry did not let go of the man's hand. His glossed over eyes flickered shut and he fell unconscious because of the pain.

The man let go of him and rose, the choir silenced. He opened his mouth once more, a mere whisper which thundered across the silent chamber.

 “Sanguine et spiritu, umbra et iuramento — surge, puer Nocturni.”

(“By blood and breath, by shadow and promise, rise, child of the Nocturne.”)

 ‘was swiftly here and gone.’

The crystal had turned grey.

Harry sat up and coughed awake. He looked around wildly, but his panic simmered into confusion. He felt drained, like every part of him was poured out and emptied. He drowsily blinked, he still didn’t have his glasses. 

He was in an unfamiliar room, and for a wonderful moment he wondered if Æthelberht had told the truth about some place for people like him, and that it had just been a long and terrible nightmare.

He rose and looked at his hands. The cloth was gone. Even the burns were nowhere to be seen. He flexed his fingers in awe; not even two days ago he couldn’t move them without wincing.

He stood up and walked over to the mirror. He looked…like Harry.

Like the boy who was the Dursleys' stain. Not some kid with magical powers. 

He looked normal…

He frowned, his heart dropping to his stomach. He was wearing a collar, but rather than it being white, it was a deep grey.

He would have to ask Goldilocks the next time he saw him, then.

The room was small, yet bigger than anything Harry had ever had to himself. It had a window, which below had a double-poster bed with two bookshelves flanking it. Across the bed was the door, with a desk right beside it and a cupboard. It was connected to a chain of rooms, Harry noted. Almost like a dormitory. There were four other rooms connected to his by an open door frame. He had only peeked into the other rooms before the shame of it all struck him. He turned back to his room.

Harry touched everything with huge awe, afraid that if he were to close his eyes, it would disappear.

He walked back over to his bed and stared out the window.

The weather was raw, dark, and inclined to rain, and the clouds descended like a mourning veil upon the hill heights, shrouding the luscious green peaks.

He couldn’t remember anything from last night; ‘Was it last night? What is the date?’ just that it hurt.

He looked at the rags he was wearing, they were filthy and cut. He had worn them since he had been kicked out onto the streets.

He curiously peeked into the cupboard, and there was one plain black robe awaiting him. It was big for him, but Harry was still grateful.

He didn't know how he should react; on one hand, this was better treatment that he had received in his whole life.

‘Ha, thank you, Aunt and Uncle. Stellar parenting.’ 

But it was also painful, and this was a mafia. Which he was now a part of, great.

Harry's morals conflicted with each other. 

He opened his door and saw a vast corridor with different names on it. He looked back at his door, and a metal plaque reading ‘Callum Poirier’ stared back at him.

He traced the letters as he fought the wave of guilt washing over him. Why was he feeling guilty? He had no clue.

He turned back the hallway and dared to face whatever torment awaited him next.

He had spent over an hour wandering around, noticing each hallway looking the same, and frustration hit him as he realized he was walking in a circle. 

While going on this walk, Harry had learned that time was both important and irrelevant in the castle; stars marked seasonal changes, the moon waxed and waned, the solstices were strictly observed…but normal days and weeks weren't. He learned this by passing a huge magical clock with a handle pointing to the star constellation, solstice, and moon stage.

He had passed some people on his walk; they would either choose to ignore his presence or stare at him ominously when they thought he wasn't looking. Which didn't help Harry feel any better about the situation he was in.

At last, he found a crowd of people and followed them from a safe distance. He didn't even know how to get back to his room. He passed a huge corridor and saw a flash of gold. 

Goldilocks! 

He was walking with a crowd of people who all had the same crystal color as him; he approached Goldilocks, who, if he noticed him, pretended not to. But Harry saw the slight stiffness of his muscles when his eyes briefly swooped over Harry.

Goldilocks turned to his group and said something like, ‘I'll catch up later’ and approached Harry with a thunderous expression.

“Are you out of your mind!” He whisper-yelled. “If they see us together, they will know I was where I wasn't supposed to be.” 

Harry refused to meet his eyes. ‘It was so unfair! How was he supposed to know when no-one ever told him anything!’

“But!-” Harry began to protest but cut himself off when Goldilocks stiffened. He followed his gaze to his collar, to the crystal.

“I was meaning to ask you what dark grey meant,” Harry began, “And-”

“Assassin.”

“What?”

“You were assigned to the Mortalis.”

Harry’s stomach dropped. “What? No! I'm not a killer–there has to be some mistake!” He looked desperately into Goldilocks' eye for any trace of humour or deceit. But there was none.

Suddenly, the idea of being an Augur was much more appealing than an assassin.

“Maybe I can join your coven?” He asked hopelessly.

Goldilocks scoffed, "It's impossible to ‘switch’ covens, kid. Now I need to go, or I will be punished.” 

Harry grabbed his arm, and Goldilocks flinched. “Wait! What is your name?” Harry said, desperate for some kind of connection with the only person who had shown him some semblance of warmth.

Goldilocks shook his head. “The walls have eyes and ears, new kid; it would do well for you to remember that.” 

And with that, he was off.

Harry spent some time wandering around the vast space, doing anything to get the new information off of his mind, and as he was starting to get frustrated, he came across a door with a crystal matching his.

‘This is the entrance to the assassin's tower then’ he gulped.

 The voice of reason in Harry’s voice commanded him to ignore the door and just pretend like nothing had happened and continue exploring. But something compelled Harry to unlock that door. He tried to open the door, but it was locked.

There was a verdigris doorknob In the shape of a snake with an uncanny grin baring fangs. Harry attempted to use it but it did not budge.

Harry's frustration reached a boiling point, he slammed his hand into it, leaving a red mark on his palm in its stead.

Suddenly, the snake seemed to come to life, eyes turning a vibrant yellow, it hissed in English:

‘What once wass, issss no more

The tide isss halted afore the sshore

No more the wind blowss or red river flowss’ 

He iss thisss who returnss to where the grasss growsss’

Harry paused. A riddle? He pondered, it wouldn't be below a magic crime group to be all Disney villain grandeur.

“What once was, is no more,” Harry muttered to himself. It had to do with the end of something, possibly life? “The tide is halted afore the shore” again with end symbolism. Harry was almost certain it was referring to death. “No more the wind blows or red river flows” Is it talking about blood? “He is this who returns to where the grass grows” Grass grows on soil, so he is in a grave? Yes, Death one-hundred percent.

“Death.” Harry replied to the doorknob, but it did not reply. He is this who returns to where the grass grows… oh, how could he be so stupid! The answer was right there!

“He is dead.” Harry said confidently, a gleam of triumph in his eyes when the door creaked open.

It was a common room of sorts which was the only entrance to the tower, but with large windows overlooking the mountains surrounding. In the center was a fireplace with velvety armchairs and sofas in a deep grey.

Very gothic. Harry noted amused.

He was under the impression that there would be people there, since this was the entrance to the tower dedicated to assassins, but it was dead silent and empty. Harry sat down on the armchair.

It was still warm.

He got up. If this were a common room for assassins why would it be placed so far from the rooms? Unless, He thought grimly, this wasn't a common room.

He turned around and froze.

He was greeted with an array of different weapons, swords, bows, wands, magic staffs and many other weapons. He didn't even notice them! At all! He stood there like a deer in headlights.

In the center was a handsome boy with a carved out jawline, soft messy brown hair and blue eyes. He was wearing a black leather trench coat-looking robe and stood in the center, the only one not being on the offense. 

He had sickly pale skin and purple eyebags, he stared at Harry with a creepy grin.

“Well, well, well. Look what the cats dragged in, or should I say hags?” He grinned wickedly, he began to circle terrified Harry like a predator surveying its prey. “I guess they really are recruiting infants now.” He turned his sharp gaze to him, looking him up and down. “So small, I do so wonder about how you made it through the Binding Rite.”

 Harry bristled, glaring back despite the tremor in his voice. “By not dying, apparently. You?”

 The boy chuckled; low, rich, and mean. “Oh, the baby bites. Cute.”

“Don’t call me that.”

 “What, baby? Little lamb? fawn?” The boy’s grin widened at Harry’s flinch. “The hags really sent us an infant.”

“You’re an ass.”

 “Accurate. But I’m your ass now, apparently.” He tilted his head, studying Harry like he was trying to see through him. “Tell me, kid, do you always walk through doors that ask for riddles, or was that your first?”

 “You were watching?”

 “Of course I was watching. That snake’s mine. It’s... a test.”

 “A test?”

 “Mhm.” He stepped closer, until Harry could see the faint shimmer of something venom-green around his fingers. “To see who can think before they die. You answered right, though. Death. Good job, kiddo.”

 “Stop calling me that.”

“Fine. Infant, then.”

 “...You’re insufferable.”

 “You’ll live longer if you learn to be.”

 “You said it was a test. What if I answered wrong?”

 The grin sharpened. “You wouldn’t be standing here.”

Chills ran through Harry's body, and he tried to mask it with fake nonchalance. “Frogs make themselves look bigger to feel more threatening.”

 The boy chuckled, circling him lazily, holding a hand up to prevent the others from attacking Harry. “Sharp tongue. Alright then, fawn, let’s see if your brain’s as quick as your mouth.”

 “Fawn?” Harry scowled.

 “You’ll get used to it. Now, listen closely.” He leaned forward, voice dropping into a smooth purr. Harry felt uncomfortable, he shouldn't have come. The boy, seemingly catching his fear, only grinned wider.

 “The king had no heir, so he chose ten children from his kingdom to come to him. He gave them all tomato seeds and told them to grow the best tomato. Whoever succeeded would inherit the throne.

 They all returned, each with a tomato, except one, who came back empty-handed. The king made that child his heir. Why?”

 Harry frowned, thinking fast. “Two possibilities.”

 “Oh? Ambitious.”

 “One: the kid didn’t have food to bring, so the king took pity and made him heir out of compassion. Two: the king lied. The seeds weren’t real. The nine children cheated. The tenth was honest.”

 Silence. The boy’s expression didn’t move for a moment, then his grin stretched, slow and deliberate.

 “Well, well. Not just a mouthy corpse, are you? We are going to love you” He lowered his hand and in unison so did the weapons. Harry let out a not so discreet sigh of relief.

 “Was that the test?” Harry asked, wary.

 “Maybe.” He shrugged, turning away, voice casual. “Maybe I just wanted to see if you’d rot or bloom.”

 “And what’s the verdict?”

 “Still deciding, kid.”

 “Are you enjoying this?” Harry said almost nervously.

 “Oh, immensely.” The boy grinned at him satisfactorily, and gestured for him to follow him. He led them to the lounge area where they sat across from each other. 

Although the crowd did not follow, Harry could see in the corner of his eye that they were watching.

“So,” Harry began, “What is this place?” He looked at the people who had their weapons raised earlier, he saw a variety of different people, many of which were not wearing wizarding robes. Most noticeably was a girl in bright pink with a matching man standing next to her looking at her adoringly.

“A heaven to some, hell to others.” he replied cryptically, following Harry's gaze.

Harry stayed silent, figuring that it would be better to withhold his tongue around the boy. 

Soon enough, the crowd of people trickled away from each other and began lounging around. Quiet chatter filled the room and even laughter. But Harry noticed how they all reacted at the slightest noise and how quickly their reaction time was.

Harry turned back to the boy in front of him, who was now looking bored.

“Well, au revoir, newbie. Try to survive the week.” He got up and twirled around, cackling to himself, walking off.

Harry thought about what happened to the other recruits, and the scent of blood filled his nose. 

“No, it was better not to think about that.”

He spent his time awkwardly hanging around the other assassins, they were friendly. Well, as friendly as an assassin could be. Soon a familiar man walked into the room.

He was a middle-aged man with a cold face. He was wearing a robe embroidered with snakes and his hair was tied into a very long ponytail.

He was familiar to Harry, but he wasn't sure from where.

Suddenly, the man's obsidian eyes locked onto him. 

And all fake hope Harry had about the place washed away.

Chapter Text

The man’s cold eyes landed on him and narrowed. And the other assassins seemed to immediately get into groups like a pack of hungry wolves. “Today,” began the man, “You can see we have a new…recruit.” Harry felt the prickle of other gazes land on him uncomfortably. “We shall begin training, disobedience will not be tolerated.”

Even the boy from earlier did not protest against this man, and Harry was half-certain that this man–Shade– had a high ranking position among them. 

In the blink of an eye, everyone had already partnered up and Harry was left awkwardly standing alone. Shade’s eyes flashed with disapproval before approaching him. “I shall train with you then, Nascen.” The unfamiliar word rang oddly in his mind, but judging by the sneers some of the assassins were giving him, it was probably not the kindest. 

Shade turned back to the crowd, which immediately locked back into looking serious. Some looked relaxed, while others had their shoulders squared like a soldier going into battle. Harry could share the sentiment. 

“Today we shall focus on magical discipline,” He said sharply, his gaze flickering from person to person before landing on Harry. “And bladed weapons.” Harry’s knees felt weak. He remembered this man. He was the one who took him to the Binding Ritual, the one he had no memory left of. 

Harry had never even breathed near a sword, much less wielded one. Slade turned back around addressing them all. “It is not the strongest of the species that survives, nor the most intelligent that survives” He paused dramatically. “It is the one that is the most adaptable to change.” Harry had an impression he was quoting someone, but he didn’t know who. 

Suddenly, all kinds of bladed melee weapons appeared on the table behind an unblinking Shade. Harry stared in a sick awe at the variety of different weapons. It had cutting Talwars to sharp Sabers with gleaming pointy ends. 

The assassins were like children in front of a table strewn with sweets. They picked up swords and regarded them with a serious eye, then put them down…only to skip over the cutlasses and daggers, practically bubbling with delight.

Slade watched over them with a stern demeanor before opening his lips. “Choose.” Harry nearly let the world slip past his mind because there was no way he was telling him to choose a weapon right? Right?...

Harry hesitantly approached the table, checking to see what the leftovers were. He picked up a small Falchion and tested it around in his hands. It was lightweight and engraved in it were the words “Ad metum, non ad pudorem“ He turned the blade around and the words flickered, morphing themselves into English: “For fear, not for shame.” 

A sharp tap from behind him pulled him out of his thoughts and he remembered where he was. Shade was watching him with an unreadable expression. “Have you ever been trained to fight before,  Nascen?” 

Harry forced himself to look away from his eyes, “No.” Not every child is trained to be a killer, he added in his thoughts bitterly. 

“Well, then you shall learn” There was nothing in his expression nor demeanour which caused Harry to freeze up, but the chills that pierced his back felt as if someone had draped an ice-cold bucket of water over his head. Shade turned around to address them all, many of the fellow assassins already in position.

“Unus, duo, tres…draw!” The sounds of swords clashing filled the room, and Shade stood in front of him in a defensive position. He was testing him, thought Harry.

“Attack me,” he said. “I wish to see what you can do.”

All of Harry’s life had been inaction. All of his life had been waiting for other people to do. Ever since he had escaped the Dursley’s, he had known he wouldn’t last much longer if he continued this way.

Before his logical ten-year-old brain could talk himself out of it, he drew his sword and attacked.

He didn’t question whether he could strike a no-doubt master of weapons. He just ran and threw himself into it.

Unblinkingly, the man watched the boy come at him. At the last moment he put his hand up and a blunt Smallsword appeared in his hand.

When Harry brought his sword down, the man moved to flawlessly deflect it. Harry’s Falchion bounced off the Smallsword with an unreal booming sound. It echoed sickeningly off of the walls. 

His small arms and upper body were shaken by the force of the rebound. He had been completely unprepared for the sheer strength this man’s fragile-looking body held. 

But Harry gritted his teeth and swung again. 

He spun around and did a clumsy, childish parry and riptose. The tip of the sword didn’t reach anywhere near Shade’s body. 

He prepared to stab through the man if he had to.

The man made a mockingly-concerned, tutting sound. “I admire your spark, but spark alone will not win a fight.”

Harry shook with the effort of holding the sword. It wasn’t a big thing, really, but it was solid metal in a malnourished child’s arms. He could feel the blood rushing into his arms and it ached terribly. 

And what was the point?

He couldn’t even hope to beat a seasoned swordsman at his own craft.

He faltered, and lowered his sword. Slade stood there, looking mildly disappointed. “Rise.” he commanded, and Harry did so reluctantly. 

Harry began to struggle to his feet. His legs felt like stone. His arms ached like he was ill. He ground his teeth together, he stepped forward and swung his sword.

The man deflected the attack effortlessly. “Enough of child’s play” He locked eyes with Harry. “My turn.”

Defeat loomed, ugly and unavoidable, around the boy. He staggered under the fear of failure. He stabbed poorly at Shade again, trying to move, trying to will some sort of power. The man knocked his sword away easily. 

And then he lunged. 

It didn’t seem  like a blunted tiny sword could do much damage, Its gleaming tip grazed Harry’s left thigh, but it sliced through his flesh like cloth. He fell back, gulping in pain. It looked like a clean cut, with the precision of the line and the immediate flow of blood; it felt like a jagged, ugly ripping of his skin and the pain of a thousand swords dragging across him. 

The sound he made was an animal cry of pain. 

Shade moved to lunge again.

Harry barely brought up his own weapon just in time to block his attack. 

“You can’t sword fight.” Said Shade, “But you will learn.” with that he turned, leaving Harry with a sword, pain and blood.

“I KNOW THAT!” He shrieked in his mind, almost throwing his blade away.  What could he do? Nothing. He had no useful skills, no strength, no…

And then he stopped.

What could one child do against a fully fledged assassin? A gunshot to the head? A beartrap? What was the point in trying? He was only going to fail.

And then  a single image came forwards  and burned itself into the back of his eyes.

Miss Petunia.

Miss Petunia towering over him with a devilish grin while his hands and hopes burned. 

No. Harry decided. He wasn’t going to fail. He would just have to play by his own rules.

Shade had continued to instruct them about “Magical Discipline” In other words, gruesome exercises which did more harm than good. 

The first test was to conjure as many sparks in the palms of your hands. While the other trainees did it effortlessly, Harry was sweating after not conjuring anything. Shade hadn’t even looked in his direction since their first duel, which wasn’t helping, considering Harry had absolutely no idea how to conjure magic. He tried again, but his efforts were fruitless.

He stared at a group of people nearby.They were relaxed, chatting comfortably with each other while sparks flew effortlessly out of their hands. Harry felt a pang of isolation. He always was the leper of any social group. No matter what. They all avoided helping Harry since it would risk them taking his place. 

Some outright looked down on Harry, somehow, when he had first met the boy from earlier he had been viewing them through rose-tinted-glasses. But he was now aware that there was some form of hierarchy. Like a food chain, the strongest held themselves at the top while the others were the cattle.

The boy from earlier, along with some other smug-looking trainees were at the top. And Harry was not a genius to figure out where he stands. He watched a couple fight, both of them in some twisted harmonic dance, fighting and countering the other as if they knew their moves by heart. It was mesmerising. When the other fell, the winner reached out and helped him up, and they repeated.

He was a leper, through and through. 

He stared back frustrated at his palms and closed his eyes. He took a deep breath, focusing on how the air curled in his mouth and the tingling feeling in his fingers. Then, he willed for the sparks to appear in his hands. He opened his eyes, and his sweaty, barren palms greeted him. He shut his eyes in frustration, focusing on feeling the tingling sensation that he felt when he concentrated enough. He felt energy pulsing through his feet up to his fingertips. He focused on that energy, drawing it out into the real world.

He opened his eyes and for the flash of a second, bright sparks decorated his palms. He sagged in relief, that proves it then. He really was a wizard.

In the corner of his eye he saw Shade looking at him approvingly. Harry's first thought was to scowl at the man, but against his will, his heart swelled with pride. It was the first time someone had praised him, even if it was non-verbally.

Shade walked to the center of the room and the other sweaty and out-of-breath trainees circled around him. Harry saw a boy with a nasty festering wound which looked like it had been magically poisoned. The boy-with-the-wound was glaring at the boy-with-the-snake-doorknob with a tension so thick Harry felt like he could cut through it with a knife. 

Harry quietly moved away from the both of them.

Shade was talking but Harry filtered it into background noise. An unfamiliar, fierce looking girl approached him. One thing Harry took into consideration was how old she looked, she looked roughly sixteen. They were both the youngest then. He was about to open his mouth when she cut him off.

“Hah! So here is the little Nascen.” She spat and Harry flinched. “You’re lucky The Shade didn’t rip you to pieces, pity. We could all do with some entertainment. Although your fighting skills did a worthy job of that.” Harry felt his cheeks heat up. Luck didn’t seem to be a major contributing factor in his life. In either magical or muggle world. 

Shade cleared his throat and they both turned to look at him. “Vipera, please keep your personal affairs out of the hall.” Harry noticed how there were other trainees watching while pretending not to. Vipera cleared her throat and her cheeks turned red. “I beg for your gracious forgiveness, Shade” She bowed, her fiery orange hair draping around her as she did so.

“You are forgiven. Do not let it happen again. As punishment you two shall work together.” Her head snapped to him and she opened her mouth in protest, but quickly closed it and looked back at Harry miserably. 

Harry felt satisfied seeing her reaction, momentarily making him forget the pain in his leg. 

Shade turned around and waved his hand, and the wall turned into a huge climbing wall with different kinds of terrain. The room seemed to elongate upwards and the room was nearly the size of a small cathedral. Harry had seen climbing before on Dudley’s television, but never in his wildest dreams did he imagine he would actually do it. 

However, it lacked safety gear. Shade added “If you are to fall, you can only use your magic” 

That wasn’t the only thing with these ‘climbing walls’ they also simulated different weather, one had harsh winds while another had a downpour of rain. Each one looking more daunting than the last. 

Harry turned back to Vipera, who was looking queasy at the sight of the wall. 

Two by two, everyone dissipated and were sent to a wall. Shade mentioned that it was a race, and Vipera looked at him smugly as if to say “I’ll win.” 

Harry stared up at the wall and gulped, he crouched mirroring Vipera.

Shade was walking back and forth, observing everyone. He began to count down.

“Initium!” 

Harry bolted, scrambling up the rocks with Vipera on his tail. He had an advantage because he was smaller and skinnier, and therefore faster.

 He felt the rough rock on his hands, and kept repeating “don’t look down.” like a mantra. He was terrified. But he feared more what would happen if he refused than any kind of fall. Harry was drawing nearer and nearer to the halfway point, his arm outstretched to its maximum. He was nearly there!

Abruptly, he felt cold hands wrap around his ankle and yank and Harry lost his balance and fell.

He managed to grip onto a rock, but it was no use; he was closer to the beginning then he was to his original point. He was shocked. How was that fair!? She just sabotaged him! 

He began climbing again, this time more determined. He was not the same child who had entered this room. 

“Thirty seconds left!” Harry heard Shade’s voice boom from below. Some of the others had fallen and others had made it to the top. Harry nauseously realised that the point of the game was sabotage. 

Vipera was almost at the top, he couldn’t see her face from here and he didn’t want to. 

Harry’s mind briefly floated to the elements, each wall-climb had some sort of obstacle and yet he was yet to experience theirs. Maybe Shade was being nice? No. There was definitely some kind of catch. 

His arms ached and he paused for a break panting. He looked up at Vipera, expecting to see a triumphant grin staring down at him. 

A strong gust of wind hit Harry. 

There it was. The obstacle. 

He looked back up at Vipera, and stiffened. She was losing her balance. At this rate she was going to fall! No human could possibly survive a fifty metre drop! He looked down at Shade, who wasn’t even watching them. 

Harry’s stomach dropped. He wasn’t going to help. 

He looked back up at her, and his fear came to fruition. She began pummeling down fast. 

No!

He barely knew this girl, and she had only been ill-intentioned towards him. Why does he care?

No! 

She dropped below him, and his eyes locked onto her petrified face. 

No!

He wouldn’t be able to reach her.

NO! 

He closed his eyes, and began to will with all his mediocre strength in his small body that she were to survive. 

And then he moved before he could even think, his arm shooting out on instinct.

The impact nearly ripped him off the wall. Vipera’s full weight yanked at his small, underfed body, pain blooming through his shoulder like fire. His fingers screamed as the rock bit into his palms, skin tearing open.

“Hold on!” he gasped, voice strangled with fear. He didn’t know if he was speaking to her or himself.

Vipera’s wide, terrified eyes met his for a single second, long enough for him to see the raw panic there, and she scrambled, clawing for the nearest rock.

 Harry’s entire body shook with the effort of keeping her steady, his feet slipping against the jagged stone.

For one awful heartbeat he thought they’d both go down. Then she caught hold.

The sudden release of weight nearly sent him tumbling backward, and he pressed himself flat to the wall, chest heaving, every breath a ragged scrape in his throat. His arms felt like they were made of molten lead.

Below them, Shade still hadn’t moved. The others shouted, booed or jeered, distant and hollow.

Harry stared numbly at his hands, blood mixing with rain, and realised he couldn’t feel them anymore. Vipera didn’t thank him. She didn’t even look back. She just kept climbing.

He swallowed hard and forced himself to keep going too, jaw set.

He didn’t know why he’d helped her. He shouldn’t have. He knew that.

But his body hadn’t listened. 

Vipera had made it to the end first, and Harry nearly collapsed from exhaustion. His body by now painted in all kinds of colorful bruises. His team had been the last to complete it, so everyone had been watching them.

She climbed down and met the others' congratulations with a frown. She looked sick, and hid away at the back of the crowd. Harry didn’t feel like smiling, he felt weak and sick and suddenly shared the sentiment to be away from everyone’s gazes.

Shade’s voice cut through the silence.”You are free to go, but return in two hours to the Sanguis halls” Harry was too exhausted to even register what the “Sanguis Halls” were.

All he knew was that he must try something, if he wants to survive.

He stepped forward, limping on the battered legs. “I…” He faltered. “I want a rematch.”

The room seemed to go deathly silent, before a ripple of snickers went through the other trainees. Vipera was silent, and she didn’t comment. But her eyes said it all, pure horror. Even Shade’s face shifted into disbelief. “You, Nascen?” He said, raising an eyebrow. “After everything we’ve seen today?”

Harry felt his cheeks redden. “I…just want to try again..” The words felt dry in his mouth. 

The hall went silent, the only noise being the magical rain and wind from the walls. Shade finally nodded, wordlessly granting permission. The other assassins rearranged themselves to watch. The room seemed to close in on Harry, every pair of eyes heavy with doubt.

Shade waved his hand, and conjured a Falchion and a Smallsword out of the air. The rematch began. Harry raised his Falchion, but this time, he didn’t rush in like before. He watched Shade, measured his opponent, and waited for the right moment. 

Shade lunged first, eager to get this over with. And Harry barely blocked it. 

The scene was sad to watch, Shade striking again and again and again with Harry barely blocking it. Harry stumbled backwards, his blade down. Shade was already lunging and Harry’s face was panicking…

…Until it turned into a small imperceptible smile. Shade had fallen for it. He had underestimated Harry, believing he was panicking.

Shade’s eyes narrowed. The assassin lunged forward, long, precise swing aimed at Harry’s shoulder. Harry didn’t block fully, he let the edge glance off his blade, redirecting it just a fraction, enough that Shade’s momentum carried him slightly past his intended line.

 Shade only seemed to realise his mistake after he had overcommitted to the swing.

Harry ducks, and immediately takes the chance to jab the hilt of his sword against Shade’s forearm. Harry’s arms were too weak to actually stab him, but the element of surprise made him stagger a half step back. Good.

The room seemed to freeze. A Ten-year-old had just touched one of the most skilled assassins in the Nocturne. 

Harry’s chest heaved, muscles screaming, but he didn’t pause. He knew he couldn’t win by strength, only by exploiting that split-second hesitation. With a quick feint to the left, he drew Shade’s attention, who was already preparing for another dirty trick. But Harry lunged for another strike, this time Shade deflecting him. 

The hall went silent for a moment, then whispers and snickers broke out throughout the hall. Vipera was nowhere to be seen and Shade remained stone-faced. He could feel the gaze of everyone on him.

“Dirty tricks will not make you survive in the wild, kid.” He said, but added begrudgingly. “You did better than when you entered this room.”

And with that, Shade disappeared into thin air. Harry just stared at where he was, struggling to keep his eyes open. Anything said to him was just background noise as he limped back to the dormitories. 

Chapter Text

Morning hurt. 

Harry woke up to a slow, deep ache that seemed to live just under his skin. Yesterday's bruises had turned an angry purple and were swollen and tender. His ribs protested with every breath, and his hands trembled slightly as he sat up.

He visibly winced. He did not go to the Sanguis Halls yesterday. The moment he entered the dormitory, he had collapsed. 

The dorm itself was empty. He was in a room of five; he being the unwelcome fifth. The older trainees had left for their early coven drills. He hadn’t had a chance to think about his situation. Goldilocks wasn’t seen by him either.  

He dressed, flinching when the stiff fabric brushed the wrong places. Someone, the boy who had sneered at him earlier, knocked his decomposing boots under a different bed. He didn’t bother confronting them. He was too tired, and the day hadn’t even begun. 

When he stepped onto the balcony, the dawn was still gray. The cold poised itself as a warning of the winter to come. Only a month and a week ago, Harry was confined to a cupboard, beaten and belittled for existing. So, he tells himself, “This is bad, but I’ve known worse.”

It hurts him.

It scares him.

People here hurt him on purpose, and no one pretends to love him first. But…at least he’s not trapped in a cupboard waiting for Vernon’s footsteps, waiting for punishment. The tower is honest, in a way the Dursleys had never been. Shade says, “This will hurt,” and then it hurts. 

Harry also gets food. And water. And his own bed! He knows he shouldn’t prefer it. He knows this place is wrong. But he cannot help it. He doesn’t feel “at home” here, and yet he never felt “at home” anywhere. Still, they don’t treat him like a burden in this place for the first time.

He drew in the chilly air; the cold alleviating his swollen bruises. Today was called “Reflex and Reaction” day.  Although he barely knew Shade, it truly meant: they were going to hurt.

After somehow stumbling into the correct courtyard, he got a chance to see the others. They were scattered across the expansive area, with the sun glistening over the clouds and blowing golden kisses onto the grass below. A series of circles had been painted on the ground, each with jagged lines of chalk and metallic points hammered into the dirt. A few of the older assassins stood around, bored and cruel-eyed, tapping wands against their palms.

Shade stood in the center, looking alarmingly too awake. “Get in line, the slowest will be punished.”

That was all Shade had to say for Harry to stagger into place. He caught a wisp of auburn in his peripheral vision. Vipera was here then. Harry was sandwiched between two older boys, none of which he knew the names of. Shade was standing in a circle drawn by chalk. Huge purple sparks crackled at his fingertips.

“Exercise one,” He barked. “You will be conjuring this.” He picked up a small white ball. Harry naively thought that was all there was to it.

“You must dodge the sparks while keeping your magic steady.”

Harry froze. He’d only ever cast uncontrolled flickers for barely a second. Keeping his magic steady felt impossible.

He shivered, but it wasn’t from the cold.

The first trainee stepped into the painted circle. Shade flicked his fingers. Sparks shot like tiny white-hot insects, biting through the air. The small balls began to fall out of the trainee’s hand at a controlled pace, and so far she seemed alright. Suddenly, the white balls began to falter. The trainee was panicking. The sparks were somehow following the girl wherever she dodged like a horde of angry hornets.

The trainee dodged, stumbled, cursed and Shade sent another spark that clipped their shoulder and burned a neat hole through the sleeve. The knot in Harry’s stomach tightened when he saw the red burn on her exposed shoulder.

But Shade didn’t wait for tears or screams.

“Next!”

He waited, his stress levels increasing the shorter the line became. When Harry’s turn came, the circle felt much smaller than it looked from the outside. His feet slid in the dirt. His heartbeat punched against bruised ribs. He kept his breath even, and stood before Shade.

“Ready?” Shade said, too lightly.

Harry swallowed. “Yes, sir.”

Shade didn’t hesitate. The first spark came out flying fast. He ducked just in time, breath scraping his throat. The next scorched his hair. Although his body was panicking he kept his mind steady. Never letting Shade’s hand out of his sight. He envisioned the tiny white ball. How it would feel in the palm of his hand. He made sure not to look at his hand so as to not break the trance.

He felt a circular shape fly out of his hand. Then another. And another. Shooting out of his hand like a faucet. Barely suppressing his grin, he kept dodging the sparks while the white spheres decorated the grass.

Harry heard something whizz past his face. A spark. Shade had begun to increase the number of sparks attacking him. The balls faltered. His own raw magic, twitchy and frightened, tried to flare.

“No outbursts.” Shade snapped his fingers sharply. “Control it or it controls you.”

Harry clenched his jaw, forcing the unstable fizzing under his skin to stay bottled. Another spark grazed his wrist, burning in a clean, stinging line. The balls began to fall out of his hands again, but this time more delayed.

His eyes watered, but he didn’t stop. Fear was making him faster.

By the time Shade called “Enough,” Harry was shaking violently, but he hadn’t dropped or lashed out. Shade nodded once before turning to the next trainee.

Harry pressed his hand to his shaking arm. He wasn’t watching the next trainee. Shade had sorted them into two groups, the ones that failed and the ones that won. He heard someone approach him. It was the-boy-with-the-wound from yesterday.

“Pa’he’ic. Firs’ day an’ already cryin like a pussyca’ faw i’s mo’her. I can’’ understand why such a weakinglin was assigned ‘o our dawm, idio’s. We don’’ need richboys wai’in faw ‘heir mummy.” (Pathetic. First day and already crying like a pussycat for its mother. I can’t understand why such a weakling was assigned to our dorm, idiots. We don’t need rich boys waiting for their mummy.) He had tan skin, shaggy brown hair. And his tone dripped with sarcasm.

Harry was used to being insulted, but he couldn’t stop the retort. “What’s pathetic is an immature adult with a fragile ego who takes it out on a child.” Oops.

He looked up at the boy’s furious eyes. He grinned before adding, “Plus, I'm sure the boy from yesterday sorted you out quite fairly.”

A fist threw itself toward his face, and Harry closed his eyes anticipating the punch. Yet none came. He opened his eyes to see the ‘riddle’ boy holding his fist. “My, Oliver.” His voice dropped into a scathing mock. “I believed that it was beneath you to attack children. But you never fail to surprise me, don’t you?” The boy’s voice was drenched in a saccharine tone.

Oliver grunted, his eyes sharpened, and his face turned red. “Hump off, Boomslang.” Boomslang, the snake? Or was it a codename? He turned around, grumbling and muttering curses.

“Boomslang? Is that your name?” Harry met his eyes.

“If you would keep your secret from an enemy, tell it not to a friend.”

“Benjamin Franklin?”

Boomslang impishly grinned. Satisfied. “Le petit oiseau-lyre is not as weak as we thought,” He paused.   “for now.”

He twirled around and walked back to his crowd with the confidence of a lion, Harry gulped and he felt something stir within him. It wasn’t fear, nor humiliation, or any of the other emotions he had felt since he had come here. It was something he wouldn’t dare name yet. It was awe.

Unlike yesterday, today they were walking with wooden sticks. Staves and dull practice daggers were laid out on the ground. They weren’t deadly, but they hurt, a fact the older assassins thoroughly enjoyed proving. Harry’s hands twitched, and his falchion came into his thoughts once more. The way it swung, the way it felt, the way it stabbe–

Those who lost the earlier exercise were nowhere to be found, and Harry’s gut sank even though he didn’t know why. His focused on the ground beneath his feet and looked back up.

Shade paced in front of them like a bored cat. Harry’s eyes flitted to the place where he had almost stabbed Shade. His gut tightened itself into a knot. He could've hurt him! A small unfamiliar voice in the back of Harry’s head whispered in reply: “Yes. But they would’ve hurt you, they deserve it. They deserve to regret, they deserve hurt, they deserve to bleed–”

No.

Harry nervously looked around. Does magic enable people to read minds? After calming his racing heart, he snapped back into the present.

“Pick a weapon. Then pick someone to fight. No crying to me if you choose wrong.”

The trainees murmured, glancing between rivals, sizing each other up. Harry could almost feel the shift, alliances forming in whispers, choices made with glances instead of words. He gasped as the memory hit him. 

 He was five, maybe six in reception looking for a partner for PE class. They were doing team racing and everyone had shunned Harry. He stood in Dudley’s gang per the teacher’s instructions with his head bowed. Dudley was crying something intelligible, something about ‘even numbers’ and whatnot. That wasn’t the problem for Dudley, the problem was the insignificant little freak being put on their team.

 

On the count of three, the six of them ran across five metres. Harry, who was the scrawniest, made it first. Dudley began to bawl his eyes out while his ‘friends’ and the teacher consoled him. The teacher left with Dudley to go get him something to calm him down, and the caring expressions of his classmates hardened. Young Piers Polkiss turned to Harry and shoved him. Harry fell to the floor and scraped his knee. “You are weird.” was all Piers said,

and that was all he needed to, Harry began to sob. Although this time, no-one came to console him.

 

Vipera was chosen twice immediately, by two older boys who wanted to prove something.  The fight lasted around ten minutes maximum. To Harry’s interest, she defeated both with tight, efficient strikes, though not without pain. Harry noticed one of the boys “accidentally” clipped her mid-fight when she turned away. Shade ignored it.

Harry looked at him helplessly. “He was being blatantly unfair!”

Boomslang was fighting a man with a Handlebar moustache, whereas Oliver was fighting a girl with artificial bright red hair with hearts decorated all over her clothes. By then, Harry realised he was alone. He wasn’t chosen by anyone at all. He was too small. Too new. Too obviously breakable.

Shade eventually called, “Potter. You.”

Harry stiffened. “Yes, sir?”

“Pair with Kirian.”

Kirian was seventeen, tall, and had the kind of smile Harry had learned to avoid while being on the streets. His staff whistled through the air as he swung it experimentally. He had a devilishly evil smirk which reminded Harry too much of Dudley. He got into position and held his sword like it weighed a thousand kilos.

Shade signalled.

The fight was ugly. Kirian didn’t aim to win, he aimed to hurt. He jabbed Harry’s ribs first, then his shoulder, then his thigh. Harry tried to block, to dodge, to breathe, but everything hurt from yesterday and his limbs were too slow.

A final strike knocked him sprawling into the dirt. His teeth clacked together sharply. The world rang and his head was spinning. 

Shade didn’t stop it. Shade didn’t even look bothered.

“Up,” the instructor said eventually. “ The Mortalis don’t lie down until they’re dead.”

Harry’s vision blurred as he pushed himself upright. His hands, raw from yesterday’s climbing, shook as he tightened them on the staff. Kirian snorted but said nothing.

Shade didn’t allow a rematch.

Harry didn’t ask for one.

When weapons were done, Shade clapped once. The sound rang across the courtyard. 

“That was a warm-up.”

Groans rippled through the line. And Harry swallowed something bitter.

Shade walked between them, tapping a finger against each forehead he passed.

“Today we will be focusing on intent. Not real spells…but will.” He smirked. “If your intent is weak, the reaction will be painful.” He flicked his wand over the dry ground. Small black stones rose, hovering a foot above the dirt. They didn’t look natural, so they must have been created with magic.

 “One by one. Focus on the stone. Push. Make it twitch.”

The first trainee tried, eyes closed with effort and concentration, but to no avail. The stone didn’t move. Shade shook his head with disapproval and flicked his wand: a jolt of a blue spell shot at them, something sharp and hot seized the trainee’s nerves. They gasped.

“Wrong.”

Next trainee. Wrong. Jolt.

Third, Wrong. Jolt.

Harry’s turn came too soon.

He stared at the black stone. His hands were fists at his sides. His breathing trembled. A bead of sweat dripped down his forehead in the effort of producing magic. 

Push! Move! Don’t let him hurt you again.

He squeezed his eyes shut. His magic coiled  just beneath his skin, confused and frightened. It wasn’t trained. It wanted to flare, not focus. The magical energy mixed with adrenaline pulsed under his skin, and tears pricked at his eyes. 

But he forced it anyway, grinding his teeth so hard his jaw ached.

The stone twitched. Barely. Pathetically.

Shade raised an eyebrow. “Acceptable.”Then, almost lazily, he sent a tiny jolt anyway. Not as  punishment, more like a reminder. Harry bit back a yelp. The pain licked across his nerves like static, The electric feeling violently crawling up his spine and nerves. 

Vipera and Boomslang managed a small movement too, cleaner than Harry’s. Shade gave them a nod and moved on. 

She still didn’t look proud.

After that came group exercises.

The trainees were split into teams to move crates under time pressure. Harry was assigned to three older students he didn’t know or recognise. Their leader, a boy with pale hair and a too-high collar, ordered Harry to take the heaviest box. Harry obeyed. He couldn’t lift it fully, his muscles trembled, his vision dimmed but he tried. Every second hurts.  

When Shade turned away, one teammate “accidentally” kicked dirt into Harry’s eyes. Another nudged the box harder into his legs. The force knocked the breath out of Harry’s lungs.

The pale-haired boy smiled without smiling and said, “If you slow us down, we’ll make sure you regret it.”

Harry’s stomach curled. He didn’t argue. Arguing made things worse. He didn’t dare. This wasn’t Surrey afterall, a place where people’s only concern was what they were going to have for tea tomorrow. 

When they finished, barely on time, the same boy loudly announced to Shade:

“Harry almost dropped the crate. We had to carry it for him.”

Shade looked at Harry, eyes flat and empty.  “The Mortalis do not accept weakness.”

Harry opened his mouth, he didn’t even know what he planned to say, but the boy cut in with a too-sweet voice:

“It’s not his fault. He’s… small.”

The group laughed, shaking with mirth. Shade didn’t punish them. Instead, Shade punished Harry, a short, sharp pain charm to the back of his shoulder. He yelped, only making the boys laugh harder. He opened his mouth to say something, but closed it. The betrayal sat like ice in Harry’s chest

Shade gathered them all near the stone posts. Harry avoided everyone, hoping the shadows could swallow him forever.

“Reflex comes from pain,” he said simply. “So you’ll learn pain.”

Harry’s lungs froze. What? The other trainees' previous lightheartedness died down, only fueling Harry’s fear.

Shade raised his wand. The air grew colder.

“Nothing… lethal. Just educational.” He paced in a circle, his robes wrapping around him like dark ink. “Any volunteers?” He said, tone light. No one stepped forward. Not a single one.

He chose a random trainee, and a red light erupted from his wand. “Crucio.” The trainee screamed like an animal, it was all over in five seconds. It was all over in five seconds.

The courtyard was silent, the only noise being the trainee’s extreme panting. 

Some screamed. Some bit down on their lips until they bled. Vipera trembled visibly, tears streaking down her cheek. Even Boomslang, with a neutral expression, was shaking.

Harry watched on, petrified. And then came his turn.

When it hit Harry, he didn’t scream, not because he was strong, but because the sound stuck in his throat. As if Aethelbert were before him again. The pain crawled under his skin like electricity gone rabid, lighting every bruise, every fracture of fear from the past two days. His internal mind was screaming. He had felt this before. He had felt this before. 

It ended after only ten seconds.

Harry collapsed to his knees, shaking so badly he couldn’t unclench his hands.The world felt too big. Everything inside him felt too small.

Shade looked down at him with a cool, clinical expression.

“You lasted longer than I expected.”

Harry didn’t feel proud.

He felt hollow.

When training ended, they were ordered to rest before evening drills. Most trainees collapsed in the dorms or sought out their little alliances.

Harry couldn’t lie down. Every time he blinked, the echo of the curse flashed behind his eyelids.

The sun filtered through the grey clouds, and cast a soft glow over the castle, decorating the terrible place with a sense of placid security

He wandered into the yard instead, keeping to corners where no one bothered looking. Someone had left broken splinters of bark and a few potted plants overturned near the outer wall. Snapped stems, dirt spilled everywhere.

He crouched without thinking. His fingers, still trembling from pain, gently righted a small pot. A sprout, barely alive, leaned sideways. Harry felt a kinship.

Harry pressed soil around its base, patting it softly. His hands stung, but the repetitive motion calmed something frayed in his chest. Harry stayed there longer than he realised, touching each damaged leaf like it was something fragile he could fix. Something unlike himself.

He didn’t notice Shade at the far end of the yard, watching silently with an unreadable expression. But he didn’t comment. He slipped back to whatever hole he lived in.

As night approached, Harry felt smaller than the day before. Quieter. Less sure where the bruises ended and the fear began. His hands had stopped to tremble, and his adrenaline no longer coursed through him like a faulty tap. But the unfiltered fear was yet to leave. He felt something else. A spark. 

Not hope, Harry didn’t have space for that in his mind right now. More like… reaction.They hurt him. He endured. He would learn. He would adapt. He would have to. 

Slowly.  

Quietly.

Like something dangerous taking shape in the dark.

Chapter Text

Harry

The night was quiet in the dormitory, but Harry couldn’t sleep. Not that he ever truly slept these days. He pulled his knees to his chest, listening to the wind whistle through the cracks in the tower, imagining the sparks that had burned his hands earlier. His body ached, every bruised rib, every tear in his palms. But the ache no longer scared him. It reminded him he was alive.

He stared at the doorway leading to his roommates rooms, Shade’s voice echoing in his head. Hearing that voice now made his blood run cold.

He pulled out a dusty book Shade had given him “The Standard Book of Spells” by Miranda Goshawk.’Did all Wixen have “witchy” surnames?’ And a worn down book which had caught Harry’s attention almost instantly. “One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi” By Phyllida Spore. Harry traced both books reverently. 

He took a deep breath. The room was empty except for the flickering candles and the occasional groan of a dormmate’s exhausted body. He opened the book; hungrily absorbing the knowledge. 

‘Accio: Summoning Charm. Use to make an object come flying to you.’

“Accio pillow.” Harry muttered, but his pillow did not even twitch. It’s okay. It was his first time afterall. 

“Accio pillow.” He whispered again. Nothing. 

He groaned in frustration. What was he going to do now? He couldn’t just show up with nothing, could he? Plus, Shade would eviscerate him if he did. Harry gulped, and his fear hardened into resolve.

He had seen what they had done. What they could do. They could make some hurt worse than death. But they could also heal something impossible. Harry stared at his bruised hands. They removed burns which agonized Harry if he even made them twitch. 

Magic was a cruel, cruel thing. But so were humans. That’s why Harry always preferred plants. Something he could control. Something which wouldn’t–no, couldn’t hurt him. But with gardening, you need to trim everything nice and proper; make sure there is just enough water for a growing Cow Parsley, or just enough sunlight for a Dicentra. 

Magic, Harry had come to realise, was similar in that sense. You need to train your magic to grow. Even if it hurts.

Harry cannot just sit there moping and expect things to get better.

Oliver, albeit a nasty piece of work, was right. “Pathetic little rich boys crying for their mummy.” 

Shame pooled in his stomach. Harry had noticed his fellow partners were all not from a stable life. Orphans, former-prostitutes, homeless, addicts and so on. Neither of them had much to live for. Yet, neither did Harry. 

Tears pricked his tired eyes, which Harry then angrily rubbed away. He was going to be stronger. Because if he wasn’t, he may as well consider himself dead.

“Accio pillow!” Harry slumped. He didn’t know how many times he had tried. And failed. He was too tired, bruised and angry to fight back the tears and began to stifle his cries into his arms. It was past midnight, and at this rate he wasn’t going to get any sleep at all.

A tear stained a page of the book, only making him cry harder. He was utterly useless. He wasn’t special. He was just a freak who somehow ended up at the wrong place at the wrong time. Even his parents had died from his freakishness. 

He got up and faced the pillow, crouching in front of it, channelling all his hatred, terror and sorrow. “Accio pillow!” 

A twitch. Nothing much. But to Harry, it was revolutionary. Emotion was making the magic work. He stifled the joy so that he could stay sad and make it work. If negative emotions were the only thing that worked then so be it. 

He extended his hands, palms his bed, feeling the pulsing energy that always lay coiled beneath his skin. He imagined it like water trapped behind a dam. Flow, don’t explode.

He closed his eyes, did the swishing motion with his hand “ACCIO PILLOW”

The pillow slightly budged toward him. He stifled a gasp. Recoil pain bit into his wrist, but he didn’t cry out. He remembered Shade’s warning: every outward emotion distracted magic. Anger, fear, frustration poisons focus. So he would have to draw inward magic then.

He exhaled. Focused on rhythm. Breath. Pulse. The flicker of magic beneath his skin became a stream, weaving between his palms without evaporating.

“Accio pillow!” The pillow cut through the air and landed into Harry’s arms. He jumped up and cheered for himself. This was his first proper magic. Not magic reacting to adrenaline or life or death. He made this happen. He summoned the pillow. 

He did it again to his blanket for peace of mind, and fell onto his back. He ignored the pain. Breathlessly laughing like an asylum patient.

A shadow shifted across the doorway. Another trainee, daring enough to watch. Harry didn’t look. He didn’t care. His ribs hurt from laughing. 

He had a chance!

By dawn, he had mastered the Accio spell from the book. And he planned on doing three spells a day from then on. The recoil bruises were tiny, manageable. He hadn’t spoken a word. That, in itself, felt like victory.

Shade’s voice cut through the morning mist like steel. “Sticks. Now.”

The trainees lined up. Wooden staves clattered on the stone. Shade moved among them, eyes piercing, assessing. Harry could barely open his eyes. But it was worth it, considering what he had accomplished the night before.

Harry’s hands shook as he picked up a staff. He remembered Slade effortlessly moving, how each strike and block was poetry in motion. But Harry had neither poetry nor motion. He only had determination. And a will to survive. 

“Pair off. One on one. Defense first. No outbursts,” Shade commanded.

Harry’s opponent, Kirian once again, lunged. Harry brought his first stick and blocked while using the other stick to attack his rib. Every strike pained him. His bruises ached. His palms were raw. Every block forced him to think, calculate, and ignore the screaming muscles. 

Kirian deflected the attack and went for Harry’s head, Harry lunged away from him and attempted to jab his stomach. Kirian blocked and hit him on the shoulder.

He hissed in pain and decided to switch tactics. Kirian was now attacking while Harry blocked. His feet grinded into the floor He had no shoes, only bandages wrapping the instep of his foot. It hurts, yes. But also helped him stay agile. 

Harry thought of his second duel with Shade and tried to attack Kirian’s neck. Kirian was taller than him so this proved challenging. But that wasn’t Harry’s intended spot. He smashed his other stick into Kirian’s calf and kicked his groin. 

Kirian hissed in pain and launched back. Harry froze. Kirian wasn’t Shade who would play “nice. And his face reminded him too much of Uncle Vernon when he would be drunk. 

“Fucking bitch!” Kirian roared, and suddenly Harry was on the ground. He couldn’t breathe, he was winded. Kirian was punching him. Again. And again. The sticks were long forgotten.

Shade was pulling Kirian off of him, his expression thunderous. “Kirian. With me. Now.” In a tone which meant danger. Harry’s lip was cut and his eye swollen. He was dizzy. Where was he? Did he die?

Someone was helping him up. A cold, wet cloth was pressed to his face. He hissed at the sting. 

His eyes finally came into focus. It was Vipera. Looking even more terrifying than Shade. “That bastard! Fuck him!” 

Harry mumbled something incoherent and her gaze snapped to him. “You. Shut up and let me heal you.”

Harry closed his mouth and observed her freckled face. Her brow was furrowed in concentration and she bit her lip. Suddenly, a warmth encompassed Harry’s face and the sting began to go away. 

“Whyjudoat?” He croaked. She stared at him blankly.

“Why did you do that?” He repeated. 

She looked uncomfortable and backed away. “Because he was being a bastard. And….and you saved my life even though I was a prick.”

Harry blinked. Vipera blinked, before turning red and scurrying away.

 Shade was back with a terrified looking Kirian. He didn’t say sorry. But what Harry saw made him feel sorry for him. There was a mark carved into his neck. He couldn’t make out what they said. But judging by the looks the others were giving him. It wasn’t anything good. 

Boomslang was nowhere to be found. Which was odd. The only people who disappeared were those who failed the tests. And Boomslang wasn’t someone who failed.

He stood next to a girl with cornrows braided into a plait. The girl looked at him differently. Not pity or admiration, no one respected the weak. But curiosity.

All of them were in a row. And many people Harry didn’t recognise entered the training grounds. 

The older, presumably higher- ranking assassins, along with Shade bowed. “Gratia Hecates te regat.” They said in unison. 

Harry stared ahead in confusion. Suddenly, he felt Vipera’s hand pushing his back into a bow. All the others were bowing too. “Et numquam te deseruat” Vipera and the other trainees replied.

Harry froze for a heartbeat, the strange words tumbling over his tongue as he mimicked the motion out of instinct rather than understanding. The cadence of it, the rise and fall, the collective rhythm, struck a chord deep in his memory.

Gratia Hecates te regat… Et numquam te deseruat.

The words hummed like a faint echo of something he’d heard long ago, though not exactly these words. He blinked, and suddenly he remembered. It was the phrase the priest had said during that long-ago service at church: “The Lord be with you.” And the murmured response: “And also with you.”

It wasn’t the same words, not even close, but the feeling, the ritual, the moment of mutual recognition and shared acknowledgement flared up in him. Here, in this courtyard of sharp eyes and lethal intent, the bowing, the coordinated words, the sense of something bigger than himself. It was the same. A grounding, a reassurance, a brief pause from fear.

Harry’s body relaxed ever so slightly. His bow became less mechanical and more aware, more present. Even Vipera’s push into position no longer felt like coercion, but part of the rhythm of the hall, of the covenant of this strange, dangerous place.

The words hummed again in his head, almost like a shield: Gratia Hecates te regat… Et numquam te deseruat.
The Lord be with you… And also with you.

The voice of one of the cloaked men rang out across the hall, snapping Harry away from his thoughts. “You will be evaluated today,” He paused, “we sincerely hope you do not fail.”

The word failure ricocheted in Harry’s mind.  He had failed had he not? He would barely scrape through any training exercise. Harry’s cheeks heated up and he stared at the oak floor. 

He was going to die.

Goldilocks 

Riven crouched in the shadows, hands adjusting the magical ball before him. It glimmered faintly, hovering like a captured moon. Through it, he could spy on his target: A wealthy, influential merchant in St. Petersburg, rumored to traffic in both legitimate and illicit goods. Mikhail Petrovich Orlov

He slipped from the shadows and leapt onto the rooftops, slick as butter in a pan. He needed to reach his destination. Fast. 

Riven gripped the rust-eaten banister with gloved fingers and vaulted over, boots hitting the lower landing with a soft thud. He slid down the last few steps and slipped into the narrow throat of the alleyway. Horizont Alley.

Not quite a secret, just a place no respectable wizard wanted to admit existed. A sister street to Diagon Alley in the way a knife is a sister to a spoon: related only in shape, never in purpose.

A single step inside and the air changed. Thickened. Soured.

It smelled of rotting potion ingredients, cheap perfume, stale alcohol, wet pavement, and the bitter tang of spilled magic. Not the warm rush of spellwork in the air, this was the kind that clung to skin. Magic used for harm, secrets, and currency.

Riven kept to the wall as he moved. Horizont Alley was narrower than Knockturn, dirtier than Knockturn, and far more alive than Knockturn, in the worst ways. Brothels hid behind enchanted curtains, concealing silhouettes that moved in slow, beckoning shadows. Gambling dens crouched between liquor holes and pawnshops. A witch in torn lace hissed an offer at him from a doorway before reconsidering and slinking back inside.

A drunk wizard lay slumped against a lamppost, the faint shimmer of diluted Felix Felicis in a cracked vial beside him. Someone had laced it; his smile was too wide, too glassy.

Further down, a gaunt man hawked “freshly harvested magical organs” from a box packed with frost charms. Riven didn’t look closely. Some things were better left unidentified.

Borgin & Burkes kept a second shop here. A smaller one. Hidden behind a curtain of shifting shadows that pulsed like a heartbeat. No sign. No welcome. If you didn’t know it existed, you wouldn’t see it.

And yet Mikhail Petrovich Orlov, a man who should have been three countries away, separated by borders, politics, and a very upset Russian crime syndicate, walked straight toward it.

Riven pressed himself behind a stack of shipping crates, watching.

Orlov looked out of place here. Not because he seemed afraid, he didn’t. But because he moved like a man who had lived his entire life surrounded by guards and polished marble floors. His heavy coat, lined with sable fur, glimmered faintly with hidden enchantments. Rings studded his fingers, each one humming with protective magic.

He should not be here. He should never be here.

And certainly not alone.

England had no Russian trade base. No Voronov influence. No markets Orlov would profit from visiting.

Unless he wasn’t here for profit. Unless he was here for a meeting. Or a betrayal.

They were going to have to interrogate Borgin later. He is an Avarum after all.

Orlov reached the shadowed storefront, glanced once over his shoulder, and withdrew a sealed envelope from his coat. A figure stepped from the darker darkness of the doorway, not Borgin- too slender, hooded, face eclipsed, movements unnervingly smooth.

No words exchanged. The envelope changed hands.

Riven felt every instinct sharpen. This is wrong. This is very wrong.

If the Voronov learned Orlov had come to Horizont Alley for clandestine dealings with an unknown contact… If they discovered he met with anyone outside Russia without their sanction…They wouldn’t just want him captured. They’d want him carved apart.

That was why the Nocturne had summoned them to scout for information. They could use this as leverage over the Voronov. Return him for a fee. Business.

He leapt onto the next rooftop. The rendezvous point. He was supposed to meet his colleagues here, simple enough. But Riven’s nerves were taut. He had never liked the Nocturne assignments, the trainees who failed too often were “never seen again.” Never seen again. The words burned in his mind.

His thoughts flickered to the scrawny boy he saw. He was thrown to the wolves. He wouldn’t last a month. The Mortalis were the harshest of the covens. Assassins. They were going to kill him. Break him. Or keep him caged like his–

He exhaled. Not now.

He turned around to the people behind him who had just appeared. Boomslang.

Riven tensed instantly, jaw tightening. His fingers curled around the edge of the roof.

Of course they’d assign Boomslang to this mission. The Nocturne loved irony.

Boomslang’s voice slithered from behind him. “You’ve got him patterned, little seer?”

Riven didn’t react. “His route is clear. He will pass the east corner in twenty-seven seconds.”

Another voice joined, Destiny, one of the quieter but more lethal Mortalis. “The Syndarch said we take him alive.”

Boomslang snorted. “Alive is boring.”

Riven’s stomach knotted.

Of all the assassins in Nocturne, Boomslang was the one he hated most. The one who left a trail of addicts and corpses behind him, laughing as he did. The one who brewed the drug that stimulated magical cores until people tore themselves apart from the inside. Flux. It’s purest form was worse than the dementors kiss. He had many special poisons. There’s a reason why they named him after the venomous snake.

A monster wearing a human grin.

He was a flawless killer, his drugs stretching to even outside Britain. Ever since the Dark Lord’s reign, wizarding Britain has been vulnerable. The Nocturne has seized that opportunity to sink their claws even deeper. Meanwhile the progressives are preaching about ‘Harry Potter’ who will fix all problems. A fucking kid. 

No matter how hard the Ministry tried to conceal it, most of Wizarding Britian was in poverty. That's why the Nocturne could afford to nitpick their recruits.

He focused back on his target looking into his ball. “He’s exchanging a letter with someone.” Riven ignored how close Boomslang came behind him.

“Looks shady, let’s go Oracle.” He said, addressing Destiny “Mark us, do not intervene unless things go south.” He met eyes with Riven and smirked, before launching off the roof and down onto the street below. 

Riven sighed, adjusting the magical ball to keep a tab on Boomslang and Orlov. He froze. Boomslang and Oracle were moving as planned but suddenly darted off course. Something was wrong.

He launched himself off the rooftop before he could question himself. 

Riven shifted his weight, but the decision was stolen from him by the crack of a spell.

It wasn’t a gunshot. It sounded like a spell overloaded past stability, bursting out with lethal intent.

Light, green, sharp, blinding for half a second, punched through Orlov’s chest.

The merchant jerked backward, breath escaping him in a wet gasp. His magical rings sparked, protections trying desperately to activate, but the spell had been too fast. Too precise.

He collapsed onto the stones, fur-lined coat spreading like spilled ink.

Riven froze.

This wasn’t the Syndicate’s work. Nor the Nocturne's. They needed Orlov alive. Deliverable. Negotiable.

Boomslang darted after the shadow figure, but they vanished into thin air. Boomslang swore loudly. People from the brothels and gambling houses emerged, attracted by the commotion.

But someone, someone with skill, access, and a death wish, had just executed a man wanted by the Voronovs in Nocturne territory.

A war wasn’t brewing.

A war had just been lit like a match.