A/N: Yes, there's a new cover! I'm thinking about changing my face claim, so it was just a little weird to stare at her face every time I went in to edit the story lmao.
With a sigh of defeat, Alaric allowed himself to slide back down to the uncomfortable posture he'd retained for the past several days or weeks -- whichever it had been, he wasn't quite sure. He had lost track of time long ago, and for all he knew and cared, decades had passed. All he desired now was to lessen the pain, because there was simply so much of it all around him. The screams of agony that echoed down the halls of the dungeon each night -- as they did now -- were a reminder to all its captives of the consequences their actions, if unfavourable to the wardens' likings.
Alaric himself had suffered much. His wounds, which barely healed but multiplied in number after every visit to the room devoid of all good in the world, served as testament to the countless horrors inflicted upon him. Although these battered bruises and festering cuts caused him a great deal of pain, they were nothing compared to the traumas his mind and soul had been forced to endure.
In that small, dark room at the end of the hall, a slender man dressed all in black would come through the door and seat himself next to the table upon which the prisoner of the night would be constrained to. He would sit there, unmoving and still as a statue, for several minutes, dementedly patient and sadistic beyond belief. Then, he would slowly remove his gloves, finger by finger, and begin a rather one-sided discussion with his company as if they were old friends--
A heavy, pounding sound rattled Alaric awake from his half-awake stupor. Startled, he attempted to push himself up as the door flung open.
Half a dozen guards of the dark wizarding kind stormed into his tiny cell, which was suddenly filled with so many souls that it was suffocating to its sole occupant. The wardens paid no mind to his troubles and forced him onto his feet, ignoring his sharp cries of pain as the shackles dug into his already raw wrists. The handcuffs were removed with the flick of a wand, and for a brief moment, Alaric almost smiled at the bliss of feeling nothing but air against his blistered skin. It was short-lived, however, as the guards forcefully shoved him forwards, causing him to fall onto his weak knees. A bout of laughter rang out, and the wardens proceeded to jostle him back up to his feet rather roughly, with a few kicking him in the shins as he swayed back and forth, trying to get a hold of his bearings with rife unease.
"Go on, Travers," one of them barked at him. "He's waiting for you."
"Asked fer ye specifically," another added snidely, prodding him towards the godforsaken iron door. "What are ye waitin' fer?"
Gathering the little strength that still coursed through his veins and pumped into his tired lungs, Alaric planted one foot firmly in front of the other, stumbling down the dark corridor to the door, which was wide open. The familiar figure in black sat with his back to the entrance, wearing the same black traveller's cloak and pair of dragon hide gloves as he always did.
"Enter," the voice within said quietly, devoid of its usual slick charm and self-satisfaction. Once Alaric had staggered into the tiny, torch-lit chamber, the door swung shut, seemingly of its own accord. "Sit."
The mysterious figure was, of course, referring to the table upon which he drove the feeble-minded mad and the strong-willed madder. Obediently, Alaric pushed himself up onto the smooth, obsidian surface that he so deeply loathed. Just the smell of the room was enough to make him want to wretch, but his fear of this man was so great that he didn't dare do anything to displease him.
Silence echoed off the walls and the ceiling and floor like some kind of dreadful, endless scream that made every hair on Alaric's body stand on end as he sat, petrified with terror. This was one of the man before him's favourite mind games to play before he began performing his acts of true brutality. A good five minutes passed before the dark figure cleared his throat.
"Your wife is dead."
Alaric's heart froze in his chest mid-beat, but the tears he so desperately wanted to shed wouldn't come. He wanted to scream, to let out every last repressed and forgotten emotion, but it was as if some greater force was repressing them all at once, like a stopper in a bottle. The pain, the agony of not being able to properly process his thoughts and emotions was unbearable and inhuman, unbelievably cruel and beyond any punishment he had ever encountered. He wanted nothing more than to hurt the secretive figure that sat so coldly, so indifferently, before him. He wanted to take the enigmatic man's heart in his hands and rip it into a thousand pieces, scatter them in the ocean wind, and set every nerve of his on fire until he couldn't bear it any longer and begged for mercy--
"Nothing you think yourself capable of doing will bring her back, Alaric," the emotionless voice informed him as mundanely as if they had been discussing the weather. "You're wondering how I know, and I will tell you, when the time comes, but until then. . . ." He slowly removed a glove, revealing a pale arm. "This will hurt far less than your broken heart, Alaric. That, I can promise."
Travers didn't even notice the latest round of spells and curses cast upon him. So great was his pain that the usual reeling flashbacks he received from the dark wizard who so haughtily stood before him. The only thing he knew for the hour that ensued was the emptiness, the numbness, the hollow, resounding pain of losing the mother of his children, the hot-tempered witch he had first met on a business trip to Belgrade. Every memory, every moment spent with her, was a glowing-hot coal upon his conscience, burning and marking him with angry, red welts of immeasurable pain.
And just as suddenly as it began, it stopped. It was as if his feelings were forced back into small confines beyond his reach once again, against his will.
The dark-robed man turned so that his back was to his captive, and he proceeded to remove the hood that had obscured his face for so long, revealing a head of dark, finely styled waves. He combed a hand through his ebony locks, the silver ring on his pinky finger glinting in the torchlight. Slowly, he let out a sigh, squaring his shoulders back.
"I think that it is time I tell you how I know, Alaric," the distant figure said in a conversational tone, turning around slowly, but with great care to keep his identity a mystery. "I killed her."
Suddenly, all his features were visible. His face was well-constructed and angular, as if it had been carved from a block of pale marble. An amused smile, almost a smirk, graced his lips with cruel satisfaction. His eyes were dark and bottomless, soulless, yet they lit up when he spoke next, despite his being so aloof. He was vaguely familiar to Alaric, as if his picture had been in the newspaper or among one of the many photographs he used to receive from his children.
"They said it was suicide," the man continued, pulling his gloves back on absentmindedly, "but I killed her, Alaric. I cast a spell unknown to the Ministry, and she fell over the balcony to her death. She screamed like a little girl. Her fall lasted not even a few seconds; she fell from the third story, and the snow cushioned her fall, anyways."
"And you should have seen how your daughter rushed out, so distraught and pathetic!" He paused to laugh-- it was unusually high-pitched and cruel. "Then that helpless Malfoy boy followed her like a lost puppy, and she cried for hours. It's funny, isn't it? How she prides herself on being so clever and bright but lets her feelings cloud her judgement? She didn't even question her mother's death being ruled as a suicide. She couldn't even fathom it in that moment, and now, she lets her feelings cloud her judgement of me." He flashed another bright smile, shaking his head. "I thought she had potential, but she always lets her emotions get the best of her. Wouldn't it be a shame if Arabella ended up like her poor mother, though?"
Alaric wanted nothing more than to deliver a blow to this stranger's smug face, but his limbs were as responsive as his bottled emotions.
"Your son, though-- Nikolai? He's flown off the handle since your wife's unfortunate accident. That's how the officials ruled her death, by the way, since they do hate suicides. . . . Anyways, Nikolai is walking on what you might call the wild side. Perhaps he could teach his sister a thing or two. Then, I might like her more. But would it even be 'more,' Alaric, considering I never even liked her in the first place?"
The figure stopped in the doorway, pausing as if trying to recollect an important thought. A smile dawned on his face again as he raised his wand. "One more thing, old friend: a gift for your son, who has been visiting you in dreams, as he does now. I always warned you not to go where you're not wanted, Nikolai. I really am not sorry at all about this, though. You always get what you deserve if you're a filthy blood traitor. Voco perus sanguinem."
✧ ✧ ✧
"Arabella!"
"Not now," she groaned groggily, pulling her covers up to her chin.
She was vaguely aware of the owner of the other voice tearing her blanket off her body, exposing her to the cold of her dormitory room. "Arabella, this is serious!"
Her eyes fluttered open, grudgingly, to see quiet Esther Prinn at the foot of her bed, her face pale.
"What?" Arabella demanded, rubbing her eyes with the backs of her hands.
"Your brother is in the infirmary!"
She snorted. "What a surprise. Did he think that it would be a good idea to play quidditch indoors again?"
It was then, of course, that she realised that Esther, the goody two-shoes who despised Nikolai, was full-out sobbing.
"No!" Esther replied woefully, clutching Arabella's blankets to her chest as if they were one giant handkerchief. "They thought he was dead when they found him, and Professor Dippet told me to wake you, and since your mum's dead and your dad is Merlin knows where, they have to find your next of kin, just in case. . . . Oh, Arabella, I feel so dreadful! What if something happens? I mean, they're still trying to revive him and--"
"I've barely talked to him this month, Essie." Arabella sat in her bed, dumbfounded, as a thousand realisations struck her at once and a thousand guilts swelled up in her conscience. Even with the tears welling up in her eyes, she was able to see all of her mistakes. "I was ashamed of him. Oh, Merlin, what have I done?"
Esther Prinn frowned. "It wasn't you that hurt him. It was the same dark magic that the Yaxleys were cursed with--"
At that, Arabella bolted out of the bedroom, wiping at her eyes all the while. She nearly slipped on the smooth, polished stone floor multiple times as she sprinted to the infirmary, near which all the professors were amassed, pyjama-clad and distressed.
"Arabella, my dear," said Professor Trevil in her permanently airy voice. Somehow, amidst her worry, Arabella noticed that her Divination professor's nightclothes hardly differed from her regular outfits. "Fate is telling me that Nicholas will pull through--"
"His name is Nikolai," Arabella said sharply, "and frankly, I don't give a damn what Fate is telling you, or rather, whatever it is that you've invented. I only want to know what Madam Goodfellow has to say about my brother's recovery."
Without waiting for her dumbstruck teacher's response, Arabella shoved past the crowd of half-awake instructors and somehow managed to find herself standing inside the infirmary itself. At the end opposite from where she stood, the privacy curtain was drawn and the portly shadow of Madam Goodfellow making a poultice with her mortar and pestle danced across the thin paper screen. The voice of Professor Slughorn running through different healing potions at her elbow, with nearly all of them followed by gruff rebukes, would have ordinarily been amusing to Arabella.
"Oh, dear," Slughorn sighed, extending his arms to one of his favourite students for a comforting hug. "How about the--"
"No! Merlin's beard, no! We are not using the Gonkin Draught on this poor boy!" Madam Goodfellow screeched, the sound of her pounding valerian root into a fine powder growing even louder. "Come here, Miss Travers, and see your poor, poor, dear brother. And leave him alone, Horace. Healing is my department, isn't it?"
"Yes, I believe it is," the Potions Master conceded with sadness.
Again, the nurse hurriedly beckoned Arabella over with the pudgy hand that held onto the mortar.
"How is he, Madam Goodfellow?"
The kind woman heaved a sigh, the sound of her grinding intensifying even more. "Well, darling, to be entirely honest with you, it's not looking too good. But I think I can reduce the blood loss. . . . If I can't, he's off to Mungo's for Merlin knows how long."
Arabella's breath caught in her throat once her eyes landed on Nikolai. He was so pale, so fragile-looking. She was almost afraid to touch him, in fear of breaking him. She had heard of the effects of this spell from him before, but this bout seemed to be the most drastic she'd ever heard of in her limited interaction with dark magic. Nikolai was still losing blood in slow trickles from his nostrils and from little cuts all over his body, as if someone had stabbed him repeatedly with a thin blade.
"Oh, Nik," she whispered, letting the tears stream down her face. "Who would do this to you?"
She remained by his side all through the night, even when the sun rose and students began milling about the hallways, headed for the Great Hall and classes alike. She fell asleep gripping onto his unusually cold hand, oblivious to the growing amount of cards and trinkets on his bedside table, of the visitors coming in and out. She was out until a hand rested lightly on her shoulder, almost with caution.
"Arabella," said a familiar deep voice that she hadn't heard in a few days.
Immediately, she sat up, awake. "Nik?" But he still slumbered peacefully. Blood no longer stained his sheets, nor did it run freely from his wounds.
The owner of the voice chuckled from behind her. "No, but I wish I was. Then I wouldn't have to turn in my essay for Ancient Runes."
A small smile slowly spread across her face. "Is that Tom Riddle making a joke?"
He returned her smile coyly. "Perhaps it is. . . . but it's time to get you to class, isn't it?"
"Miss Travers is exempt from her classes today, Mr. Riddle," said Madam Goodfellow stiffly, appearing out of nowhere. "I'd recommend that you run along and leave your poor girlfriend here alone. We women need some time to ourselves after things like this happen."
Tom's charming smile grew wider, earning him a harsh glare from the nurse. "She's not my--"
"Be gone, Mr. Riddle. Mr. Travers is not expecting any visitors today." As Tom gathered his things in preparation to leave, a blond-haired boy rushed in, nearly dropping his books in his haste. The nurse's mood changed completely, as if someone had flipped a switch. "Abraxas! How lovely to see you, my dear!"
"Good morning, Madam Goodfellow. How's Nikolai?" Malfoy's voice was filled with concern that had been lacking completely from Tom's.
"He's resting, now that I've finally managed to somewhat stop the bleeding. . . ."
"Somewhat?" Arabella croaked.
Abraxas' eyes drifted to her, widening in shock. "A-Arabella, hi."
She offered him a tight-lipped smile, watching out of the corner of her eye with suspicion as Madam Goodfellow disappeared out of sight to tend to another patient. "Hello, Abraxas. How. . . . how are you?"
"Fine," he replied quickly. "I'm fine. You?"
Arabella turned to look back at her brother, who slept peacefully on the hospital cot, blissfully unaware of his troubles. "I've been better."
"Oh. Right." Malfoy awkwardly scratched the back of his head. "I always forget. He'll be better, right? Won't, er, bleed to death or something? Because that would be just terrible. I couldn't imagine, having to bury your mother, and then your brother. . . . all after your father becomes the most hated wizard in England, even more than Grindelwald, I'd reckon. . . . and after your Mudblood boyfriend drops out of school to go die in that silly little Muggle war, eh? Yeah, that's a rough year for you, Travers."
She bit her lip, trying not to cry. "Abraxas. . . ."
"What if you got the letter today that James--"
"John."
"--was dead? That would be a bloody travesty, let me tell you. This year has just gone to shit, hasn't it? I really can't think of anything worse happening, except for Nikolai actually dying and then you, too. You'd have to have a nice death, though. Perhaps a wizard's duel? Or poison?"
"Abraxas! Please!" she begged, dabbing repeatedly at her eyes with the sleeves of her robe, which just barely covered her nightgown. "Now is not the time for--"
"Is that a nightgown you're wearing?" he inquired suddenly, trying to tear his eyes away without much success. His face belied his seemingly innocent question, though, as it quickly reddened. "With the lace details and such? The one you wore when your mum took a leap--"
"Malfoy, for the love of Merlin, please shut up!" Arabella pleaded tearfully, drawing her robe in closer to herself and shrinking under his gaze.
He exhaled heavily, sitting gently on the edge of Nikolai's cot. He let a silence exist between them for a while before clearing his throat, keeping his line of eyesight trained diligently on the tiled floor. "So, um. . . . How've you been, otherwise?"
"All right," Arabella answered, sniffling. "I'm surprised I don't see you more, to be completely honest. Tom says you've been acting oddly--"
"Yeah, I wonder why," Abraxas grumbled under his breath.
"What?" Arabella asked, confused.
Malfoy shook his head. "Nothing. Maybe Nikolai's waking up. . . ."
With her attention diverted, he dropped a piece of paper on the empty seat next to her and quietly gathered his books, setting off towards the door lithely.
Arabella studied her brother for a few more seconds, determined that he was quite sound asleep, and then returned her attention to the now-missing Abraxas. With a sigh, she glanced downwards, catching sight of the haphazardly folded piece of parchment he had left behind. Her curiosity piqued, she reached for it. Something about it all just felt so odd.
She opened the note carefully, and read it multiple times to see if she could possibly understand it better if she reread it twenty times.
I was with Nik when he began having his fit. He was mumbling, "They said it was suicide."
-AM
\\
A long chapter to make up for almost a month without any updates! And sadly, it's probably going to happen again, since I am going to be travelling for the majority of this month... But then, I will do my best to finish up this book before I have to go to uni!
A lot happened in this chapter. What do you think will happen next? Let me know your thoughts!
Today's Question: Who was it with Alaric, why were they there, and why did they kill Nik and Ara's mum?
And lastly, hpfanfictionawards is hosting the Harry Potter Fanfiction Awards! It would mean a lot to me if you went and nominated me-- I don't mind which categories, but it is unlimited! It ends on 13 June, at which point voting begins (I believe? It's 6 AM and I just pulled an all-nighter to write this so idek.) I love you all so much, and your support and lovely comments are really what keeps this story going ❤️
Hope you all have a lovely summer (or winter, if you're in the southern hemisphere!)
-o