11. Deck the Halls

WARNING: lil bit of blood and vomit. It's only brief, but still there. Elio gives verbal warning when he's going to be sick so just skip the following paragraph and you'll be alright

THE portkey drops Oliver onto slippery, wet grass with little warning. His shoes struggle to find purchase, almost toppling from underneath him. He barely remembers to drop the little coin before it returns to its home. As all hands release the small coin, it drops to the ground where it trembles and then vanishes. The only sign that it was ever even there is the slight rustle of disturbed grass.

Oliver stands in a wide, empty field on the edge of a cliff. A thick expanse of trees circles the clearing, a silhouette against the darkening sky. Drifting lazily in the air, white specks of snow disappear before they can hit the ground. The snow is thick enough that it should really be coating the ground. Some enchantment must be stopping it. One small protection against the winter weather. It's still cold, though. Every breath comes out white cold. The grass is wet and muddy. Oliver doesn't know how Elio is wearing sandals.

A large bonfire burns in the centre of the field. The small gathering flocks to it like moths to a light. Everyone is dressed up, disguised in some manner. Their costumes create inhuman shapes, with feathers sprouting from heads and shoulders, fur replacing skin as if they were beasts. It's like Oliver has walked into a trap. Dread settles heavily in his stomach like some unfounded premonition of doom. And yet, at the same time, he's enchanted. His feet move unbiddenly toward the group and he's no longer sure if he's following Elio's lead or simply the allurement of the crowd.

As they approach, the fire's heat melts away the cold that had seeped into Oliver's bones. It burns against his cheeks, no doubt turning them red. The indiscernible murmur of the crowd's chatter floats peacefully over the quiet of the night. Somewhere nearby, waves crash against rock.

A loud crack from wood splitting in the bonfire breaks the spell. Oliver blinks. Both Elio and Remus have disappeared.

"I don't know. I blinked and they were gone." Percy answers the question that rests on Oliver's lips. He scans the crowd. There can't be that many places the pair have disappeared to. They seem to have arrived early, as the crowd gathered is only small. Most of the clearing is void of any adornments, save the bonfire, an empty stage, and a series of tables containing a sparse assortment of food.

It's by the food where a certain statuesque boy stands. By the time Oliver spots him, Elio is already heading back to them. His arms are full of goblets, precariously sloshing around with every step. One is passed to Oliver. Percy declines his as it's offered.

"I would rather keep a clear head." He says as he pushes the goblet away.

"Boo, you're no fun." Elio frowns, scrunching up his nose. Percy is a stronger man than Oliver. The disappointed expression alone would have had Oliver accepting.

"You're not the... well, you know." Percy's implication hangs heavy in the air. The blood traitor, surrounded by people who hate him for his surname alone.

"Fair." Elio accepts this with a shrug. He then knocks back Percy's goblet in one go. There's zero hesitation. This seems to summon Remus immediately.

"We just got here." The older man sighs as he takes the now-empty goblet, as if that will do anything. Elio has already moved onto his own goblet, though this he doesn't scull. "Don't make me put a limit on your drinks again."

"You can't put a limit on drinks. That's the whole point." Elio struggles to speak through the wine. It's hardly an elegant sight as the red drink dribbles down his chin. The anonymity seems to have brought out a new side of Elio. A horribly messy, impolite side. Remus stares in the disapproving way only a parent can, sighs again, and takes a long drink of his own wine.

Then, without a word, he slinks off into the crowd, leaving the three boys alone.

In the silence that follows, Oliver takes a sip from his own goblet and is met with a warm, sweet drink. It's fruity and spiced, clearly a mulled wine, and yet something tastes slightly off about it. It's different enough for Oliver to register its foreignness, but not so different that he can label it. Still, it's wine and it tastes good. That's all that truly matters.

"Oh, what stunning costumes!" A woman gasps as she approaches the trio. She's dressed like a crow, in a gown made entirely of black feathers. Rather than a mask, dark paint alters her features. Oliver suspects it must be enchanted like their own, as his gaze unwillingly shifts off of her face before he has any chance of recognising her.

The woman catches Elio right as he's wiping the wine from his chin, extending her hand expectantly in greeting. In one smooth gesture, the back of his hand still shining with wine, he brings her hand to his lips. When he drops it, a positively crocodilian smile pulls at his lips which doesn't reach his eyes. There's the Elio that Oliver knows.

"Yours is wonderful. I love the feathers." Elio drawls as he gently runs a finger across a feather on her shoulder.

"Thank you, I had them imported." The woman laughs as if this is a joke. Whatever the punchline is, it's lost on Oliver and Percy.

But not on Elio, who matches her amusement. It's impossible to tell if he genuinely finds it funny or if he's simply pretending. Oliver only knows something is off because of the stark change in persona, the sudden controlled exuberance. Every one of Elio's actions are loud and showy, but he's still perfect and pristine. Not a single gesture is out of place.

"You must be freezing, though." The woman continues. She uses this as an opportunity to grab Elio's bicep. Dark nails press tight against his gold-streaked arm, though the gesture is only fleeting. Elio glances down but for a split second before she removes her hand.

"It's not so bad." He responds with a shrug. Almost absentmindedly, he adjusts the strap of his toga. "The fire certainly helps."

"It's a big one, this year. A tree fell in the forest — the Mother must be pleased." The woman claims. Elio offers her a polite, close-lipped smile. That, wordlessly, brings the conversation to an abrupt end. "Well, I must be off. Enjoy your evening. Io Maternalia!"

As soon as the woman has moved away, Elio's smile sours. It drops into a grimace as he mutters, "I can't stand that woman."

"How do you know who she was?" Oliver asks. If tested, he doesn't think he could recall a single feature of that woman except for her costume. A crow is all she is in his memory.

"It's not so hard when you get stuck at parties with this lot. Disguises do nothing to the personality." Elio explains, then takes a swig of his wine. He sighs into his cup, shaking his head before he's even removed it from his mouth. "I don't want to waste my evening being annoyed."

Without a warning, Elio sets off. He finds Cedric amongst the crowd with a speed that feels supernatural. At least, Oliver assumes it's Cedric. The other boy is dressed like a medieval prince, clad in silver chainmail with red embellishments. A white mask decorated with gold paint obscures all his features; a dark headwraps ensures absolutely nothing of his head can be seen. A simple, gold crown sits atop the headwrap. The only indicator that this might be their classmate is Elio's greeting.

"Io, Romeo!" He yells, too loudly to be greeting just anyone. Then he plants an exaggerated kiss on both of the mask's cheeks, cupping the mask firmly between his hands. Still clutching onto Cedric's head, he cries dramatically through gritted teeth, "Wherefore art thou, Romeo? Deny thy father and refuse thy name!"

"That gets funnier every year." Cedric replies dryly while Elio pretends to sob into his chest. Oliver recognises his voice, safely confirming the identity. The blank face of his mask fits his tone perfectly. He pats an unimpressed hand on the older boy's shoulder.

"When are you going to get a new costume?" Elio asks, performance now over. He tugs at the collar of the tunic, resting underneath the chainmail.

"When you get a new joke. I'm King Arthur, not Shakespeare." The other boy answers with a sigh. He turns toward the other two — or, at least, Oliver thinks he does. His head moves and the dark shadows behind the mask's eyes are no longer directed at Elio. But even his eyes aren't visible. Not a single bit of skin shows on Cedric. "Hello, you two. Are you ready for a long night?"

Once greetings have passed, Elio is on the move again. He leads the group to one of the tables from before, which has now filled with more food. Oliver is fairly certain there are stories warning against eating mysterious food in forests. He's probably going to get trapped here for all eternity. But, Elio and Cedric tuck in with no fear.

"Get some food. It's better to eat now than when the festivities have really got going." Elio instructs before shoving some mince pies into Oliver and Percy's uncertain hands.

"Though a case can be made for eating drunk rather than sober." Cedric adds. "House elves aren't allowed to work on Maternalia proper, so the food is made by wizards. How they turn out is a bit of a lottery."

"It hardly takes more than a few spells to make some edible food. The kitchen does all the work." Percy says as he examines a dubious attempt at a salad. There hardly seems to be any theme in the ingredients that were mixed in the bowl. In fact, some don't even look like they belong in a salad.

"What you're forgetting is most of the people here don't even know a cleaning spell." Cedric murmurs, leaning in conspiratorially. There's a playful smirk hanging from his tone, visible even when his mouth is not.

"I know a cleaning spell." Elio says rather abruptly, as if trying to convince the others that he shouldn't be lumped in with that group. "I do."

Elio is met with silence — an intentional, teasing silence. He pauses his collection of food to look up at the others, eyes wide and sincere. It's almost endearing, if strange. So much importance has been placed on them knowing his competence in housekeeping.

"I know quite a few, actually. Could probably clean a whole house." He adds, now bragging. Endearing turns into obnoxious.

"Would you like a medal?" Cedric asks dryly and, for his sarcasm, receives a scowl. The doe eyes are lost to Elio's grimace, as his attention returns to the table.

Once their arms are full of food, under Elio and Cedric's guidance, the group finds a spot at the edge of the crowd to sit. Though they're far enough out to avoid being trampled, the heat of the bonfire still reaches them, warding off the bite of winter. The grass is still cold through Oliver's pants.

Cedric had been right. The food Oliver sifts through won't be winning any awards, that's for sure. It's not inedible, but Oliver would hardly call it an enjoyable experience. He wolfs down dry mince pies and strange sandwiches in an attempt to keep the tasting to a minimum, washing it all down with wine.

Elio snorts suddenly through a mouthful of food. Pointing, he directs attention to a person dressed as a rabbit and another dressed as a knight not dissimilar to Cedric. At a glance, there hardly seems to be anything noteworthy about them — certainly nothing particularly amusing. Fortunately, Elio soon graces them all with an explanation.

"Look at that — the night's still young and the politics have already started." Elio grins. "Bugs Bunny over there is making a push for a bill that's going to put more regulations on portkey travel. It's going to make it all super inconvenient, so obviously it's not going to be popular. I bet he's trying to sweeten Sir Lancelot up now. If he can get Lancelot on board, he'd be set I think. Lancelot is pretty popular."

"Just because they're playing the game, doesn't mean we have to also get involved." Cedric sighs into a mince pie. He's pulled mask and headwrap up enough so his mouth is free for him to eat.

"We're not. What's funny is–" Cedric interrupts Elio with a groan, which earns him an elbow to his side. "Shut up. What's funny is Lancelot is sleeping with his cousin."

"Whose cousin?" The Hufflepuff asks, no longer resisting.

"Bugs' cousin. They hate each other — her and Bugs. Some issue with a will or something, I think. Something really stupid, but it's basically become a blood feud. No way Lancelot's going to be won over while that affair is going on. I wonder if his wife knows." Elio frowns as he settles back, still staring at the distant pair. There's no effort to mask his actions, no fear in being caught gossiping. His foot taps idly, swinging from side to side in a slow, repetitive motion. "She'd have to, surely. I know and I heard from, like, a fifth hand source. Maybe she's also having an affair."

"I think you'd know if she was." Cedric comments. His pie seems more interesting than Elio's gossip.

"Yeah, you're probably right. No one's that good at hiding things." Elio sighs. "Poor Guinevere."

"She'd be Elaine, wouldn't she?" Cedric says, drawing the other boy's attention away from the distant pair. Elio frowns at him, silently asking for elaboration. "Lancelot had the affair with Guinevere."

"Poor Elaine, then." There's a fraction of a pause. Just enough for Elio to change his train of thought. A frown settles over his face as he watches the knight and rabbit. His tapping foot slows into a halt. Then he exhales slowly through his nose and sits up. "I take that back. Not poor Elaine. Merlin, she's a piece of work herself, even if she's loyal to her husband. The amount of friends she's used as stepping stones... The only reason she still has any is because they rely too much on her to leave. The personality on that woman. And in the Ministry — she's been pushing her anti-werewolf agenda since she got a position there. The vile fucking bullshit that comes from that bitch's mouth. Y'know, apparently her cousin got bit, which you'd think would make her more empathetic–"

"Sunshine, we're getting political." Cedric warns gently, no longer teasing. It breaks Elio out of the building rage, which he seems unaware had been growing. The Slytherin swallows heavily like his mouth is dry, now acknowledging his company.

"I'll go get us more drinks." Elio decides, getting to his feet. His movements are stiff, his entire body tense. He barely gets a few metres away before a stranger accosts him. Even at a distance, his discomfort is visible — his charming performance does barely anything to hide it.

"He's going to be gone a while." Cedric says as he steals food from the other boy's unattended pile. "Happens every time."

"So, what is all this?" Percy asks after the group settles into silence. "He hasn't been especially forthcoming on what we've come to, exactly."

"We eat, drink, and be merry. It's just a gathering." Cedric answers with a shrug. It's about as informative as Elio — almost infuriatingly so. "There'll be a show later, like muggle Christmas there's some history to it, but all this is just an excuse to relax the rules and be normal for a few hours. Everyone gets drunk, says the things they couldn't say without the mask, has a nice time. Only religious people do anything more than that."

As they finish their dinner, the crowd continues to grow. Oliver had thought it was busy before, but he'd been sorely mistaken. The previous group doesn't scratch the surface of the numbers this festival can bring. The field no longer looks empty. Muddled conversations carry over the air in a warm, high-spirited buzz.

By the time Elio returns, Percy and Cedric have succumbed to a heated discussion about herbology that's far too intellectual for Oliver. He's since turned to knotting grass as a form of entertainment. Elio's arms are full of promised glasses as he settles down beside Oliver. As he wordlessly distributes the drinks, his gaze flickers between the other pair.

"Politics is off the cards but plants aren't, I see." He mutters and hands Oliver another glass of something warm and alcoholic. There's an exaggerated kiss on both of Elio's cheeks, which he roughly wipes away the second his hand is free. He frowns at the smear on his palm, before dragging it across the grass.

"Run into some mistletoe?" Oliver asks as Elio moves onto the other cheek.

"I wish. At least then there'd be a reason for it." Elio scoffs bitterly, shaking his head. "Just an overzealous greeter. Probably someone's aunt or something."

"You attract a lot of aunts, then?" Oliver's light teasing draws a slight smile from the younger, a glimmer of amusement.

"Yeah. I suppose." Elio pauses only to gulp down some wine. Oliver isn't sure he's even tasting it. "Lots of aunts have a lot of nieces — nephews, too, sometimes. But it's the babies they want."

"Why are you talking about babies?" Cedric asks as attention shifts to the other pair.

"We're talking about the aunts who want Sunshine's babies." Oliver explains before Elio has a chance to.

"In a Rumpelstiltskin fashion?" Percy asks, sounding as though he's expecting and dreading something else. There's a concerned frown forming on his brow, like he's worried about Elio.

"Maybe. I don't remember why 'Stiltskin wanted the baby." Elio answers into his cup. "Must we keep talking about aunts?"

"You're the one who brought it up." Cedric retorts. To this, Elio sighs. With his glass now empty, he flops backward onto the ground.

There he remains, looking mostly unconscious, until a call for gathering arises. In the time that's passed, the stage has been decorated to resemble the surrounding forest. The crowd makes their way from fire to stage in one great mass. Even Elio is eager to get as close to the front as possible. The other three are forced to stick close, lest they lose him.

A hushed anticipation settles over the group, bringing the first sense of quiet this evening has had. It's as though everyone is holding their breath, too scared to be the person to break the silence. They all grow still, eyes glued to the empty stage. At a glance, there's hardly anything noteworthy about it. A small platform raises fake trees slightly above the ground. There's no other decorations on it. There isn't even any performers.

Once the crowd is as still as it can be — a second longer and the first cough will come, the first clearing of the throat, anything to break the agonising wait — a young child dressed in dark robes and a dog mask moves to the centre stage. They come to an abrupt halt, as though they weren't expecting to happen upon their mark so soon. From where he stands, Oliver can't see a mark but he's certain one is there. The child is standing too perfectly for there to not be the strictest of adult guidance.

The waiting begins again. Seconds drag as the child looks out at the audience, motionless. It would be easy to mistake them for a statue, even after seeing them walk out. Someone in the crowd coughs. Abruptly, as if that was their cue - and maybe it was, the child's arms rise high above their head. The robes' sleeves are loose on their thin arms, sliding right up to the shoulder.

"We are gathered to give thanks to the Mother. She has blessed us with magic for another year, allowing us to grow ever stronger." The child — a girl — might clearly be reciting a script, but she yells the words with utter enthusiasm. She doesn't sound much older than a first year — and she'd be lucky if she was even that old. Old enough to read and act, probably, and not much more than that. She points off stage as she continues, "As repayment, the Mother demands a sacrifice. There's only one thing that will appease her."

At her command, two more robed figures — adults, this time, completely indistinguishable in their dark clothing — drag another child up onto the stage. He's fighting back. A futile attempt to escape his captors is made, but he doesn't stand a chance against two grown adults. His bare feet don't even reach the ground, kicking wildly in the air. A thrashing foot digs into one of his captor's sides. The adult falters, groaning ever so slightly, but their hold doesn't loosen.

"Only the freshest blood for the Mother. Its purity will protect us and our magic for the next year." The first child cries as the second is brought down to her level. In a theatrical display, she pulls a dagger from her belt. It looks quite real. The other child whimpers. If he's acting, he's putting on an incredibly believable performance. Too believable. Oliver fears it might not be acting. He wouldn't put it past the Purebloods to kidnap a child, now that he thinks about it. When the boy whimpers, the girl gently shushes him, "Shh, this is the greatest sacrifice you could make. You will be rewarded."

The two adults begin chanting in another language. They sound like droning aliens, buzzing in low, threatening tones. Following their lead, the audience joins. They all repeat the same chant with fervour. It's a discordant jumble of voices, much like the schools song, though not half as amusing. No one seems to be able to agree on a volume, a pitch, a tempo. The only thing that remains the same is the words, whatever they may be.

"What're they saying?" Oliver tries to ask Elio quietly, though it's impossible to be truly quiet when the crowd is so loud. The noise forces what would be a whisper into a yell, lost in a sea of chanting.

"They're calling for a sacrifice." Elio translates distractedly, eyes glued to the stage.

"Kill the boy would be more accurate." Percy counters as he leans over. Now that he knows what they're saying, the crowd's voices take on a more ominous sound. He can hear the thirst for blood, practically braying for it. Elio just shrugs. It isn't an uncertain shrug. It's a blasé shrug, unbothered by the crowd.

Only the light of the bonfire flickering across the dog mask animates the girl. She, otherwise, remains as still as the dead, drinking in the noise. The other child has not stopped fighting, though he grows more tired with every minute. He's sobbing — wailing in such a manner Oliver is convinced it isn't fake.

Right as it seems as though the crowd can get no louder, the dog-girl leaps upon the boy. The adults let him loose as she pins him to the ground. He has little chance of escape then. With practiced ease, she slices the child's neck from ear to ear. There's no warning, no build-up. Once he's on the ground, she makes quick work of him. Blood covers her, covers the boy, the stage. She grins as she rises to her feet, holding her dripping dagger over her head, and the crowd screams like she's just caught the Snitch at the Quidditch World Cup.

"Bla– Sunshine, what just–" Oliver barely stammers out a few words before he's shushed by Elio. Percy has grown impossibly paler, his skin taking on a greenish hue. The crowd jostles them and, if Oliver closes his eyes, he probably could pretend it was just a Quidditch match. But it's not. Even when he tries, the image of the bleeding child is burned into his mind. He tries again to get Elio's attention, grabbing the younger boy's arm. "She just killed a child."

"Shh, this is the best part." Elio says, as if that's supposed to bring some sort of comfort. He places his own hand over Oliver's, stilling him, when his words have no effect. Nodding his head forward, he draws Oliver's attention reluctantly back to the stage. The small child still lies there. His blood has begun dripping off the stage. Those at the front clamour forward, reaching for it. Oliver feels as though he's going to be sick.

Then the dead child twitches. And then he stands. At some point, his clothes have changed from nondescript robes to fur, tall horns sprouting from his head. As the girl — and some of the crowd — gasps, he cackles. His laughter is loud, high-pitched, and crazed.

"Trickster! Lord of Misrule!" The girl cries as she cowers away from him. Within seconds, all her confidence has been stripped from her.

"The Goddess won't be happy when she finds out you tried to kill one of Her Children." The boy yells, sounding like Peeves, and waggles a finger at her. He descends upon the girl, grinning. Laughter is never far from his lips.

"I didn't know!" She sobs, crawling to escape him. "I swear on my life, Trickster, I didn't know!"

"I'm feeling generous tonight. I'll keep your secret..." A demand rests on the tip of his tongue, hanging in the air with a layer of thick apprehension. He's clearly drawing out the suspense, amusement shining on his face. It would be so easy to forget he'd been lying dead on the stage barely a minute ago. "If you give me a good party."

"Anything you want, O' King of Sorcerers." The girl begs, bowing at his feet.

"Then let us dance and be merry. Tonight is the Trickster's Night!" As if his words were a spell, jaunty music suddenly fills the air. The crowd disperses immediately, all grabbing one another as they begin to dance as commanded. Elio is lost, pulled away by a stranger. A similar fate soon befalls Oliver and he loses Percy, dragged to the bonfire.

The dance itself isn't particularly difficult as they all seem more focused on skipping and leaping than any proper steps. Once he's within the crowd, Oliver swaps partners so many times it becomes disorientating. They're all a mess of faces, obscured by masks. Hands pull him around the bonfire, never ending. He's starting to think he really has been tricked into a den of fey or tricksters.

It isn't hard to find Elio in the crowd. He's the only one who looks like a radiant god, paint moving under the flickering lights of the flames. Sweat and movement has started to crack the lines, making him look even more ancient — timeless. A woman has caught him in a close embrace as they skip around the bonfire together. Then he lets her go with a twirl and trades partners. Now that he's found him, Oliver doesn't let Elio out of his sight. A few more swaps and it's Oliver he clasps the hand of, pulling him away before he's even realised who he's ended up with.

"I found you!" Elio gasps as his smile grows impossibly wider. Oliver allows him the celebration, even though it was really the other way around. His excitement is too bright for such pedantry. "I was looking for Romeo — normally he's all I have to worry about. I'm not used to having so many friends."

"I find that hard to believe." White teeth glimmer under the firelight as amusement paints Elio's face. His eyes have turned into crescent moons again, impossibly small. "A little warning about that performance would have been nice."

"Honestly thought you'd've realised it was fake. S'just a thing the kids get to do." Elio explains through quick breaths, economic with his words. "Some kid gets picked each year to be the Trickster. They love it."

"I thought they'd really killed a kid." Oliver's confession draws a soft snort from the younger boy.

"Don't think we're watching any horror movies together, then."

"Nae, probably not." Conversation comes to a brief halt as a pair collapses right beside Oliver and Elio. Oliver's foot catches on the woman's leg and he's very nearly brought down with them. The only thing keeping him upright is Elio's grip, practically dragging him away. Once the risk of collision passes, he asks, "How long does this go on for?"

"'Til we drop!" Elio answers as he interlocks their fingers, holding Oliver too tight for him to let go even if he wanted to. Elio's other hand grips the back of Oliver's shirt and pulls gently at the fabric. The smell of citrus and cinnamon washes over the older boy. His chest is warm against Oliver's own and Oliver can only think of how horribly sweaty he might be. With their new closeness, Elio whispers in his ear, almost like a secret, "Apparently there's a prize for whoever can last the longest, but I've never won before."

"Quicker!" The Lord of Misrule calls out over the crowd. The music picks up its pace at his command, making all the dancers move faster. More people drop out. Some meander off to find a place to rest, others drop to the ground. The heat makes everything uncomfortably hot, like the fieriest pits of the inferno. Every time the Trickster calls, the dancing grows quicker.

Neither Elio or Oliver win.

"I'm going to surrender. You can keep going if you want." Elio pants, but the older boy shakes his head. He's only continued this long because Elio had been, pride keeping his legs moving even when everything else wanted to stop.

"I don't think I can go on." They're still skipping, hand in hand, as they navigate their way through the dwindling dancers. Once free of the crowd, Elio flops to the ground. He seems to forget that he's holding onto Oliver and pulls him down with him. It's only quick reflexes that stop a pile-up from happening. They end up side by side, sprawled on the grass, laughing despite a lack of breath. "I hate dancing."

"I could tell." Elio gasps, though this only draws more laughter from him. He's lying on his elbows, chest heaving, and his stability seems shaky. His hair falls in wet, heavy curls over his face, obscuring his eyes. But there's a wide smile on his lips as he watches what remains of the dancers.

He looks genuinely happy. There's no performance in his contentment. No trickery, no masks — just Elio.

"I told you to look for the walking god complex." Cedric breaks the mood, Percy in tow. At his comment, Elio makes a pitiful attempt at kicking him in the shins. The weak kick is easily dodged as Cedric skips out of the way, nearly toppling Percy in the process. Trying to escape the pair, Percy takes a seat on the other side of Oliver.

"What have you two been doing?" Percy asks. His hair is about as bad as Elio's, though he's managed to slick his out of his face. Oliver doesn't envy his robes now, which look stifling.

"Catching our breath." Oliver answers. "How long did you last?"

"How long do you think?"

"I'd say you tripped on your own feet immediately. Jury's out on Romeo." Percy scowls at the jab. Oliver is just lucky Percy seems too tired to seek physical retribution — nor is he the type.

"I saw Birdy looking lost and surrendered out of the kindness of my own heart." Cedric sits first on top of Elio, eliciting a groan from the older boy, and then beside him. They settle into a comfortable, tired silence. Oliver doesn't know who won the dance — though he never had a chance of identifying them. By the time the final dancer drops, his attention has drifted from the bonfire.

Elio leaves briefly, then returns with more wine. A whole tray of goblets, in fact. He's suckered some fairy into carrying a tray of food for him. Elio takes a seat between Oliver and Cedric, leaving no space for the girl. She tries, briefly, to stay. Conversation is passed over the tray, until Elio turns the entirety of his attention toward Cedric. The girl lingers, then gets the hint. Oliver feels sorry for her as she walks off, while Elio collects a few pieces of cheese. He lounges around like the god he's dressed as, picking at his cheese slices.

As the night grows older, Elio grows quieter. When he rises again, Oliver follows. The younger doesn't seem to realise he has company at first, moving across the field with a single-minded intensity. He looks only half-conscious, a ghost of his usual self. It must be tiring, Oliver thinks, to be the centre of attention even when he's anonymous. There seems to be little break when you're the great, young Lord Black.

As if summoned by Oliver's thoughts, a loud and clearly drunk wizard, dressed not unlike Remus, pulls Elio out of his trance. The wizard approaches with arms wide, which Elio barely ducks out of. He manages a light chuckle — which looks more like a grimace — as he waves, already trying to pull himself away. That's when he notices Oliver, as he's glancing around to make sure he has no pursuers.

"Have you always been there?" He asks, frowning.

"I've been walking beside you." Elio glances beside himself, at the now empty space, and then rubs his eyes. There's little comprehension behind his gaze. He looks exhausted. Oliver feels as though he shouldn't be seeing thing. Too many walls have been pulled down, clearly against Elio's will.

"Shit." The younger mutters under his breath. The tiredness is reigned in to something a little more neutral. He's nowhere near as exuberant as he normally is, but he's a little more composed. "You don't have to come, y'know. Cedric doesn't."

"Where are you going?"

"Into the forest." Elio says, rubbing his eyes again. A reluctance to answer hangs so visibly from him, Oliver regrets asking. He gestures over his shoulder, where a small group heads in the same direction. There's a quietness that the field lacks. A sobriety. "There's a ritual — to keep the magic strong for the next year. It's just — It's a tradition. Not everyone does it. Only sticklers for tradition and people who actually believe in... all this."

Elio scratches his cheek with an affected casualness. The grass seems infinitely more interesting than Oliver, as that has his unwavering focus.

"Do you believe?" Oliver asks. The other boy grows statuesque in thought, staring blankly into space, hand resting against his face. It's impossible to tell whether he's avoiding the answer or just trying to spin the best lie.

"I just do it. It's just how things are." He eventually says, but he's absently nodding his head as he does so. Oliver takes that gesture as the truth, no matter what words leave his lips. "Figure if my pure blood can be good for something..."

"I'll come." Oliver decides. Elio frowns at him again — like he's the weirdo — but eventually turns to walk off again. The rest of the walk is quiet and, fortunately, undisturbed.

"So, we're going to go in and give thanks to the Mother for giving us all this magic. We give her some of our own and, in return, she hopefully doesn't take it away for another year. At least, that's the tradition behind it." Elio explains as they walk. There's a soft sincerity to his voice, a conviction Oliver hasn't heard in him before. For once in his life, he feels genuine. Oliver might not follow the old religion, but he knows who the Mother Magic is. The deity widely assumed to have graced wizards with their magic. Oliver doesn't know why or how, nor does he inherently believe it. But he keeps that to himself. "Sometimes pregnant people come in, pray their child isn't a squib. Other people might ask for their own magic to grow stronger. It doesn't work like that, but that doesn't stop people from trying."

"How do you give her magic?"

"There's some glowing flowers in the forest. You eat them, push your magic into the ground." Elio says simply, as if there's nothing to it. Oliver, however, doesn't feel any more confident about this. He watches Elio, hoping for an elaboration that never comes. As they enter the forest, Elio becomes more preoccupied with finding the flowers than making conversation. Oliver is left to suffer in anticipation.

The forest is still, a stark contrast to the bustling party. The only movement comes from other attendees searching the forest. Once again, Oliver feels as though he's stumbled into some den of magical creatures. It's Elio, strangely, who looks out of place now. Everyone around them are dressed up as beasts, unrecognisable. Elio, however, looks comfortingly human.

"Found some!" He exclaims in a hushed whisper as he drops to the ground. Triumphantly, he presents a blue flower to Oliver. It glows softly against his fingers, illuminating the painted cracks in his skin unnaturally.

"I wonder what the first person to eat one of these was thinking." Oliver mutters as he accepts one of the flowers. It doesn't feel right to eat something that glows. Oliver's pretty sure Professor Sprout has probably said something to that affect in Herbology before.

"Probably, ooh, I wonder what that tastes like." Elio says. The pair laugh softly and the noise feels blasphemous. "Now, when you've eaten your flower, push your hands into the dirt and just do what you do when you're casting a spell."

"I don't know what I do." Oliver admits as he crouches down beside Elio.

"When you're learning a new spell. There's a purposeful action to it. You have to... pull it up, will it to be. Intent." Elio explains patiently. "Just stick your hands in the dirt and want to give the Mother your magic. It'll take care of itself."

"Alright. I trust you." Elio gives Oliver another funny look, like this is the strangest thing he's heard, before he chews the petals off the flower. Oliver does the same, following what little lead he's provided. The petals don't taste like anything. The faint taste of grass, maybe — like he's fallen off his broom, landed face-first, and is still picking the dirt out of his teeth. He doesn't feel anything, either. He's not even sure if he's supposed to.

When Elio sticks his fingers in the dirt, so does Oliver. He feels like a fool. The ground is damp and strangely warm. That's the last bit of guidance he receives from the younger boy, who grows still and quiet in his concentration. All Oliver can do is stare at the dirt and will it to take his magic.

As he does so, the warmth spreads up his fingers and through his arms. It's not a comfortable warmth. More like a fetid breath of a large mouth consuming him, like he's elbows-deep in its maw. For the first time in his life, he becomes aware of his magic. He can feel it being pulled from his very core, sucked right through his veins. But he's stuck. Try as he might, he can't pull his hands free from the dirt. Whatever has him trapped isn't letting go.

Elio folds, forehead pressed against the ground. He looks unconscious — or worse, dead. For a brief second, Oliver is filled with an all-consuming fear that the ground has killed him. There's nothing he can do. But the fear doesn't last long.

Because a second later, it's his head hitting the ground.

The darkness behind his eyes slowly begins to form shapes, growing lighter until he's staring up at a stormy sky. Oliver raises a hand to protect his face from the torrential rain bucketing down from the dark clouds. It pelts him, so hard it feels like hail. Lightning illuminates the sky in great flashes. Standing dark against the bright light is a great, shaggy dog. The beast is formless, as clouds often are, and yet Oliver feels as though it might eat him. When the lightning reveals it next, it seems closer. He runs.

As he runs through the rain, a Quaffle suddenly hurtles towards his head. He ducks, instinct alone helping him avoid it. He watches its path as it spins behind him into a goal that's far too short. Then, as no Quaffle should, it turns around. The ball is whizzing toward Oliver again — though, by some strange magic, it has now become a Bludger.

The Bludger zooms past, narrowly missing him. He can feel it disturb the air against his skin, a hair's breadth away. When Oliver turns, he finds Elio now standing right in the ball's path. The younger doesn't seem to have the same sense to avoid the Bludger. Instead, as it's hurtling toward him, he raises his arm to block. There's a sickening crunch. Elio groans — which seems like a gross underreaction. As he staggers backward, clutching his arm, the rain consumes him.

"Black?" Oliver calls out, chasing the spectre. The storm makes everything look the same, utterly disorientating. He doesn't know if he's going forward or if he's been turned around. He doesn't even know where he truly is.

"You're not real!" Someone cries in return, distant. He runs toward the sound, but all that awaits him on this endless Quidditch pitch is more rain. The dog still looms in the sky, chasing him.

Somewhere, louder than the downpour, a steady dripping sound echoes across the pitch.

"Black!" Oliver yells out again into the rain.

"Oliver!" Elio returns, stepping into view. He stands in the rain with a wide smile spread across his face, looking like he's just returned from a war. He's covered in blood and dirt, hair drenched. But it can't be Elio. He's never called Oliver by his first name before.

So when the younger suddenly starts running toward him, Oliver runs in the opposite direction. Only for Elio to be there as well, closer. This Elio doesn't look as happy to see Oliver. In fact, he looks downright murderous. And just a little bit pitiful — like a beat puppy who only knows to bite.

"Black... Are you alright?" Oliver says carefully as he comes to a halt.

"I'm fine. There's no reason for me to not be fine." Elio spits venomously. He steps closer. Oliver steps back. There's a foot behind his own and he trips, falling back onto the ground.

Elio hovers over him, staring at him intently. A warm hand rests on his neck. Though Elio doesn't look quite as angry as he had only seconds before, Oliver still doesn't feel comfortable. But he's stuck. It's as though there's a weight holding him down, gluing him to the dirt.

"Oliver." Elio whispers, his face closer. But it's not Elio. He's older — exhausted but handsome, pretty even in his distraught state. The dripping grows louder as the rain ceases. "Oliver, you're going to be alright."

Oliver can't speak. He can barely move and now he can't speak. The hand on his neck now grips his shoulder, while the other gently slaps his cheek.

"Just breathe. You're alright, Wood." That seems to break the spell. With a gasp, Oliver sits upright. He no longer sits in the supernatural Quidditch pitch, but the forest he'd entered with Elio. The younger is still hovering beside him, one hand on his shoulder. The only thing that hasn't changed is the quiet dripping. "It's alright. Are you alright?"

"Merlin's fucking balls," Oliver exclaims, with little care for the sanctity of the forest, "A little warning would be nice! I thought we'd established that."

"It was weird, huh?" Elio asks, far too casual. He's rubbing circles into Oliver's shoulder and that's a small comfort — something to focus on, something to ground him. But it hardly redeems himself.

"Weird?" Oliver repeats incredulously. "I was being chased by a black dog in the sky while you went around punching bloody Bludgers."

"Maybe you saw the Grim." Elio says and it's hard to tell if he's joking or being serious. He wipes his hand across his nose. For a brief second, the dripping stops. Blood is smeared across his hand and his face. Suddenly, all Oliver's annoyance is forgotten.

"Bl– Sunshine, why is your nose bleeding?" Elio brushes off Oliver's concern with a shrug. But there's too much blood for it to be ignored so easily. So Oliver repeats himself, firmly, "Why are you bleeding?"

"I just pushed myself a little too hard. It's nothing." The younger says, but he's wiping his nose again. His hand is trembling. There's nothing Oliver can do; he's already being pushed away. "It happens every year."

"Have you ever considered not pushing yourself so hard?" This earns Oliver a quiet chuckle as the younger shakes his head.

"It's only a little blood. I have plenty of magic to give." Elio drops his hands into his lap. His nose is still bleeding, but it seems like a losing battle. There's a thin smile, forced, as he asks, "So... I was in your vision?"

"Wouldn't stop harassing me." The grin grows a little more genuine at this admission. "What was all that?"

"As repayment for the magic, you get a vision of the next year. It won't necessarily come true — but it might. Maybe you try to make it a reality and that pushes you on the right path, maybe it pushes you off. You won't know until it happens, if you even remember. That's the whole trick." Elio explains. "Me being in yours is a good omen, considering our little club. Or maybe it's bad."

"Was I in yours?" Elio nods his head noncommittally. The smile drops. "Did you see anything good?"

"I saw a Quidditch victory, so you better keep training." Elio nudges Oliver with his clean hand. He then lowers his head, pressing against the bridge of his nose. The quiet patter of his blood hitting the damp leaves fills in the silence between them. When he speaks again, his voice is stuffy like he has a blocked nose, "I'm going to be sick."

That's all the warning either of them get. It's just enough time for Elio to roll forward, to avoid hurling up his dinner on either himself or Oliver. When he's done, Oliver helps him to his feet. He's still shaking, unsteady, but he pushes Oliver away the second he can.

"Sorry. Probably drank too much." Elio groans. It's not an unreasonable assumption, but that's exactly why Oliver doesn't think it's the truth. It's too easy an excuse, especially when Elio didn't seem sick before the visions. But, again, he allows Elio the falsehood.

It does get harder to believe him, though, when he immediately finds his way to a new goblet the second they leave the forest. There Elio remains for the rest of the evening, alternating between drinking and flirting shamelessly with someone who looks around their age. She's dressed as a swan — pretty. And completely smitten from the second Elio smiles at her. But who can blame her?

Oliver returns to the other two not long after Elio's second drink, feeling tired, forgotten and antisocial. He's not sure his departure is even noticed.

"Where did you go?" Percy asks as Oliver drop down beside him with a sigh. He and Cedric have collected a new selection of snacks, spread out across one of Elio's abandoned goblet trays. Oliver takes a fruit pie, shoving it in his mouth without any ceremony.

"Into that forest for some ritual. Ate some flowers, did a weird magic thing, hallucinated." At this poor explanation, Percy's brow furrows into a disappointed frown. He looks like he's just been told he won't be made Prefect, like Oliver has robbed him of some great achievement by not inviting him. "You didn't miss out on much. Probably wasn't your thing."

"It might have been my thing." Percy insists stubbornly. "I'll never know now, though, will I?"

"Eating strange flowers in a forest and getting your hands dirty might be your thing?" Oliver repeats incredulously. He cannot imagine Percy at all being comfortable in that scenario. He can't even imagine Percy wanting to do it. Maybe he didn't wake up. Maybe this is just another hallucination.

"If it was part of the experience, perhaps. Isn't that what all this is for?" The redhead sighs as he gestures widely at the field. "Trying something new?"

"You really didn't miss out on much, Birdy." Cedric insists, planting a hand on Percy's shoulder. "They literally go in there, make themselves high, and pretend they saw the future. You only do it if you're old or deeply religious."

"Sunshine isn't either of those, though." Percy retorts, earning a soft chuckle from the younger boy.

"This stays strictly between us, but he is deeply religious." Cedric says in a low voice — so low it's almost impossible to hear him. "And I mean it, not a word to anyone. It's the one thing that hasn't been plastered all over the tabloids and Sunshine keeps it quiet because he's convinced it'll be used against him, if it's found out. He'll have a panic attack if they find out and — trust me — they're not pretty."

"Why are you telling us then?" Percy asks, sounding horrified to be entrusted with this information.

"Because I've had one too many drinks and neither of you know enough people to tell."

A quiet befalls the group, as Elio remains the centre of attention even in his absence. Oliver can't help but feel like he doesn't even know the boy. He's a stranger, even now. Somehow, that isn't a deterrent. It just makes Oliver more determined, more curious.

Later in the evening, Cedric leaves with his parents. Later still, Remus finds the two boys watching the dying bonfire, half-asleep. He looks close to sleep himself, though exhaustion seems to be his constant state of being. It doesn't take long after that for Elio to be found. The young lord has curled up against a log that Remus moves to with such a speed and purpose that suggests this is a regular occurrence.

The swan has since left, but she's left a feather tangled within Elio's curls and specks of glitter smeared across his face. Elio has to be coaxed to his feet, disgruntled by the disturbance. Even once he's up, he has to be carried between Remus and Oliver. He's been utterly lost since Oliver last saw him, to both drink and exhaustion.

"Come on, Puddle, let's go home." Remus groans somewhat affectionately as he drags Elio to his feet. Eyes closed, the boy doesn't even look conscious. "I may have accidentally married you off to a few people tonight."

"Yeah, me too. Odile was real friendly."

"I'll make a list of who we need to avoid." Oliver can't tell if the pair are joking or not. If it's a joke, then they have perfected the deadpan delivery to an art form. If it isn't, Oliver is once again horrified by the life of a young lord.

"I need a shower." Elio whines, as though it's the end of the world. His father sighs, both tired and slightly sad. He rubs off some of the flaky blood that's dried to Elio's chin. Oliver wonders, briefly, how Elio had the swan so rapt when he looks like he just stumbled out of a murder scene.

Then he remembers it's Elio, and that seems explanation enough.

"There'll be one at home." Remus assures him. That gets the feet moving — slowly but surely. It's an uncoordinated shuffle back to the portkey, which is waiting to be collected from one of the tables. The return is worse than the one there, alcohol making it even more dizzy and disorientating.

When they stumble into Grimmauld Place's living room, Elio is dumped on the couch with what must be the millionth sigh of the evening. He's quick to settle, out like a light. Remus hovers over him for a few seconds, fondly pushing his sweaty hair off his forehead and cleaning his face with the flick of his wand. Then his attention turns to the other pair and he offers them a soft smile.

"I'll go get some rooms organised for you two. Just wait here." He says, before disappearing off into one of the other rooms. A silence settles over the trio except for the crackle of the fireplace. Oliver and Percy eventually take seats on either side of Elio, both too tired to make any attempt at conversation.

The fire is warm and the couch is comfortable — too comfortable. As he sits there, staring at the table, Oliver can feel his eyelids growing heavy. Try as he might, fighting it is impossible. Within minutes, he's fast asleep.

*

When Percy wakes, there's a horrible ache in his neck and a weight against his side. Frowning, he looks down to find Elio nestled against him. The younger boy's cheek is pressed against his arm, while one of his own arms drapes across Percy. It's a strange and uncomfortable discovery. They're all too close for people who aren't even on a first name basis.

But Percy can't move. He wants to, but it isn't just Elio weighing him down. Lying against Elio is Oliver. The Keeper is almost spooning him as he curls against Elio's back. His head rests between the younger's shoulder blades, arms crossed over his chest as if to conserve heat. One of his legs has, somehow, got caught between Elio's and hangs over Percy's own knee. Neither of them look comfortable. They do, however, look deep in sleep. Percy doesn't think they'll be waking for a while yet. Which means he's stuck here.

He shuts his eyes again, desperately trying to fall back to sleep. Time will pass quicker when he's unconscious. He doesn't want to be conscious for this discomfort.

But, alas, sleep does not return. Percy is fully aware when Elio shifts, instilling him with false hope, only to cuddle him tighter. He's assaulted by the sudden smell of muted perfume and conditioner — something floral and sweet. Elio is warm. Too warm. If a hot water bottle filled with scalding water had a human form, it would be Elio. He is also heavy. Percy wonders briefly if it's possible to develop claustrophobia in a position like this.

Percy doesn't know how long he's trapped there, but it feels like an eon. Elio stirs first and his movement jolts Oliver awake. For a few more seconds, the other two remain there, staring blearily. They don't move. Then Oliver sits up, Elio follows, and Percy is finally free to stretch his limbs.

"I don't want to be awake." Elio confesses in a half-whisper, half-mumble. He falls limply against Oliver's shoulder and the older boy doesn't seem to mind. He makes a grunt that seems to agree with the sentiment, slouching against Elio.

"How much did you two drink?" Percy asks, dreading the answer. He'd seen an uncountable number of glasses be emptied last night — and he wouldn't be surprised if there was more on top of that.

"Too much." Oliver groans as he rubs his eyes. His accent is stronger in his weary state — or perhaps its the lingering effects of the alcohol, Percy isn't sure. "Never again."

"You don't want to come back next year?" Disappointment rings from Elio's voice as he perks up, turning to the Gryffindor. The seconds drag as Oliver ponders his question silently, as though the secrets of the universe are hidden within it. He sighs through his nose slowly, the only sign of life.

"Maybe once a year. Besides that, never again." He says eventually. This seems to appease Elio, who simply grunts.

Slowly, like Frankenstein coming to life, Elio pushes himself to his feet. There he wobbles, for a second, before he shuffles off. The only reason the others know to follow is because of a vague gesture that sort of resembles a beck which he does at the door. He leads the group back to the dining room, now set for breakfast. It's as though their appearance was foreseen, as food has already been laid across the table.

Remus sits on the side, flicking through the Daily Prophet while he eats a light breakfast. Some cut up fruit is scattered across his plate, absentmindedly pushed around by his fork. There's a small pile of scrambled eggs sharing the same plate, but that also looks untouched. When the boys enter, he looks up from the book and gives them a tired smile. He looks ill — more so than normal.

"You boys must have been tired. You were out before I could show you to your rooms." He remarks as they all take seats. Elio sits down in the one closest to Remus and the older man greets him by gently bumping his chin with his knuckles. Percy's father does the same thing. Percy gained that inflated sense of maturity too young and insisted he was far too proper to be greeted in such a manner. He received handshakes for about a month until his father forgot about it. It's strange to see something so normal in a house so far from normal.

"I don't want to be awake." Elio sighs, piling pancakes onto his plate. A kettle that looks as though it's worth more than everything the Weasleys own pours hot water into a mug beside him. From beside Percy, Oliver groans like he's agreeing. He stares blankly at all the food in front of them, clearly comprehending nothing.

"Coffee, anyone?" Remus offers when the kettle finishes with Elio's mug. Percy declines. Oliver, however, does not. He reaches for the kettle — but not before Percy can intercede.

"Please keep that coffee far away from Oliver." Percy says, blocking the hot water from Oliver's cup with his hand. Two curious pairs of eyes land on him; another simply looks frustrated. "However in your face he may be normally, he's worse caffeinated. Last time he had coffee, he ran laps of the quidditch pitch until he was violently ill. But not before he accosted the entire quidditch team and anyone in their vicinity."

"That was first year. I'd never had it before." Oliver attempts to defend himself. But Percy doesn't forget and he certainly doesn't forgive. He was the one who had to share a room with him. If the high was bad, the coming down had been Percy's own personal hell.

"Never again. You promised." Oliver resigns himself to tea with a huff. Breakfast continues. Elio drowns his pancakes in maple syrup. A piece of banana makes it to Remus' mouth. Percy decides to play it safe with toast.

Breakfast passes more quietly than it does at the Burrow. More orderly. There's no need to ask for someone to pass something — the food is somehow always within reach. No one seems quite ready to make conversation yet. Only the clacking of cutlery against porcelain fills the room. When it's over, the plates clear themselves. It's like they know, somehow, that their time of use is over.

Not long after, the group is returning back to Hogwarts. The adventure ends.

Percy wants more.

*

Christmas has always been an understated affair with the Blacks. Walburga had spent Christmas Day writing letters of thanks for all those who had sent gifts during either that day or Maternalia. They might have had guests over depending on the year and the company she had kept, but she typically distanced them all from the day. Remus had never really put a lot of weight in the day, either, so it wasn't any great loss to him. He didn't have the friends that might make the day worth celebrating anymore.

Elio had never really developed an interest in the day. Even the gifts couldn't entice him. But Remus wouldn't allow his son to grow up ungrateful and the morning was still dedicated to opening gifts. Everyone who wants to gain the young Lord's favour uses the day to shower him with the most expensive, most striking presents possible.

Naturally, Elio's enthusiasm for the unwrapping is overflowing.

He's slouched in Remus' office chair, looking more asleep than awake. There's a pile of wrapping paper collecting on one side of the chair, a pile of opened gifts on the other. Very few have caught his interest. Though, to be fair, very few have been bought with his interests in mind.

He's dressed in an ugly patchwork sweater, each poorly sewn square depicting a Christmas scene. The only Christmas tradition Elio has ever liked is the one he and Remus came up with: finding the ugliest sweater possible and gifting it to the other. Remus has come out worse this year, with a Christmas tree sweater that lights up. He feels like a fool knowing he has to wear this all day.

With all the small presents unwrapped — an assortment of books, stationery, jewellery and accessories — Elio moves from the chair to the floor. The pile has barely shrunk since they started. Under a tiny Christmas tree — more of a stick, than anything — scattered across Remus' desk and floor, is all the presents they've received. Elio's pile is substantial bigger. Though whether that's because every Pureblood in existence wants the approval of the young lord or because Remus is antisocial and hasn't tried to make any friends since 1981, it's hard to tell.

It's probably both.

Remus got a card from Mary MacDonald, as he does every year. It's the only form of contact he receives from her — and vice versa. He thinks it might be her way of letting him know she's still alive, as best she can. The rest of the gifts are just from estranged family and the odd Pureblood attempting to get to Elio through him.

"Who bought the broomstick?" Elio asks as he drags a long present from the pile. It's clearly a broom — no effort has gone into trying to disguise its appearance. The paper it's wrapped in is an assortment of newspapers, looking as though they're about to fall off.

"I don't know. Is there a card?" Elio turns the broom around, searching. When nothing shows up, he shakes his head. Remus checks the pile, but no cards have fallen from their gift. Anonymous. No one has asked Remus about brooms recently, given no hints to this gift.

"There's probably just a card inside..." Elio reasons, sounding like he's trying to convince himself. His hand hovers over the broom. The seconds drag on, apprehension hanging thick in the air. Then, finally, Elio tears the bandaid— and the paper — off.

If there's a card, it's been hidden well. Elio gets through the entire gift without finding one. Soon, all he's left with is a broomstick and zero answers. If anything, more questions are raised.

"That's a Firebolt. Who would spend all that money on me?" Elio asks, pushing the broom off his lap.

"The Malfoys?" Remus suggests but is quickly shaken off.

"They've never given Christmas gifts. My birthday would have been the time to do something like this." He frowns at the broom, practically glaring at it. It's hard to believe this is the broom Elio has been dreaming of owning, that this is the best broomstick on the market right now. You'd think it was a common house broom with the distaste he holds for the gift. "I think it's from him."

This conclusion is spoken in a soft, fearful voice. It gives the broomstick a more ominous air. No longer is it just a gift, but a threat. Elio doesn't have to specify for Remus to know who he's talking about. He was on the brink of thinking it himself. Sirius. He'd likely have the funds — even though they made sure to cut him out of the Black funds, he'd have his own account and Walburga gave a very generous allowance to her children. Even her disappointing firstborns.

"It might be someone else. A secret admirer." Remus tries to reassure Elio as the younger rises to his feet, pacing. He can see the paranoia sinking its teeth in. They're on the edge of a breakdown, Remus has been able to tell that for a while now. But if he can just keep Elio from falling over that edge... "We'll have it tested, to be safe. You don't have to touch it at all if you don't want."

"I don't want to touch it." Elio affirms, still eyeing the broom as though it might explode at any minute. "I don't want you touching it, either."

"I won't. I'll get Professor Dumbledore, Professor McGonagall, we'll test it from here." Remus promises. "Why don't you go to lunch and we'll finish opening when you're done?"

"You're not coming?"

"I was going to sit this one out, anyway. I don't feel that well." Remus can see in his eye that Elio is about to use this as an opportunity to avoid the lunch. "You should go ahead. Bring me back a pie. I'll probably just nap."

"I can't go by myself. I'll look like an idiot." There it is. Remus can empathise with the reluctance to socialise, but it is that same empathy that makes him push his son. He won't have Elio turn out like him.

"You do that fine without my help." Remus mutters into his hand, nursing his growing headache. He thinks this one might stress-induced. It's so hard to tell, this close to a full moon. All the pain starts to blur into one. "But your friends will be there — Wood and the older Weasley."

"I wouldn't say they're my friends. More like friendly acquaintances." Elio dismisses them with a shrug, as if they mattered as little as a fly.

"Well, whatever they are, they're there. Go spend time with them." Elio puts up little fight after that — not because he's seen the light, but rather he's recognised this as a losing battle. He milks every second of it, shuffling out the door, hanging on the frame as he says his slow goodbyes. But, eventually, he's gone and Remus is alone with the quiet of his office.

And the broom, lying so menacingly on the floor. That god awful broom.

"Merry Christmas, Percy. From Ma and Da." Oliver says as he passes Percy a small, wrapped box. They're both sat on their own beds, their collection of gifts beside them, as is tradition when they're both at Hogwarts for Christmas. The presents are collected from the tree early, as one of them is always up before the rush. Then they unwrap together, sharing the sweets they might receive, trading presents whenever relatives thought of the other.

Percy unwraps a broomstick cleaning kit, modified instead for glasses. Oliver doesn't know why his mother bothers wrapping the gift. It's no surprise what's inside. Percy gets it every year from them.

"I was starting to get low, so this is perfect." Percy remarks as he puts the kit to one side, as he does every year. He passes a soggy bundle over brown paper over with great reluctance. They both know what it is. It's going to be a sweater from Mrs Weasley, lovingly crafted in an awful mustard yellow wool.

Oliver opens it and, sure enough, it's a sweater.

"At least it's warm." Oliver pulls the sweater over his head, not one to turn down perfectly good clothing. He's pretty sure he's never given Mrs Weasley any sort of measurements, but it fits perfectly every single year. "Shall we go, then?"

"Please. I'm starved." Percy says, on his feet at the first mention of food. The pair don't bother cleaning up their rubbish before they start moving. If the house elves don't get to it first, it'll be future Oliver and Percy's problem. "Chocolate frogs aren't enough to sustain a man."

"I offered you some of my beetles."

"Beetles aren't much sustenance, either. And you know I don't eat those — they're too sour." The conversation is brought to an abrupt halt when they reach the common room. The younger trio — Harry, Ron and Hermione — are huddled around the tree. Or, more accurately, a present underneath it.

"Is that a Firebolt?" Oliver exclaims, shocked, spotting the broom from a mile away. He leaps over the couches in his road, much to Percy's annoyance. There's a stammered attempt at playing Head Boy, quickly dropped when he realises it's pointless.

The Firebolt is perfect. Warm ebony wood is polished to an impeccable mirror finish, not a single fingerprint, speck or blemish on it. Its plummy hue is the perfect marriage of reds and browns, swirling through the inky darkness like liquid gold. It's rumoured that every Firebolt has to be carved by hand. The wood is too difficult to work with, refusing all magical forms of handiwork. But the result is worth it. A stunning broomstick, resistant to all forms of damage, fit for the hands of a king. Nay, a God.

The natural bumps and curves of the stick are kept on the handle, making every broom unique. A step away from the commercial trend of smoothing them down into a more traditional broom-shape — away from the standardisation, toward singularity. Each broom has its own serial number printed in gold on the hilt, marking its individuality. There will only ever be so many Firebolts in the world. Unlike other brooms, there is no intention to mass produce this one. They can't. The wood is too rare — too expensive. Owning a Firebolt isn't just owning the best broom on the market. It's a status symbol. An icon. Own a Firebolt and you are the moment.

It's also the first of its kind. The handle and all the iron reinforcements are goblin-made. Never before has the goblins involved themselves in wizarding sport. Not til now. The quality of the metal alone sets it far above its competitors in both aesthetic and performance — let alone it being literal history. Its release was a momentous occasion in Quidditch history, a turning point. The Firebolt has elevated the standards of brooms, forcing all the other companies to desperately try and catch up.

Lightning speeds — from zero to 150 miles in ten seconds. Unbreaking braking charms. Inbuilt stabilisers. Pinpoint turning precision — capable of making the sharpest turns at a second's notice. It is the fastest broom in the world. Nothing else compares.

"I don't think Harry should keep it." Hermione breaks Oliver out of his reverie with a voice far too sensible for such a little girl.

"Shouldn't keep it?" Oliver repeats incredulously - a little too loud, a little too excited. Hermione must be joking. He's never really known her for her sense of humour, but this has to be it. "Hermione, that is a Firebolt — a broomstick so impressive it only has one name. The fastest broom in the world. Essentially unbreakable. Harry has to keep it."

"The broom was wrapped in newspapers and doesn't have a name on it." Hermione retorts — clearly not joking. "If it's so good, why wouldn't someone want him to know they'd bought it?"

"Maybe because it's Dumbledore and he can't be seen playing favourites." Ron intercedes and, from the way Hermione rolls her eyes, this is an argument he's already used. Neither of the boys are going to be much allies here, clearly. "Who's going to go to all the effort of putting a trap on a Firebolt?"

"I think we all know who." Percy says, his Head Boy voice back on. "As Head Boy, I agree with Hermione. No one should ride that broom until it has at least been tested for curses by a professor."

"You're taking her side?!" Oliver cries in disbelief — though he really should expect nothing less.

"It's not a matter of sides; it's a matter of safety. Of Harry's safety, which I would have thought you'd have more concern for. He is your best Seeker, after all."

"Alright, alright. I'm sorry, Harry, I do care about your safety." Oliver relents after a few seconds of pressure, surrendering to Percy. The apology, however brief, seems to appease the Head Boy. It appeases Harry, too, who smiles as if there was never any insult.

"It's alright. I wish I could ride it, too." The younger boy sighs. "For a second, I thought I'd found a replacement broom."

"There'll be other Firebolts." Oliver ruffles the kid's already messy hair. "Are you guys ready? We can all head out together."

It turns out the younger kids are not, in fact, ready. After some hurried cleaning by Hermione — helped by the older pair — while the boys get changed out of their pyjamas, the small Gryffindor troupe are finally off. The buzz of the Firebolt, and of Christmas, has hardly been dampened. As they walk through the empty halls, the three kids chatter animatedly about all manner of topics. Oliver suspects someone might have raided the candy canes on the Christmas tree, already hepped up on sugar.

"Looks like someone got the decorations confused." Percy comments as they arrive at the Great Hall. Hidden amongst the tinsel and snow is a lone pumpkin, all dressed up for Halloween. This might as well be the height of comedy for Ron and Harry. It even draws a grin from Hermione.

The rest of the hall looks a stark contrast to normal, borderline unrecognisable. All the tables have been moved, except for one in the centre. The unfamiliar emptiness exaggerates the size of the room. Everything looms dauntingly over them, making Oliver feel like an ant.

"It seemed a waste to use all those tables when there is so few of us." Dumbledore explains as the Gryffindors approach. "Take a seat, take a seat. There's plenty of space."

The table is made up almost entirely of teachers. Dumbledore sits at the centre, Snape and McGonagall on either side. Professors Sprout and Flitwick, as well as Filch, fill up more seats. The only other student at the table is Elio, looking incredibly out of place. He seems relieved when Oliver finally sits beside him.

"Happy Holidays." He greets them with hardly any of the enthusiasm the season might deserve. Withdrawn from Merlin only knows where, he slides two gifts across the table to Oliver and Percy. Three bags of assorted Honeydukes sweets soon follow, but these are unwrapped and clearly an afterthought. They're passed along to the younger three out of politeness, soon to be forgotten by Elio.

"I didn't get you anything..." Percy is the first to confess, genuine regret shining in his voice. He holds the present guiltily.

"I didn't, either." Oliver adds.

"And I don't want anything. It's nothing, really — just a generic gift, to say thank you for helping me." Elio waves away both their guilt. "I didn't even buy them myself. So, really, you'd be insulting me if you went to any effort to get me something."

Despite the Slytherin's claims, it becomes abundantly clear once they open their presents that they aren't quite as thoughtless as he'd like them to appear. They've both been given journals, of completely different sorts. Percy has a diary for the new year, designed for someone who likes an intense amount of planning, each day dated, bound in an expensive, red leather. Oliver's is less meticulous; there are spaces for him to put a date if he wants, and then a full page of empty lines. His cover resembles wood, as rich an ebony as the Firebolt.

Before Oliver can finish his examination of the journal, a Christmas cracker obscures his view. The culprit is, naturally, Elio. He holds the cracker out expectantly, impatience dripping from his expression. Oliver obeys — and loses. The witch hat goes to Elio, worn proudly atop his head. He doesn't seem all that interested in the other trinkets that fall out, pushing those toward Oliver as well. His prize is a set of dice which sides keep changing.

"Guess what I got for Christmas." Elio says quietly as he leans over — or, more accurately, leans on Oliver. He's sitting on the edge of his own seat, body entirely turned to face Oliver. Balancing himself as he moves closer, his arm drapes over the Gryffindor's shoulder. Up so close, he smells like gingerbread and pine. If it were anyone else, Oliver might find the sudden closeness annoying. With Elio, he's come to expect it.

"I cannot possibly even fathom what the Elio Black gets for Christmas." Oliver retorts, receiving a soft shove.

"Someone sent me a Firebolt. No name and the wrapping paper was awful. Completely anonymous." Elio fidgets with Oliver's collar as he speaks, voice still low. This revelation finally sours Harry's gift. One, he can justify. But two, to Black's most likely targets... That can't just be coincidence.

"Shit." Oliver lets out, then realises his company. Fortunately Snape and Filch are on the opposite side of the table and McGonagall is too deep in conversation to pick up on that impoliteness. "Harry got one, too. Same deal. No name, in newspaper."

The hand at Oliver's shoulder freezes. Only briefly, but the hesitation is clear.

"Do you think it's my father?" The question is posed in a concerned whisper, as if Elio can scarcely bring himself to even give utterance to the idea. Oliver wishes he had a comforting answer.

"Probably, I think." He says as he turns to look at Elio. The Slytherin's expression is unreadable — it would be so easy to mistake him for bored or disinterested. But his attention is unwavering, eyes glued to Oliver, like all the answer might be hidden somewhere in his face. "Unless you and Harry both have the same rich secret admirer."

"Anything is possible." Elio sighs, pulling away. While they've all settled in, the table has filled with their Christmas lunch. Food is piled high, a feast fit for kings. At Dumbledore's lead, the group starts serving themselves. Everything put on Elio's plate is quickly drowned in gravy. "Do you want some food with that gravy?"

"No." Elio answers curtly, scooping what looks like potato and peas into his mouth.

"Sybil, what a pleasant surprise!" Dumbledore announces the Divination professor's entrance. Professor Trelawney looks like a Christmas tree in her green, sparkly dress, rivalling Elio for the ugliest festive outfit.

"I was crystal gazing, Headmaster, and saw myself leaving my isolation to attend this luncheon." Trelawney explains as she crosses the hall. She moves just as she talks — airily, as if she has all the time in the world. "Naturally, I could not deny the fates and came as soon as I could. Forgive me for my lateness, all the same."

"Not to worry! Here, take a seat." Dumbledore says as the table suddenly grows longer, a chair sliding over to fill in the new space. The woman takes a few steps towards it then halts abruptly. Her eyes scan the table. She cries out — horrified. You'd think she'd stumbled across a murder scene.

"If I join, we shall be thirteen! Nothing could be more unlucky! Never forget that when thirteen dine together, the first to rise shall be the first to die!" Trelawney proclaims, terror ringing from her voice.

"That is a risk we're willing to take, Sybil." McGonagall says coolly, with little tolerance for the Divination professor. That seems to get Trelawney's feet reluctantly moving. She takes her seat beside Filch, her concerns soon forgotten as she begins filling her plate.

"Where is dear Professor Lupin?" She asks as she scans the table again, absentmindedly lifting a spoon of mashed potato to her mouth. Most of it falls off on the journey.

All eyes turn to Elio for the answer. Elio, on the other hand, is entirely fixated on his food. His gravy soup must be horribly interesting. Oliver isn't even sure what he's shovelling into his mouth. It's just brown.

Finally, the Slytherin notices all the attention he's receiving. His answer comes through a mouthful of food — though that's practically a given at this point.

"Got a headache." He says, then returns to his soup. That's all the explanation coming from it, which becomes abundantly clear as his silence drags on.

"Surely you had foreseen this, Sybil?" McGonagall asks as she returns her attention to the Divination professor. Trelawney pauses her second attempt at eating her mashed potato. The potato falls again.

"I was certainly already aware, but it is simply not polite to parade one's gift around. Some find it unsettling to have their actions predicted, so I often pretend to lack an Inner Eye."

"Ah, well, that certainly explains some things." McGonagall mutters dryly.

"If you must know, Minerva, I have seen that poor Professor Lupin will not be with us for very long." Trelawney says, sitting up a little straighter. For once, her mashed potato doesn't fall off the spoon. "I believe even he is aware of it. He's fled any attempt to divine his future."

"I doubt Professor Lupin is in any danger from his headache." Dumbledore interrupts, voice raised even though it still maintains its cheerful tone. "Mr. Black, would you like a bread roll for your gravy?"

The distraction could not be better timed. As focus remained on Lupin, despite his apparent focus on his food, Elio has grown more and more tense. He's stopped eating his food, instead stabbing his potatoes until they start dissolving into his gravy. When Dumbledore addresses him, he looks up suddenly. A bread roll is accepted with no comment. The conversation drifts, turning pleasant once again.

When it comes time for dessert, the table fills with pudding in a similar overabundant fashion to lunch. Every Christmas treat imaginable — and more — is nestled in amongst the desserts. The smell of festive spices fills the air, mouth-watering. Everyone digs in immediately, needing no invitation from Dumbledore this time. Except for Elio.

"Do you want some?" Oliver asks, gesturing toward the tray. Sharing with two Weasleys doesn't allow for much hesitation. Wait too long and they'll all be gone. But with all the Weasleys in Gryffindor, Oliver supposes Elio hasn't had a chance to learn that yet.

"Can't — there's raisins. It'd kill me." Elio explains, once again reminding the older boy of his allergy. Oliver feels like a fool every time he forgets. It's just so easy to imagine Elio is invincible, incapable of possessing such mundane flaws.

"You know, you could ask the house elves to make you one without raisins." Percy pipes up.

"It's fine." Then, as if summoned by the younger, a small box appears beside his plate. He smiles triumphantly, before pulling at the ribbon holding it closed. Inside is a pudding. "Kreacher makes me one every year. I think it'd break his heart if I ate another elf's pudding."

Elio talks of his elf fondly, a smile pulling at his lips. It's amazing, Oliver thinks, that an elf so crabby can hold so much of the young lord's love. Besides Lupin and maybe Cedric, he hasn't seen Elio be particularly affectionate to anyone.

Though, the pudding looks like it was made with care, too. It's hard to imagine Kreacher was the kind hand behind its creation. Anyone capable of making such a nice pudding probably deserves the affection. The school desserts pale in comparison.

The rest of the Christmas dinner passes cheerfully — normally. Until, of course, Harry and Ron decide to rise from their seats. Then Trelawney lets out a bloodcurdling shriek, startling everyone.

"Which one of your rose first?" She exclaims, as dramatic as she had been when she entered. "My dears, this is of the utmost importance, which of you left your seat first?"

"Dunno." Ron answers with a shrug.

"No one is dying tonight, Sybil." McGonagall retorts. "Not unless a murderer is waiting outside those doors to slaughter the first to leave."

"I hardly think that's appropriate to joke about, Minerva, considering–" Even Trelawney falters, realising her company. "Well, considering... Just because you are not All Knowing."

Ron and Harry have the bright idea to slip off while the Divination professor's attention is diverted. The conversation between the two professors ends shortly after, with a dismissive sniff from McGonagall and a quiet harrumph from the other woman.

"You done?" Oliver asks Elio, who hasn't touched his cutlery in a while. The younger boy nods his head. The same question is posed to Percy, receiving the same answer. Much like the younger Gryffindors, the trio attempts to slink off quietly. Oliver only pauses to check in with Hermione, who hasn't moved despite her friends' departure. "Hermione, are you alright?"

"Hmm? Oh, yes, I am." Hermione gives Oliver a perfectly pleasant smile, which would be fine if it weren't so suspicious on her. She's not a very good liar. "I just need to talk to Professor McGonagall."

"It's the broom, isn't it?"

"No! No, it's..." The girl surrenders with a sigh. "Yes, it is the broom. I have to tell her."

"It's alright, I understand." Oliver assures her, patting her shoulder gently. "Don't let the boys give you too hard a time over it."

"A dark shadow looms over you, my dear boys." Trelawney calls out as the trio attempts to leave. Clearly even they aren't able to escape her notice. "A terrible, horrible shadow. It may not be immediate, but it will come. That much is certain."

"Thank you, Professor." Percy is the only one to humour her, offering her his best polite smile.

"Do not forget, even in utter darkness, there will always be a light at the end of the tunnel." She follows her premonition with a small reassurance and an awkward smile. McGonagall rolls her eyes. Oliver finds it's difficult not to do the same.

Outside the hall, the group comes to a pause. Elio's eyes drift upward, suddenly alight with mischief. As Oliver follows his gaze, he spots what he assumes must be the cause — a sprig of mistletoe growing from the rafters.

"Mistletoe..." Elio confirms softly, a mutter under his breath. Then, without any warning, he punches Oliver in the arm — surprisingly hard — and sprints off. His closed fist remains held high above his head as he disappears. Just as he turns the corner, as if to explain, the boy cries out, "Kiss my fist, Wood! Deck the halls! Happy holidays!"

And then he's gone, leaving Oliver with a stinging arm and an overwhelming amount of confusion.

"How long do we have to associate with him?" Percy asks as silence settles over the hall once again.

"Until we catch that dog." Oliver answers — though he suspects that's far from the truth. It'll be longer. Forever, even. Now that Elio has inserted himself into their lives, he won't be so easily removed. Not if Oliver has anything to do with it.

Percy, on the other hand — if his sigh is any indicator, can't seem to wait.

*

Sirius Black is going to die tonight.

He sent a Firebolt to Elio and Harry. Sirius fucking Black sent a Firebolt to both the kids. To have that kind of gall...

The fury rising up inside like a wildfire consumes Remus. He can't feel his limbs, can't feel anything but the pure hatred he feels for the man he once considered family. It itches. The beast inside of him has awoken early and it begs to be released. To hunt. To kill. To crunch the traitor's bones under its teeth. There's nothing he wants more than to peel his skin off, to give it that satisfaction. No potion can suppress this bloodlust.

He walks the snowy grounds, alone. He'd known, if he'd stayed in his office and someone were to visit him, he would have bitten their head off. He's not even sure if he means that figuratively or literally. Outside is cold — numbing. If he keeps walking, maybe it will eventually cool his head. He can barely even feel the wintry bite. He doesn't even care. Anything is better than pacing his office like a caged animal.

To threaten the children so blatantly — to have that sort of ego, that believe that you're invincible, and to shove it in everyone's faces. It is exactly like the Sirius Black that Remus remembers. He hasn't changed one bit. Somehow that makes it worse, one final confirmation that he had always been like this. Remus has fallen for it, like an utter fool.

Remus' feet have taken him to the edge of the forest. He knows why, but he's not sure he could ever explain it if asked. When he steps in further, still, he couldn't explain it. But he knows Sirius is here. He can feel it. Right in his very core. Even now, he knows Sirius like the back of his hand. Sirius would stay nearby — to gloat, to watch everything unfold and bask in the inflated sense of his gloriousness.

"I know you're here!" Remus calls out when he eventually comes to a halt, deep enough in the forest that being caught isn't a concern. It's dark — silent. But he can feel the other man's presence, like eyes on the back of his neck — an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. "You stay away from the children! You leave them alone!"

He's met with the heavy sounds of the forest, suffocating.

"You're not going to get them. I won't let you. I will not let you have that satisfaction." Remus continues and a wild, angry laugh bubbles up in his throat. Even if Sirius isn't there — but he is — it's somewhat therapeutic. "I will hunt you down myself if I have to and I will ensure you live the rest of your life knowing that you failed. That you are a failure — a disgrace!"

It's cruel, using the words that used to cut Sirius like a knife against him. But Sirius deserves that cruelty. There is no one on the earth that Remus thinks deserves it more — that he would like to give it to.

"So if you want those children, you're going to have to go through me first!" He yells into the darkness. "You stay the fuck away from them, Sirius!"

Suddenly, something hits him. A weight pushes him into a tree, one hand on his mouth and another at his neck. Sirius is in front of him. Except it looks nothing like Sirius. This man is deranged, emaciated — looking more like a ghost than a man. He'd never have let himself look so unkept, not without it being the product of hours of preening. But it is Sirius.

"What will you do, Remus?" Sirius spits his name like the dirt that he is. If it came from any other mouth, Remus might think it deserved. "Living under my mother has made you soft. You've lost your bite. What will you do, huh?"

Remus can't answer. He's not sure he'd have one, even if he could. Not now that Sirius is standing in front of him and it's so hard to think of anything. All he can see are the memories of what once was, what could have been. The ghosts of his friends he'd tried so hard to kill rise up unbiddenly.

"You could have told them about our little secret. You could have told them about our map. I should have been caught the second I escaped, but I wasn't. So I don't think you'll do anything." Sirius decides, damaged teeth curling into a cold grin. It drops immediately, as he looks up at Remus with complete hurt and betrayal. Neither of those expressions deserve to sit upon his face. "You took my son from me, Lupin. You took him from me and handed him to the very woman I tried to keep him from. You made him a snake — a filthy, cruel snake. I don't have to destroy him even if I wanted to, because you did that job for me."

The hand at Remus' mouth grows tighter, jagged nails digging into the skin. It's deserved, Remus thinks. Still, his skin crawls. He feels dirty. The hands of a killer are wrapped around him. The hands that robbed him of his family — the hands that want to steal with little is left from him.

That thought sends Remus into action. His knee jerks upward, hitting Sirius with all the force he can muster. The other man collapses immediately. There really is nothing to him. One rough wind could knock him over.

"I saved him from you, traitor." Remus spits over Sirius, kicking his foot hard into the man's side. "And I'll do it again. I'll do it over and over and over. I have nothing left to lose except him and I will not let you have him."

Man becomes dog as Sirius rolls out of Remus' reach. Despite his anger, Remus can't find it in himself to do anything as the shaggy dog runs away. Maybe Sirius is right. Maybe Remus has lost his bite.

Only once he's certain he's alone does grief take over him. He sinks into the wet leaves and dirt, clawing at his face as warm tears burn his cheeks. His skin is crawling. Everything is tainted; everything is wrong. A thousands wishes that will never be granted — can never be granted — wash over him.

Deep down, making him feel horribly sick, he feels oddly glad to have seen an old friend again.

AUTHOR'S NOTE
Ahhh it's been an eon

Fun fact. I never stopped working on this. I slowed down, but this is six months in the making... More, technically, because this used to be part of chapter 10. Absolute agony, this was. But, we got through it