YEAR OF DAMNATION
III.   Ghostlight in the Oubliette

✶

Dion's impending doom drew closer—the Knights had not spoken to her in the week between meetings. Anxiety crept up her shoulders and hovered its ugly hand over her mind, flexing its fingers and threatening to squeeze every time she saw them together outside of the Alchemy Club. Their disposition, Sanyu had claimed, came from an obnoxious need to be exclusive, so people like Dion would feel this way. Dion ignored her. Perhaps, in a way, this meant that Sanyu was entirely correct.

A terrible, stupid, hideous thing wanting was. Always things she could not have and that was more shameful than wanting in the first place; she was the maker of this ache, and no amount of longing would save her.

Professor Murk was surprised when he discovered Dion had joined the Alchemy Club since she previously kept to herself in class, seemingly terror-stricken whenever she spoke to her peers, voicing herself only to give answers or participate in discussion.

("You know, they're awfully passionate when it comes to Alchemy," he had said, graciously raising a caution for the girl, scratching his salt and pepper scruff. Murk's clothes were threadbare and his unkempt appearance made him look like one of the beggars in East Kindale.

"It is a club."

"Correct, it is a club..." Murk contemplated oh-so wistfully, then he stared at Dion in that annoying way people did when they wanted her to elaborate.

"Yes. I would hope they show enthusiasm toward the subject of the club?"

"Aha! Enthusiasm is the key to success, Dion. You must thrust—!" he flicked his wrist lazily, "—your mind, body, and soul into your research in order to reach alchemic success. In your studies, this includes socialization. You understand what I'm saying, yes? Thrust yourself into the discussion. Thrust your presence into their lives."

"Yes. Thrust myself."

After that, Dion let the conversation wander into one of his many failed manuscripts. Something, something, boggarts in closets symbolizing a man's struggle with loneliness—tasteless nonsense.

She did no such thrusting.)

He was not helpful to her knowledge of alchemy and a neglectful professor, and she was not surprised to find his desk empty when she arrived at his classroom on Friday. Five o'clock sharp if her watch was correct, but she feared it had been wrong—stupid thing, it had been Sasha's—considering Evelyn, Thaddeus, and Dorian were already seated. The benches remained in that awful circular formation.

Sneering over the edge of his book, Dorian scoffed and went back to leafing through it with utmost dissection, back hunched into a nearly perfect arc. Dion caught a glimpse of the cover and it looked to be some type of healing encyclopedia, judging by the intricate drawing of a severed arm, but the dim light made her squint at it. She did not examine for long, as he appeared irritated by her mere presence and it would be unwise to provoke him further with prying eyes. Like a monkey. She heard muggles treated them as if they were humans and studied their development, even dressing them in muggle clothes and allowing them to use typewriters, but how long until they returned to their most innate senses?

Dorian glared at her again and fearing he might have read her mind, insulted by the insinuation that he had the temperment of a monkey, she surrendered her gaze to Thaddeus and Evelyn.

Impossibly cool, Thaddeus had draped his brown tweed coat over the back of his chair and threw scrunched up balls of parchment at the floating candles, a measly attempt to shoo them away from his bench. Teetering and bobbing as they avoided the propellants. They leaned alarmingly close to the long, drawn-tight, violet curtains that blocked the evening rays from filtering in. They dripped red and white wax onto the floorboards. Every so often a ball hit the top of Evelyn's head and she would curse the brunet's family line under her breath.

Romulus entered the classroom humming a melody. Dorian closed his book.

Swallowing her anxiety, if only for a moment, Dion set her satchel on Evelyn's bench. It halted Thaddeus in his tracks and he watched the girls with a single thick, raised brow and an amused curl of his lips, boyish in its nature.

As if it had a disease and coughed in her face, Evelyn stared at the ragged brown lump of leather next to her. It looked offensive to be seen in the presence of her own fine bag, a black snakeskin work bag, the golden accents alone looked like they cost a fortune—her initials, E.A., were engraved into the center buckle. How grand. Dion clumsily wrote her name on the crumpled tags inside of hers and the ink bled a long time ago, making it an ugly, little splotch on yellowed cotton.

Evelyn kissed her teeth, wiping away a feathering of red lipstick on them, and glanced up at the ceiling. "I'm so glad you asked to sit next to me, Seaver."

Realizing her impolite entry, Dion rectified it as soon as she could. "I apologize," she ushered out quite pathetically, "Very sorry. May I—" she swallowed, "—erm, may I sit next to you?"

Night black irises peeking out from under her cinched brows, she stared at her with utter contempt, yet disinterested all the same; Dion was a mere stain acting as if she had the position to sit next to someone like her. Evelyn's jaw clenched.

"Don't be stubborn, Evelyn," urged Romulus in a friendly hiss, branching the first vein of warmth she had received from the Knights.

Dion hardly masked the surprised circle her mouth fell into, but any shock from Evelyn's part masked itself with a deepened scowl and the sharp turn of her shoulders, facing the center of the benches with a resigned look to her. Feeling at fault for her chagrin, Dion sat as far away from Evelyn as she possibly could on the wooden bench. The awkward silence that followed this exchange was avoided when Antonin and Tom entered, pleasantly conversing with one another.

She averted her gaze to her hands rested in her lap, tracing the weave of gauze wrapped around her palm with her pink fingernail. Underneath, the gnarled skin stung as it always did. A neverending dull throb. If she stopped tending to it, should it contract some kind of disease or infection, would the world let her succumb to the sickness, damning her to a burial pit on the outskirts of an English town?

They would bury her in The Fens, among the unmarked graves east of the steepest marsh—banished to a true death. A death of a death, a second murder; that was the act of leaving no trace. Dion's hand reached for the cross around her neck before she could scold herself for thinking such things. Insurance, she let out a deep breath and released it.

"Good evening," said Tom, setting down his satchel and sitting in the same head seat as the last meeting.

"Evening," replied Romulus, attention turning to Antonin with an inquisitive smile. "Say, Dolohov, is that a new topcoat?"

In a humble show, Antonin removed his topcoat and held it up for all to see, grinning. It was black, wool, perfectly fitted to sit over his clothing with silver buttoning. The broad squareness of the apparel made his shoulders look more wide set, if that were possible. "An Ireghast. Four buttons. Real Merino wool."

There was a chorus of surprise—even Dion raised her brows. Due to the rationing laws, garments of this quality were impossible to see in this age, let alone own.

"Margie's been spoiling you," quipped Thaddeus with a teasing tune, his glasses tilted down his long nose.

Margaret Flint was a sixth year with honey-blonde hair and big teeth, she had a knack for bossing people around and happened to be Antonin's girlfriend. The fact he managed to acquire a lover angered Dion to no end.

Antonin's lips curled higher, eyes widening. The first thing Dion ever learned about the Dolohovs was their smile equating an omen. "What's that, Nott?"

"It is a gift, isn't it?" Thaddeus mused. His undisturbed confidence in the face of a disgruntled Antonin was as impressive as it was obnoxious—perhaps Notts simply had that effect on people. "Wait—don't tell me what it's for... congratulations for going twenty four hours without clobbering a first year?"

The conversation launched into elaborate name calling and threatening on Antonin's end that she could not follow. Miserably, for she wished to discuss alchemy this meeting, Dion reached into her bag and pulled out her weathered copy of Ars Speculativa Alchemiae as a voice sounded from her shoulder.

"How long have you studied alchemy?" Evelyn had turned on the bench, facing her.

Dion gave an awkward sidelong glance, feeling as if she were caught in a corner where no response would be sufficient enough for the red haired girl. She was afraid to give the impression of someone much better than she truly was and being vilified for it.

"It's been too long to say for sure."

"Before sixth year?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"I really can't say—I-I have a poor memory." This hesitation displeased Evelyn, Dion was afraid to lie. "Before Hogwarts."

A judgmental hum escaped Evelyn, gaze scraping from Dion's shoes to her face, a careful inspection, as if it would solidify her in the eyes of someone who had never even glanced at her prior. "Flamel?"

"He is okay."

An understatement, Dion did not care for the man or his alchemic success, but upon this line of interrogation, she thought a neutral stance would give her leeway to restate her opinion if it was not satisfactory to her evaluator.

"Okay?" As if her opinion should not have been anything less than exemplary. "Are you sure?"

This time, Dion was not afraid to lie. It came out so naturally she might as well have thought it in the first place. "No, well, he is—He is good. Definite. Very, erm, very definite. I love the Philosopher's Stone."

Evelyn's index nail absentmindedly picked at her thumb's nail polish, brow and lip twitching upward in tandem, expression on the cusp of approval. "And Fulcanelli?"

"Interesting, but too—" her hands made a nondescript swirling motion around her head, "—to make much of him... or her."

"I for one, love Fulcanelli," butted in Thaddeus, causing the girls to jolt from the sudden volume of his voice. After that, he paused, looking at each member of the table, silently imploring anyone to inquire about his stance on the matter.

"Are we talking about our favourite alchemists?" Romulus asked.

Thaddeus cleared his throat loudly, head still swiveling like an owl.

Evelyn took a deep breath and spoke with utter restraint. "No, not our favourites—the basics. Ugh, do tell us why you feel that way, Thaddeus."

"It's the... comment tu dis—mystère." His French was abysmal, even by the untrained ear. Dorian and Evelyn had a visceral reaction, but said nothing, most likely in fear of a tangent of him attempting to speak French. "A guy manages to garner a society around him, then disappears? Like that?"

"The Frères Chevalier d'Héliopolis came after Fulcanelli," corrected Dorian with a tongue more graceful.

"Not the point. I'm talking about his allure—they don't even know if the guy existed and they made a movement of him." He took a long pause, his thin ring finger pushing his glasses up, his gold family ring glinting in the candlelight. "Hell, he probably founded it so he could be worshiped."

"If you had read anything I'd suggested, you would know that he most likely was a member."

"Huh. Seems great minds think alike."

     "Ugh, I'd hardly call Fulcanelli's mind great. His pupil was the one to turn lead to gold," Evelyn piped in, sneer settled on her face. Or maybe, that was its neutral position whenever Thaddeus opened his mouth.

     "Using his powder."

     "Shut up."

     Every so often, Antonin would snicker from his bench next to Tom. An act of authority, condescension—his amusement was not from the words Thaddeus spoke, but from the idiocy Evelyn made of him. Dion hesitated to join the discussion herself, too concerned at the prospect of falling to the same fate.

     "Flamel is better," added Evelyn.

     Romulus coincided with a nod, "Flamel is better."

     "Rome, you remind me of a horse, you know," Thaddeus bristled, though he smiled at the strawberry blond.

     "Why, Nott?"

     "You always say neigh."

     A collective sigh fluttered across the benches, moreover Dion's shoulders slumped a fraction.

     "That's not true," he replied, proving his point. He petted his curls, coiling one around his finger and letting it bounce back. "I agreed with Evelyn."

     "You hear that? It's like I'm in a stable."

     Antonin jumped in. He stood behind his bench, planting his hands on either side of the tabletop. "We can all agree Flamel's got the most notches on his belt, yeah?"

     Not particularly, but Dion did not voice that opinion, hands fidgeting under the table, hidden from the gaze of Tom, which she discovered to be boring into her. She kept her head bowed. There was a murmur of agreement among the Knights, if anyone else took issue with his statement, they did not show it.

     "Nicholas Flamel created the Philosopher's Stone and thus, the Elixir of Life," Tom spoke, smoothing his textbook open. Dion copied him. "That is, by all means, the most acclaimed alchemic success. We must keep in mind: alchemists have a droll way of becoming sentinels of their work."

     Thaddeus, with the cadence of a town crier, exclaimed, "Yes, of course, yes, of course! What is known is unknown, as ye olde philosophers once said."

     A trace of a smile shirked from Tom's lips as quick as it appeared, whether the amusement came from the display or an appreciation for his own intellect was unclear. "And what arises when you focus on the unknown?"

     Silence gave repose for thought. The Knight's tarried response was a mulling of Tom's words—but Dion had already come to a conclusion. Her hand raised before she could hesitate.

     Tom's brow raised scarcely and Antonin snickered at her from his throne next to him. The sightlier young man's deep brown eyes, unlike the vacuity she felt from Evelyn's, had a sense of endlessness that was tangible. He nodded his head by way of telling her to carry on.

     "When you focus on the unknown—you create possibility."

     Suddenly, in that endlessness there was a spark, like a matchhead's figment. He raised his chin, eyes surveying Dion with that same scrutiny she had seen so many times; and the Knights, well, they observed as they always had. "Alchemy transcends reason, but follows one law."

     "The law of exchange," answered Dorian.

     "You have to give something of equal value to get," Antonin continued, mouth split into a grin. "What d'you think Flamel gave to get that precious stone?"

Without quite knowing why, a foul pit settled in Dion's stomach—an ache, starving to discover. Something horrible, she thought, something beyond life. But she did not answer. She did not answer at all.

───────────

     The meeting ended early when Professor Murk finally showed up, shooing them away under the necessity to grade in absolute peace and quiet. Tom gave the direction to ponder over Antonin's question until the next meeting, but she had other matters to focus on. Instead of retiring to her dorm for the night, Dion's hands were restless and itching to shape.

     First came the soothing tink of chipped stone against the wooden floorboards of the Room of Requirement; Dion's sweater and robes had been discarded, her white sleeves pushed to her elbows.

      It was a beautiful little oubliette—ivory and airy, low ceilings, Mediterranean in nature and unlike the others within Hogwarts, much smaller than it looked on the outside. A large, arched window let the evening breeze in; it proved to be chilly, but Dion needed the ventilation if she wished to continue her chiseling. Statues littered every surface: on her rickety work desk, stands, tables, the window sill, and shelves, each completed to varying degrees. Some were the bare bones of a form, others resembled faces from too long ago to demand an acknowledgement.

     She made a home of the room. One low bookcase, teetering on a stack of canvases, was dedicated to a collection of texts she wished to keep from prying eyes. A handful of them were purchased by Dion herself, others were essays and diaries from Mr. Simenov, or muggle romances she deemed too embarrassing to be seen by others. Lobe-leafed ragwillow grew in a single clay pot on the window sill, Dion reluctantly took care of the remnant of her former home, soaking the soil with water every week. A rotund, silver kettle was nestled among the statues, as well as her best teacup, painted to show kittens playing with balls of yarn in a field of flowers. Her work desk and the surrounding flooring were decorated with splotches of chalky white marble dust and grey clay slip, ingrained into the wood without care.

     Second came the shadow: a shimmer of light shaped into the form of a woman, her edges fuzzed like bright smoke clinging to a form. Her name was Kostya, apparently. Dion could not remember when she admitted her presence, but she was there to stay and happy to make a home of Dion.

     The form Kostya took was a distorted version of the girl she resided in, if Dion's features were carved to finer points; sharp cheekbones and furrowed brows, her irises dark like a stormy grey sky, her hair a brown-tinged black, cropped a finger's length past her shoulders and blunt as a sheet. Her pale skin often glowed in the candle-lit room like a full moon against dark twilight, exposing the inhuman nature of her residence—the worst of it: she was beautiful, hauntingly so.

     Open up, said Kostya from the depth of Dion's chest, I want to talk to you.

     "I do not know if now is a good time. I have much to do," she replied, voice a hesitant whisper.

     Prickly girl. Open.

     "What do you want from me?"

     A mischievous lilt felt like a feather tickling her ribs before it was heard. It isn't what I want from you—it's what you want from me.

     She folded her arms around her body, not because she was cold, but because she could not believe that she had spun around on her stool and stood, forcing Kostya out into the open like a spell that hit null. In her defence, that racket against her sternum meant she could not continue her chiselling, either way.

     No terror. No panic. They were long beyond that.

     There was Kostya, a wraith by all definitions of the word, standing in front of Dion with her fingers laced, arms outstretched over her head—as if she could feel the pleasant length of her spine. Or perhaps she could; the wraith had startling moments of humanity. Especially the merciless, ugly bits.

     She wore the silhouette of a dress, one of Dion's finest threads, the sole attire she saved for special occasions: white linen with tiny, pink floral print. It ruffled around the shoulders and fell below the knees. It always made Dion feel pretty, but on Kostya, it just looked wrong. Her edges frayed with magical light, unnatural, but captivating.

     She held similar characteristics to the other ghosts that plagued the halls of Hogwarts: secluded to one area, or person in this case, like Myrtle; the ability to touch or phase through things and disappear and reappear, like Peeves; and a terrible knack for snooping, like every other spirit.

     The wraith cocked a brow at her, beckoning the question on the tip of Dion's tongue to be released.

     "What do I want from you?" she asked unsurely in that unpleasant way her voice slowed when she knew the answer already.

     "Friends," teased Kostya shrilly as she shimmied her shoulders at Dion and flitted like dust caught in sunlight, reappearing seated on a stand. Both of her arms wrapped around the framework of the statue's leg, cheek pressed to the wet clay. It was nothing but a mass of polygons that loosely resembled a child holding a flower and Kostya's touch left no prints.

     Dion sighed in defeat, throwing herself onto the stool. "Is that a joke?"

     "And if I happened to pop out during one of those little alchemy meetings?" She grinned meanly.

     "You would not."

     "Why, I'll find them right now."

     In the blink of an eye, Kostya was in front of the door, reaching for the gold handle. Anyone could tell she was bluffing, but Dion still snapped her head around on the off chance she did stay true to her word and diverge from the girl—potentially never to return, if she were so inclined to.

     Kostya was neither kind nor patient; she lacked tact and wit and loyalty and everything else that made a person likeable. And yet, Dion had a fondness for her. An odd penchant of hers that could not be explained through words alone.

     "No—!" she hissed over her shoulder.

     "Just admit you want to be friends with them," jeered Kostya, Russian accent thick, "is that really so embarrassing?"

     "Yes."

     "Why?"

     Receiving a flashback from Evelyn's previous interrogation, Dion covered her face with her palms, her wound throbbing. There was no restraint or conversational dallying needed in the presence of Kostya, she was already inside her like a spotlight, exposing her to the stage; there were no corners or shadows to hide.

     "They are... them and I am me," she replied quietly, swallowing a thickness in her throat with her head hanging, hands dropping limply. The vision of a cracked, leather satchel next to snakeskin seared in her mind when she paused. "How much more humiliating could that be, Kostya?'

     Kostya's hand fell through the door knob and she approached Dion, bare feet padding soundlessly against the wood. For a split second Dion worried about splinters, but then her cold hands cupped her cheeks and she remembered that she was a dusty, old wraith who happened to have a semblance to her.

     "Humiliating?" she parroted, pinching the fat under her clutches. "You are you, and they are them."

     She said this as if it were an impairment to be them, Dion was at a loss.

     "There are intricacies woven between them, cords that tether them, secrets bated to spill. And then there is you, the outsider." The grey of Kostya's eyes looked almost black in the orange semidarkness. "What do they know of you?"

     "Antonin—"

     "That boy is as dense as lead. I will ask again, who is Dion Seaver to them?"

     "Nothing."

     And then she smiled, a satisfied Cheshire twist. The corners of her mouth were sharp, lips a pallid shade of pinkish purple. "You understand, now? Within absence there is room for creation, child. What is it you said before—when you focus on the unknown, you create possibility?"

     The air chilled, and it was not the breeze at fault. Dion veered her head out of Kostya's grip, face parallel to the window. Her murky reflection caught her eye, her counterpart's shimmered against the glass and darkened sky, Dion, a dull ivory speck next to her brilliant form. The wraith's head lowered, hovering over Dion's shoulder, next to her face.

     "I'll guide you, you know. To create," whispered Kostya. Her arm reached around Dion's, fingers wrapping around the discarded chisel in front of her. She pressed it to Dion's collarbone for a moment—the cool metal point almost hurt—then pulled the tool away, gesturing a slow split down her middle.

     In the reflection, she saw a fantastical image—one of grandeur, worthiness. Herself, with bouncing pin-curls, a crystal glass in hand and her smile, so natural in its nature. Her clothes changed from her dirty, stone-soiled uniform to a pale green dress that rivalled the elegance of the other Slytherin girls. If anyone were to see her this way, Dion would not shy away from their glances, would not be fearful of the games they played with words.

     "They will ask—"Who is Dion?"—and you will carve a pretty thing out of yourself. Breathe a life into that thing, stupid girl, and you will be like them."

     Dion's lips were parted. She was acutely aware of every breath she took.

     Kostya's simper only grew. "I swear it on my soul."

{ ༺✶ } i went to the inconsistent updating schedule store and everyone knew me... sorry about that btw it will happen again. who up for the kostya reveal #surprise

also new New cover (made my me) everyone clap and cheer if you dare..........

wc: 3991
girlpools / 2024