YEAR OF DAMNATION
VIII. Primal Theory

✶

     Dion's head was spinning by the time she scaled the steps of the Owlery, sent her letter to Inaya, and descended into the December weather. Hogwarts was a mere microcosm of golden-washed warmth and ample servings of stew that settled like a fragment of sunlight in her stomach; if East Kindale encountered even a fraction of the raw cold that infested the environment unprotected by castle walls, Inaya would need the talisman of warmth she attached to the letter, filled with well-wishes for the holidays.

     Infused with blood magic, it resembled nothing more than a silver owl pendant with ruby gem eyes, hung on a cord made of coral bells leaf she had stolen from the greenhouses. What was once unexplainable through language alone could be described by the liquid essence that shaped the talisman, pulled from her being, turned into care that could not be abstracted. Inaya taught her neighbourly hospitality throughout her first years in East Kindale and Dion would return the favour tenfold.

     Kostya was fed, Inaya was cared for, and Dion could feign good health by chewing on the lobed leaves of her ragwillow plant and remembering to powder the purple rings under her eyes.

     All would be well, if it were not for her obnoxiously observant shadow, Tom Riddle. She had not accounted for her newfound companionship potentially noticing her growing fatigue, as Sanyu always chalked her pallid appearance and bleak energy up to malnutrition. Tom, in all his intrusion, was not so subtle:

     (Dion had been sitting in the window sill of the archival annex in the library, nose buried in a thick, haggardly bound, authorless collection of notes gifted to her by Mr. Simenov many years prior, titled simply, The Grimoire in Russian.

     "You look well," he had commented, halted in front of her, clad in a knitted ivory jumper that just made him look strange—in other terms, approachable.

     Much to her dismay, his sudden appearances were beginning to become expected, and without looking up she had started to say thank you before registering that Tom would not say such a thing in full sincerity. By the ghost of amusement etched into his face when she stared up at him, this assumption was correct.

     "Oh, you are shameless," she replied. Dion had slammed The Grimoire and collected her things, minding the nearly indiscernible flit of his gaze toward the title scratched into the cloth cover.

     She promptly stomped away without another word.)

     Thankfully, it did not seem as though he mentioned his observances to the Knights. This was, perhaps, more alarming than if he brought immediate attention to her fatigue—she chose to ignore the sense of impending doom hung over her head for her own sake. Instead, she took it at face-value as concern for his fellow prefect's well-being. Ignorance was the best form of bliss.

     Dion could best his game by refusing to play at all.

     She flexed her frigid fingers, her knuckles creaked under her skin like unoiled ball-joints and her lips were numb and chapped. Cupping her hands, she blew into them and trudged along the cobble path toward the castle, cursing the founders for their inability to designate the Owlery within the school, much less provide paths that were not hard on her feet. Bronya would have told her to lift her head and appreciate the scenery, so she did.

     Snow-capped trees sparkled in the afternoon sun, a singing waxwing plucked at chartreuse mistletoe bushels and flew off into the cloudless, blue sky. Sun reflected off the blanket of white on the ground, blanching her vision. She averted her gaze to the lake, still and fogged over—it feigned support. A mere sheet that beckoned those with less knowledge to skate, only to leave it buckling under their weight.

     An overlapping crush sounded across the scenery and Dion expected to see a first year submerged in an icy, gaping break. To her surprise, a broad-shouldered boy dressed in all black stood along the shore, heaving large stones onto the surface, breath puffing in pale clouds above his head. She quickly realised it was not a boy at all, but Antonin Dolohov, alone and a conflicting sight.

     No toothy grin rippled the scar on his cheek, and fire did not brew behind his eyes. It was Antonin, unbridled, the best and likely sole chance she would get to convince him of civility, away from the concern of appearances. Against her better judgement, against every preach from Sasha, she diverged from the path and drew close, footsteps squeaking in the hard-packed snow.

     "Antonin?" Dion announced, as not to startle him.

     Antonin made no move to acknowledge her, he grabbed a stone and lobbed it further out, watching the ice shatter through squinted eyes. She did not question him, sure that would be akin to shoving her fingers through the gaps in a cage. A navy trapper sat snug on his head, spears of his ash brown hair poked out against his forehead, framing the fine furrow of his brows.

     He was plain-faced, if she crossed him on the street she would not look twice, but his stare rang hollow, eyes mirroring the hazy grey of the lake. The expression was inexplicably Dolohov. Typical product of a family weaned on duty. On law. Their justice was not about saving the innocent—no, they punished the guilty.

     Father, mother, or brother; Dion could recognize an animal set on a task.

     Stillness of their exchange stomped on any serenity the landscape had to offer and she swallowed down a lump in her throat, opting to stand an arm's length away from him at shore, watching crystals ripple around the edge like broken glass.

     "I am sorry we do not seem to get along," she fibbed, more sorry they had to stomach it for the sake of the club.

     A breathy, shrewd chuckle escaped Antonin, strong jaw ticking open, and he scoffed out, "Liar." Another stone sunk with a shatter, Dion's stomach with it. "I see you, Seaver."

     He blinked like he was emerging from a deep sleep.

     "I see you. Do you remember Ulyana?" Startlingly unlike himself, Antonin smiled at her as old friends did when sharing childhood memories. Dion mustered a shaky curl of her lips, too. "We called her Ulka. A little older than us, always wore a ladybird pin."

     Ulka. Ulyana. A fox-faced girl that hoarded toys so others could not play with them, under the guise that she was older, therefore they were hers. Who changed the rules in tag when she was losing, and always had the bigger house, the most successful parents that could surely beat any other in a duel.

     They were childish, clumsy bluffs, and Dion was almost embarrassed that she still felt a spark of anger burn across her skin when he reminded her.

     She nodded, unsure why he brought her up. Dion had not spoken to anyone her mother forced her into play dates with in nearly a decade. She remembered the excitement of dressing to the nines in her nicest frock, only to be sorely disappointed when the other children refused to play with her for reasons long forgotten. Perhaps because she took to twirling in the kitchen with her nose in a book and searched for honeysuckles in the yard rather than tailing Antonin as he bossed them around in the obnoxious way young boys did.

     The more carefully she examined Antonin's blank face, the more an indescribable, unspeakable horror crept over her. His words were slow and distant, a stream of consciousness flowing at a brute force he had no intention to stop. She could never bring herself to guess what he was thinking. She would not have to.

     Antonin flexed his hands, leather gloves whinging under the tension. "She used to read books about the Psoglav. The big, peaky looking dog things."

     The picture of an emaciated, hunch backed, wolf-like creature popped into her mind. Dion could only ever stomach drawings of the Psoglav. A chicken scratch interpretation of its single blister for an eye, slit pupil slashed down the centre, and its gaping, bloody maw was enough for her to purse her lips at the mention.

     "Anything she could get her hands on—said she was terrified of 'em, had to know everything about 'em. Stories, reports of 'em hunting people—the real nitty gritty ones—blood and guts and all that, yeah?"

     Her breath hitched. The instinct to run from the violent stoop of his words was overshadowed by her inability to move her legs, no matter where she turned, his voice drawled in her mind where she could not hide from it. I see you. It was not an overt strike, but the raise of hackles. A warning.

     "And, I don't know, Seaver. Everytime she talked about it, I remember thinking: something like that—that doesn't sound like fear," he continued, sniffing, gaze pinned on Dion.

     The shadow his sturdy figure cast in her peripheral smurfed any attempt she made to stand tall and Dion stopped breathing to think how disappointed Sasha would be. Years of teaching her to keep her wits, yet time and time again she cornered herself in unnecessary situations.

     "Sounds like fascination to me."

     Antonin drew near, face up close to hers, tilting, daring her to look at him. If it were not for the grey scarf tied around his throat, she might have made a move to bite him. She could not even muster the will to condemn the regress to old habits, perhaps all she needed was the right reason.

     "Sounds like desire." He shook his head and chuckled, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Funny right?"

     "I struggle to find the humour," she said, face fixed even to keep herself from spilling open. Once he smelled blood, he would hunt. That is what violent boys did.

     "No, you're missing the best part, Seaver. Last spring, she... Well, little Ulka got sent to Azkaban for torturing Muggles. They never managed to figure out who she killed, or how many." He snickered like the joke was too funny to tell without a hint of laughter. "Couldn't identify the bodies 'cause they were too ripped up."

     Ulka. Little, annoying Ulka had blood on her hands. She had blood on her hands and it was not her own. A strange disconnect formed within Dion, unable to attach a matured face to the image painted by Antonin in a mess of raw carnage. Her chest tightened, every one of her breaths were suddenly manual.

     For some peculiar reason, Dion almost wanted to cry. She wanted to ask why, to ask how Ulka became such a character. The better half of Dion knew war, money, family, purity, or an amalgam of each fickle system was at fault. No one groomed to those standards went through the fire and emerged human

     Antonin's face lost all emotion. "I see you. What are you so scared of, Diska?"

     Dion inhaled, and she was scared of everything. Scared that familiar classmates will go through the same fire and come out unrecognisable. Scared of God. Scared of the Ministry. Scared of the world. Scared of her own existence, at the thought that it somehow caused everyone she loved harm. Scared that somehow, deep down, Antonin was right. Her fear of the darkness could not negate the way it always seemed to find her through all the noise.

     Nothing came out. The urge to cry washed over her again, to call out for Sasha, this time. Somewhere in the depth of her spine, Kostya cackled, loud and echoing.

     Whatever visceral face she pulled made Antonin nod, his lips quirked slightly, and he called her a pathetic blood traitor under his breath before shoving his hands in his pockets and walking away, a bounce in his step. Satisfied, like a man who bet correctly on racehorses. He would brag to the Knights about this, no doubt, and Dion's knees buckled under the thought.

     She lifted her head to the sky. The sun's radiant warmth hit her face and reminded her she could breathe.

     Everyone always seemed to know more about Dion than she even knew of herself. She wondered how long it would take them to uncover the filthiest parts, down to the sinews—she wondered when they would leave her for it. If she could indulge. Eat her way to their centre before it happened.

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     The most interesting aspect of the Scribe was its ability to flawlessly replicate the handwriting of whoever sent a message. She knew Dorian and Tom's well-enough from prefect duties (the former's like book-print, the latter's wispy, slanted calligraphy). By paying attention to this, Dion learned how to decipher the other senders when they conversed over the bracelet. Antonin's was the easiest, he held a quill like all Beaters did—as though he was trying to scratch a wound into the parchment; Evelyn wrote in cursive, Romulus in print with little tails and curves and connected letters like he rushed through the sentence.

     Thaddeus, as discovered the day he summoned them for his arbitrary mocking of Dorian, had a penchant for capitalization.

     A very long, drawn out discussion between Tom and Dorian about the location of their meetings without Murk had given Dion something to amuse herself with; besides her already-poured over study notes. Letters suddenly began overlapping each other and their words ceased. As if he were shouting over them, Thaddeus wrote, FEAR NOT, MY LIEGES. FOURTH FLOOR. SIR BAFFLINGTON. LITTLE WAYS AWAY FROM THE MAGICAL THEORY CLASSROOM.

     Dion thought of ignoring the summon, wary of Antonin after his stint at the lake, but she found herself passing the Magical Theory classroom, anyway. Shoving a ragwillow leaf into her furthest canines, she bit down, grinding it between her teeth. Sparks fuzzed across her skin and caught like pins and needles in her lips, a rush of energy surging into her skull. Her body felt lighter and she pulled her shoulders high when she approached The Great Death of Sir Bafflington, and the group of Knights that surrounded it.

     They could have been closely observing the oblong painting, but as a prefect tuned to pick up on trouble, they looked like a huddle of teenagers who were up to something, like flies sipping on spilt juice.

     Sir Bafflington was dying, as he always did—he flailed helplessly, eyes bulged and skin a pretty shade of plum. A snake constricted tight around his throat while nightjars circled his head and cawed, taunting him. She grimaced at Bafflington, who cursed them for their lack of sympathy and exited the painting to join Yelling Yrsa in her tapestry.

     Thaddeus did a headcount before he made a big show of pulling his wand from his breast pocket. His hold on it showed subtle expertise, a short flick and he casted Revelio on the empty painting.

     Mice squeaked and darted between their feet when it swung open to reveal a narrow corridor. Evelyn shrieked and Romulus grabbed onto Dorian's arm, ready to climb him if needed. It looked more like a narrow aisle than anything else.

     Dion peered into the unending darkness. Cobwebs decorated the wooden beams that lined the passage, the thick layer of dust coating everything made Dion scared to breathe too hard, lest it went up in a big cloud and choked her. She figured she could squeeze through without turning sideways—but she feared the others would not be so lucky.

     "Ta-da!" exclaimed Thaddeus, examining the reluctant group with his hands on his hips. "Don't everyone thank me at once."

     "What are we supposed to be looking at?" Tom questioned, asking what everyone was thinking. With curled lips, he dared to approach the passageway.

     Dion inspected him for any flaws, unblinking; searching for ears he never grew into, an acne scar across the sharp plains of his face, or a single, raven hair out of place. Nothing made itself known. Tom's eyes caught the light, a star wicking across deep sable. She cursed the world for all its unfairness. He had an abundance of material to taunt her and left her with none.

     He gave her a cool sidelong glance, raising a brow. Face hot, she surrendered her gaze to the floor. Perhaps pitching herself out of the nearest window would aleve her frustration.

     Thaddeus waved his hand nonchalantly and pushed his glasses onto his head. Filth considered and ignored; he was smiling, proud of his discovery. "This is just the way through. There's a surprise at the end."

     "It's repulsive," said Romulus, more agitated than she had ever seen him. "Someone charm it clean."

     Dorian pressed ahead through the passage, shade swallowing his black garb until he was nothing but a mutter of charms in the dark. Grime followed him, swishing from the foundations onto the floor and rolling like a carpet the colour of rotten meat.

     "After you, ladies," Thaddeus remarked with a dramatic bow.

     Despite looking rather pale at the prospect, Evelyn shouldered Dion out of the way and tailed Dorian, skirting laterally. Dion followed.

     Out of all the hidden keeps in Hogwarts, this one had to be the most neglected. The passage stunk of stale air and damp wood, a sharp tang that Dion covered her nose upon sniffing permeated through it.

     Tom filed in afterward, stifling the light that filtered through the entrance until it lit mere silhouettes of the passage's framework.

     He struggled to keep up with Dion's pace, as did Antonin behind him, judging by how hard they grunted and the sound of cloth rubbing against wood. They were like keys forced into the wrong lock. Serves them right.

     "Suck in your guts, brothers!" Thaddeus hollered.

     Hinges groaning, the painting swooped shut behind him, stamping out what little vision they had left. Dion ran her fingers along the thick, wooden heart of the foundation to keep her senses. Load-bearing beams, Sasha mentioned once when he taught her the best places to climb from.

     "I can't see," said Romulus in a plugged-nose complaint.

     "You're a bloody genius, Mulciber," Antonin gasped out. He seemed to have the most trouble shimmying through, regardless of how hard he held his breath.

     Tom caught up with Dion, not without stamping on her toes hard enough she could not pull away. "Ow."

     "What's the matter with you?" he hissed. She would not have been shocked if he did it on purpose, but the snap of his tone betrayed his confusion.

     "You are on my foot."

     He removed it with a sharp nasal exhale. She could just imagine the annoyed feathering of the muscles in his jaw and she rolled her eyes, scampering to creep behind Evelyn as the wooden beam suddenly cut off. Blindly, Dion reached forward and caught a handful of Evelyn's white button-up sleeve and the hem of her knitted sweater vest.

     "Lumos," said Evelyn through gritted teeth, wand in hand. "Now, let go of me."

     "Sorry."

     The tip of her wand illuminated white, revealing a small, dingy room. Dust filtered like bits of starlight as it swirled in the direction of the entrance, the last of them filing in disturbed it erratically. It was barren, save for a dark cabinet filled with empty, pocked brown jars and bottles. Whoever had frequented this place had long since abandoned it, leaving no trace of themselves.

     A scratchy feeling stuck to her throat. Dion choked on the particles, coughing and fanning her face as dust was upturned by their arrival. The Knights had similar reactions, but Tom drew his wand. In a flick, the filth gathered into a massive dust bunny and flew down the passage in a gust of air that nearly knocked her off her feet. Melodramatic, but at least they could breath.

     "She's a work in progress, but a thank you is in order, no?" encouraged Thaddeus.

     If Dion shut her eyes and envisioned furniture, it was possible the room could be salvaged.

     "Thank you, Thaddeus," she replied.

     "Shall we turn this house into a home?"

     Suddenly, jars and bottles floated past Dion, transfiguring into violet tassel pouffes and flower-shaped lamps that flooded the room with light. Furniture flit between bergeres, windsors, and tub chairs in rapid succession, almost too fast for her eye to keep up. Evelyn, Tom, and Romulus had their wands pointed, stuck in a battle of taste.

     ("You'll make it look like a morgue!" Romulus exclaimed.)

     Dion shook her head and shuffled over to the cabinet, taking a bottle in her hand. The labels were long worn off, just sticky residue made murky by time. She cleared the last of the dryness from her throat and plucked her wand from the pocket of her shabby dress, which she sewed herself with scraps of clothes she outgrew years ago.

     She tapped the bottle and watched as it reformed into a pink ceramic cat sitting like a loaf of bread.

     When she turned around to set it out as decoration, she gasped at the state of the room. They seemed to come to a compromise, leaving the furniture looking like several rooms had been taken apart, jumbled, and clumsily put together again. A cherry wood low table sat in the centre, surrounded by various styles of cushioned seats, all different shades of green. Apothecary dressers lined one wall, empty, but soon to be put to good use. Small lamps lit the room in warm light and Dion could not dampen the smile that sprung across her face when she sat on a large lilac pouffe.

     The trio of stylists did not look pleased with the result, and Antonin made a comment about it resembling something his nan would puke up. But it was perfect, in all its imperfection.

     They settled down into seats, Tom directed them to exchange books and skim over whatever they had not read yet.

     The club had been exchanging the books around whenever they got the chance, to Thaddeus' great ire. Children of the Grave was the most upsetting of the lot, it refused to dwell on the hows, instead it lingered on tall tales of the undead, overusing phrases like soulless, and stripped of humanity. Dead things had no obligation to stay dead, not if their life was stolen from them.

     She flicked through Abyssal Alchemy, an unnecessarily winding text that offered nothing she had not known already, save for a brush up on bestial transmutation. Out of boredom, since the others were still engrossed in their own research, she read the addendum on the last few pages:

     In the realm of alchemical theory, the concept of existence is far more than a mere succession of events or the material manifestation of matter. It is a sacred and dynamic process governed by four immutable forces: Chaos, Balance, Life, and Death. Each of these forces is not merely an abstraction, but a living, breathing principle interwoven into the very fabric of the alchemical process. Through the study and manipulation of these facets, one can comprehend not only the nature of the universe, but also the secret transmutations of soul and matter.

     The ancient alchemists, long before the advent of modern magic, understood that reality is far from a linear progression. The fabric of existence, they posited, is a complex dance of forces, each one influencing the other in ways both visible and invisible. Central to this understanding was the acknowledgment of four primary forces that bind the universe: Chaos, Balance, Life, and Death. These four pillars, each a facet of existence, form the foundation of what the alchemists referred to as Primal Theory.

     It is within the crucible of these forces that all transmutations—whether of base metal to gold, soul to spirit, or knowledge to wisdom—occur.

     How odd, such vague, ungraspable ideas shaped their very existence. Life and death in an indiscriminate cycle, chaos' variables and balance forcing its hand, rendering everything not-so arbitrary as they may appear.

     Kostya was rejoicing the information with terrible shrieks, stopping once Dion took notice of her. At least the annoyance of their conjointment was mutual. Neither had the privilege of privacy.

     Thaddeus hummed wistfully from his sprawled out position along a tub chair, head tossed back, brown collar popped, looking as though he should be fed a bowl of grapes and fanned with a great, big leaf in all his leisure. The Alchemist's Advanced Handbook laid text-down on his chest, forgotten.

     Evelyn sighed. "Do you have something to share?"

     "As a matter of fact, I have a theory." The room winced. "I believe alchemists, when they write, set up a very large mirror in front of themselves and chant, 'I am the smartest in the world, I am the most handsome, I am the charmingest,' whenever they have a lull in creativity."

     "You have to be a bit conceited if you believe you're interesting enough to be published," joked Romulus. Not as charismatic with it as Thaddeus.

     "This is valuable information." Dorian fumed and shoved Thaddeus' legs from the arm of the chair, forcing him to sit up. "Have you no respect for anything above your intelligence? Focus."

     Thaddeus blinked. "There isn't anything we don't know in here. It's a handbook for babies compared to Ye Olde Tome of Evil you're reading."

     "No respect," repeated Dorian under his breath, shielding Secrets of the Darkest Art from Thaddeus with his spindly arms as if he would somehow taint it with his presence.

     Tom whisked it from his lap, staring at the cover indifferently. "The tome affirms our suspicions of Flamel."

     He looked to Dion for a reaction, clear by the barely-there smile, the beckon, the dare to challenge. Dion bit the hook he cast. Sasha would have killed her if he knew.

     "No," she said, then changed her mind and stood up. "Show me."

     Tom stood, too, carding through the pages with care and delicacy, flattening the spine with the graze of his finger. He could have been scouring through a cookbook for how mild it all seemed to him. Placing the book in her hands, he tapped a bristly title. The word Horcrux, familiar enough to raise her nose at, but not to disregard:

     The Horcrux is a manifestation of the darkest aspects of magical theory. Defined as an object in which a wizard or witch stores a fragment of their soul, the Horcrux allows for the creation of an immortal being, capable of surviving the destruction of their physical form.

     To create a Horcrux, a wizard must tear apart their soul through a violation of nature—an irreversible act, tainting the user beyond comprehension—free of guilt, regret, or remorse. The soul, once fractured, becomes something else entirely, corrupted and tainted by the magic. Using the ritual, it binds to an external vessel—

     Terrible, sickening. Extraordinary. Guilt bit at her conscience, realising truth lay dormant somewhere in his wanton diagnosis. Magic was a circulatory process, embedded and unbiased—a gift of immeasurable power in exchange for the unthinkable. The greatest wizards were deemed mad before great for a reason.

     "I have read enough," she mumbled. Dion swallowed a shudder and pushed the book into his arms again.

     The sight of it made her nauseous. Perhaps Dorian had a point in shielding it. Dark magic had the ability to taint and be tainted once conceptualised. It morphed in the light of magic like shadow, casting upon those who dared toy with order.

     "Abyssal Alchemy speaks of the soul as transcendent. Irreplaceable. Inimitable. Flamel followed the law of exchange—"

     "Horcruxes are a disgusting perversion of humanity," Dion stopped his monologue with a shoot to kill, eyes snapping to his face. It flattened immediately when pinned. She would not indulge in his vain glories, no matter how accurate the basis appeared. "The stone gives life. It does not take."

     Antonin was laughing somewhere behind her. Romulus, too. Her vision tunnelled on Tom, her surroundings faded to a dull buzz in the back of her head screaming at her to know her place next to them.

     "Internal alchemy. By your own admission, he must be connected to the stone in some way," he drawled, chin dipped mockingly. "A life for life."

     Hook, line, sinker. Her own words. He caught her with her own words, but she could not find an ounce of defeat contained in her spirit. A drab sort of feeling lit under her feet and made her pity Tom.

     The spiel of Flamel was never about right or wrong, deciphering truth and lie, it was a testament to his ego. Detached him from the heart of their argument. A desperate keen to be seen as something other than what she knew him as. It took the form of perfection when he orbited her borders, an enigma, a peculiarity in the norm—but now, seen as a whole in front of her, his cynicism disinterested her. It stunted him.

     This all seemed terribly dull, now.

     "Was this a festering need? A dream you laid in bed overanalyzing to fruition, just to prove me wrong?" she asked, tone betraying her boredom.

     Thaddeus snickered, then grunted upon Evelyn's elbow driving into his ribs.

     "I thought of it over breakfast." There was not quite disbelief on Tom's face, but a disciplined scowl adjacent to it. "You have an exaggerated perception of yourself, Seaver."

     Hollow motivation did not negate Tom's ability to annoy, but Dion's pride came out intact, kept alive with spite alone. She rolled her eyes before she could school the elementary expression and she turned away from him. She lifted Abyssal Alchemy from the pouffe and tossed it onto the centre table, much to Tom and Dorian's horror.

     "Bestial transmutation," she muttered, not exactly jumping at the chance to show her findings, "I can admit I was wrong about Flamel. Most things incriminate him in magic too vile to mention; but if we are going to focus on the task we were actually given, I would start there."

     To Dion's glee, Evelyn failed to stifle her smile. Though, Dion's words appeared to secure a place in Antonin's chagrin. From irritation to bother. The whites of his eyes encircled his iris, melded into pinpoints.

     Tom said nothing. Better for her sake.

     "Elaborate," replied Dorian, his intrigue caught her by surprise. He took the book and scanned it for injuries.

     "Bestial may be a loose term, yes... Bestial, elemental—within that realm. With further study into necessary runes, I believe we can isolate the "immortal" properties of various materials, which can then be concentrated into a living being. Preferably a plant." Dion stared at a black speckle on the wall, train of thought derailing. She shuffled over to it and drew her wand, cleaning it off. "Lest any of you wish to potentially turn into an abomination."

     No one said anything until she turned around.

     "Sound advice," Thaddeus commented.

     "Sounds like a wild goose chase," shot back Antonin, lips curling up sardonically.

     Perhaps he needed proof his simple mind could comprehend. "What about the Aspid?"

     "That's a hiker's tale."

     "Pray tell what this... Aspid is," Thaddeus asked, bushy brows raised.

     "A dragon," replied Dion.

     In the dim light, Antonin's face pretended to be human. Nothing but an ugly puckering of lines in the shape of a grin. "It's a story parents tell their children so they don't go running off wanting to be 'explorers' when they grow up."

     "People have seen it."

     "Explorers lie so their job doesn't seem so fucking pointless."

     "Children of the Grave mentions it briefly. Erm, it is believed to be undead and unkillable." She was growing exasperated by his inability to hear her out. Perhaps this was how it felt to listen to her steadfast denial of Flamel's implication.

     "You don't expect us to find that thing, do you?" Romulus asked.

     Dion's eyes widened. "Oh, goodness, no. It levels villages in seconds."

     Evelyn gave him an unimpressed, sweeping glance.

     "What? It never hurts to make sure."

     Dorian, in the midst of the conversation, managed to hoard all of the books into a neat pile next to him, protecting them from those who had disrespected them. He cleared his throat in the sharp, congested way he always did and opened Children of the Grave, reading excerpts out loud. "This beast is said to be endemic to the Ural Mountains. Anecdotal claims of sightings have described the Aspid as a snake-like dragon, its scales fused into feathers, a wing-span as large as the sky itself. Prior to the first written account of the Aspid by Voron the Demented dated, 953, there were no mentions of its presence."

     Thaddeus leaned forward, forearms bearing weight on his knees. "Voron the Demented? Crazed alchemist? I know that one."

     "Shut up." Dorian hissed, "Voron the Demented's research notes, as translated by Klava Kuzmina:

     "It is a blight of blood, flesh, and bone. Its existence is a sickness, an endless cycle of vengeance and torment—no longer a creature of life and fire, but a harbinger of destruction. Never seek out this beast. If you encounter it, hide and pray to your gods it does not find you.

     "The rest of Voron's notes perished in the self-immolated flames of his tower."

     "The Aspid does not appear to have been born naturally. No longer a creature of life and fire..." Dion shut her eyes, shaking her head. "Poor thing."

     "Your proof is from a man christened Voron the Demented," Tom deadpanned.

     "It allows for possibility. Through the unknown, we create possibility," she recounted her previous words and hoped it would speak to Tom—who was so well-versed in recurrence. "We will not be mimicking Voron. Whatever he did to that dragon is inhumane. We must not involve ourselves in the loss of life or it defeats the incentive of why I am bothering to help."

     "If he did anything at all," mused Romulus.

     Antonin scoffed and pushed himself to stand. "The dragon's not real."

     For people who cared so deeply for exploration of the indefinite, their resistance to her theory was unwavering. Disheartening. Graceless in the face of whom they were meant to be.

     Dion glanced to Evelyn for help, but her eyes were anywhere but the situation in front of her, shoulders drawn tall and secure.

     Dorian rose. All these standing men in dark blazers made Dion fall back a pace, as per her usual fashion of ignoring everything her brother taught her. Edora would have been angry, too, by this point, but she ignored her sister's will trying to cloud hers and watched.

     It was the better decision, judging by the stiffness of their movements. Something else was missing from her understanding of them. She watched it play out.

     Dorian leaned into Tom's ear, but it concealed little of his words. "It would be unwise to ignore a lead."

     "You're calling this a lead, Wonk?" Antonin jeered.

     Contrary to the reactive Dorian she knew, he merely kept his gaze on Tom, awaiting his decision. All of their attention fell on Tom, besides Evelyn who took more interest in her nails. Dion's lips pursed uncomfortably.

     It was an unnatural sort of attention—like the devout of her mother's church when they waited on the pastor. Sasha pulled funny faces in the pews to distract from the shame of her doubt. It never worked. Her proximity to holiness she lacked made her separation from it more acute.

     Tom's stare fixed to Dion, thoughtful and unreadable. He looked almost relieved, then frustrated. "We'll determine a method of characteristic isolation over the holiday."

     She shared his maybe-relief. Spiteful research tired her beyond comfort, and she dealt with it enough for Kostya's sake. They could cache the dark magic. Do some good for a change. If wizards like Flamel had gone to the dogs, God knows the world needed it.

     Displeasure rippled across the room in silent murmurs, but no one spoke up against Tom's decision, nor did they pester Dion further. They concluded the meeting on the declaration that they would study over holiday. Her relief was short-lived as they filed out of the room. She won the battle, but felt like she was losing a war unknown to her.

     Kostya ricocheted off her ribs. Celebratory, if she ignored the throb in her chest. The wraith was pleased with... whatever she did, at least, so Dion danced with her.

     Letting her lead a joyful, short jump around and a few spins, Dion chuckled. She used to want to join the ballet, but dreams were paved with money and her family had none to spare.

     Someone whistled from the entrance to the passage. Dion jolted and faced them, shoulders slumping when she saw Thaddeus leaned against the doorway.

     "Quite the dance, Seaver," he mused to her embarrassment.

     She was not in a mood to joke, the aftershocks of Dorian and Antonin's odd behavior still fresh. "I could have used support back there, Thaddeus."

     He smiled, though it lacked his usual charm. "I am a mere disciple, dearest Dion. I don't lead."

       How frustrating. A known flaw, she figured, by the apologetic look on his face. Dion remained pensively quiet, knowing it would be staved by Thaddeus' compulsion to fill the gap.

     On cue, he pushed himself straight and approached her. "As an apology, how would you fancy a small Christmas shindig?"

     Interest piqued, her brows raised. She doubted his ability to determine appropriate crowds by the way he always managed to form one around himself when he told stories over dinner. It always roared with laughter, students old and young alike.

     "How small?" asked Dion.

     "Six. Seven if you agree."

     Her woe caught in the wind and dissipated in an instant. Six years spent clawing, desperately, for an ounce of kindness. Acceptance in crumbs. Pale flowers were growing into fruit ripe for the taking—in her grasp.

     The flood inside her could be corked, the fire tended. She could be palatable to them. She could be just like them.

     "Splendid!" A smile broke on her face. "I would very much fancy that, thank you."

     "Save the thanks for after the party. My house could be littered with insects."

     "Thank you, Thaddeus," she repeated, sincere.

     "Hope you don't mind going by Floo Network with Tom," he paused, "He's just ecstatic to help you, really. You know how emotionally ample he is. Practically jumping out of his skin, almost comparable to when he finishes the Daily Prophet's crossword in less than an hour."

       Codger. The least of her attention, currently.

     "Okay." Dion took many deep breaths. Her skin tickled, tiny sparks of excitement danced across the surface. Eyes roaming to calm her nerves, she changed the subject to their new meeting spot. "How did you find this place?"

     "Waved my wand at every painting until it worked."

     She tittered. "Surely not."

     "The nightjars." Thaddeus scratched his neck, suddenly awkward. "They're known to hide. It was a shot in the dark, but most of the castle's secrets are rather on the nose. So..."

     Birds were a step too close to something he did not want to be prodded into. She tilted her head. Such a menial thing to concern himself with.

     "Sublime," was all she said.

     Footsteps echoed in clicks that grew steadily noisier, and Evelyn appeared behind Thaddeus. Her eyes flicked between him and Dion, an open-mouthed sneer tarnished her expression. "What's taking so long?" she asked as if she had somewhere to be, "I'm starving. Practically wasting away."

     "You're withering. Surprised you're still on your feet," chirped Thaddeus.

     There was no insult in his words. Fondness saturated Thaddeus from the glint in his eye to the conversation abandoned—he was capable of complex affections, enveloped and abstracted in quips and jests. Performer out of character, he was smiling even if she was not looking at him. Evelyn was already walking away when he spun to chase after her.

     Dion sighed, behind that window again, watching them pass her by. She should have known—

     Their retreating tread stopped abruptly and Evelyn appeared once more, "Well? Are you coming?"

     Dion blinked, mouth opening and closing like a fish. "Oh... oh, yes! Of course!"

     Everything was good, and everything was right. She brimmed with a joy she could not keep in, she did not know what to do with it. If she did not talk, she would laugh until she could not breathe. That would surely make them rescind their offer, so she spoke, "Oh, you are both delightful! Just perfect. Dinner, then... I am starving as well!"

     They shared a look, one that people gave to each other whenever Dion did not hold her tongue. But they walked. They walked all the way through the dingy, cramped passage and through the darkness, Dion swore she saw a hint of a smile on their lips.

{ ༺✶ } antonin. Period. he's so corny but in a really evil fucked up way... anyway here you go #enjoy

girlpools / 2025
wc: 6773