Archive of Our Own

John panted, short huffs of breaths feeling like steam as they exited his overheated lungs. His body was about ready to give up, but he was barely able to control the robotic movements of his limbs – after all, giving up now would be considered disobedience and no matter how close John was to passing out from heat stroke he was not allowed to rest until he arrived at his destination.

To make a terrible situation even worse, he was late. He was not looking forward to his punishment for that indiscretion, especially since it was because he had overslept. (As it turned out, soft hotel sheets combined with air-conditioning and severe jet-lag was a perfect recipe to passing out for thirteen hours straight.)

Distressed, John pushed the unpleasant thoughts from his mind and focused on putting one foot in front of the other. The punishment would come later, and for now he could just delude himself into pretending that the best sleep he'd had in years would be consequence-free.

A bead of sweat rolled down his back, not that it mattered with his now-drenched dress shirt.

John was used to hot weather. He'd experienced far hotter temperatures when his master had sent him to Nevada at the height of summer – the desert heat had seeped into his bones back then, and he knew intellectually that the current weather wasn't nearly as hot as that.

The humidity, though. This humidity made it so that it was an entirely different type of heat. Every drop of perspiration his body had produced since his shower twenty minutes ago was still on his body.

He probably looked like a a failed clown sporting half-melted stage makeup with the amount of sweat dripping down his splotchy, sunburned face. Even his legs were sweating – his formal slacks, so sensible in the cool air-conditioned hotel room, were now getting horrifyingly damp.

Resisting the urge to tear off his clothes (Master De Sade would not appreciate his pet muggle showing up to an important liaison in the nude) John continued speed-walking up the street, passing a street vendor selling iced drinks. His parched throat swallowed a scream of frustration. He wanted to stop. He wanted to stop so badly, but he was already late.

Was he imagining the squelch in his shoes? Were his feet sweating too? Was the perspiration on his legs visible? Did it look like he'd wet himself? Was this how he was going to die? Drenched in sweat, getting heat stroke while trying to reach some unknown destination in a foreign land?

He deliberately slowed his breathing. It wouldn't do to have a panic attack while his body was on autopilot. He'd wait until he got back to his hotel room tonight to have a meltdown.

Five things John could see

• The sidewalk, one foot in front of the other. Brisk and steady.

• A fucking ice-cream motorcycle complete with a wide umbrella granting shelter from the deadly sun oh god

• A woman who was deliberately giving him a wide berth and a side-eye. Was she shielding her child's eyes from seeing him? Rude. John resisted the urge to steal the kid's ice-cream out of spite

• A teenager who smelled absolutely awful gawking at him as he hurried past. John gave himself an experimental sniff after he finished retching and decided that at the very least his body odour wasn't vomit inducing

• Whatever the hell that building over there was supposed to be, wait –

Thankfully, his destination wasn't too hard to find – colonial architecture, while ostentatious and impractical, provided an amusing contrast against the relatively simple structures of his hotel and many of the buildings along the narrow street he'd been following.

Surprisingly, John found himself quite liking the look of the building. Perhaps it was the distinctly muted amount of Art-deco inspiration taken when building the roman arches and ornamental parapets. To John, the lighthearted colour palette and intricate patterns on the columns and roofs of the terrace-like structure felt rather welcoming.

John's Master would disagree, of course. He could already see the man in his mind's eye, moustache trembling in outrage.

"Hendrik Petrus Berlage," he'd spit the name like it was a slur (and for Lord De Sade, the names of certain architects were slurs), "The man was a charlatan and a hack. Why, the damage his influence had on civilising the barbaric buildings in the East Indies!"

John supposed he couldn't really expect much more from a man whose ancestors probably owned stock in the both the Dutch and British East India Companies. Regardless, De Sade was his Master and John was a slave. He wasn't suicidal enough to make a sardonic remark about the various failures of colonialism, tempting as his Master made it.

If his master called an entire sovereign nation a dismal hole infested by fork-tongued savages, John's job was to vacantly nod in placid agreement. And if his Master sent him to said sovereign nation to bear the brunt of the consequences for treating members of said sovereign nation like a bunch of savages, well…

John eyed the glass door before him. He was either going to die or suffer a little before escaping with his life. He decided to embrace his disheveled, sweat-soaked appearance. He could leverage it for sympathy points. Though he wasn't particularly cute, he had a talent for looking wretched and pathetic – looking like a sad, drenched cat would perhaps endear him enough not get killed on sight.

When he finally entered the shop-house he was supposed have entered ten minutes prior he heaved a sigh, savouring the moment. A warm but steady gust of air was coming from the ceiling fans, its quiet humming slightly muffled by the shop bells chiming above him as he pushed open the door. It was no air-conditioner, but nonetheless was far superior to the stagnant, humid air outside. John mopped his face with a damp sleeve and looked around for his liaison.

The shop was empty.

Now that he was inside, John observed that he'd entered a magical apothecary poorly disguised as a muggle Traditional Medicine Pharmacy. Poorly disguised, because even John – ignorant muggle that he was – could easily recognise several distinctly magical potions on the shelves. Even if he hadn't, the clearly labelled glass jars of Naga scales, unicorn hair, and doxy eggs behind the counter would have given him a hint.

John allowed his tense shoulders to loosen slightly. The moisture settled on his back was already slowly evaporating under the ministrations of the heavenly ceiling fan (looking at it again, it was an ancient thing. Very dusty and probably running on magic).

There was a faint crackling sound coming from the counter. John approached with caution, but relaxed once he saw it was merely an old-fashioned radio apparently stuck between stations. Beside the radio sat an antique call-bell. Looking around to confirm that no one else was in the shop, he tapped the belled lightly, jumping slightly at the disproportionately loud GONG that erupted as a result.

A man immediately emerged from the back of the shop, his dark eyes narrowed in suspicion. John hurriedly dipped into a shallow bow.

"I am here on behalf of my Master, the Noble Guillaume De Sade, seeking an audience with the Great Laksamana. In my Master's name I wish to settle the debts he has incurred on your lands, that he may visit these lands in peace in the future.”

The man didn't respond for a long moment. John looked up from his bow, trying to appear as pathetic as possible. It was getting harder the more his sweat dried from his face, but he was doing a passable job considering the circumstances.

The man had drawn a long, peculiarly wavy blade from his person and was pointing it directly at John. Oh no.

John immediately fell to his knees holding his open palms over his head. He didn't do it often, but this seemed like the perfect situation for a proper grovel. Before he could get a word in, though, the wavy blade glowed a sickly red before shooting a flash of scorching crimson light at him.

He didn't think, just dropped to the floor and rolled away from the spell, taking shelter behind a shelf stacked with sleeping draughts.

Jesus, mages didn't use wands here. John grit his teeth. That seemed like crucial information to have before coming here, but of course Lord De Sade deemed it unnecessary for him to know.

He had rolled a little too far away from the door in his panicked ducking. He'd have to distract his attacker before making a dash for it.

He peeked around the corner of the shelf before realising his stupid, stupid mistake. A flash of light flew directly into his face, knocking him unconscious.

John came to with a groan of pain. The first thing he noticed was that his head was killing him. The second was that he wasn't wearing his dress shirt or slacks anymore.

Someone had draped him in a long, seamless, flowing garment that felt absolutely heavenly in the sweltering room he'd woken up in. It was probably his imagination, but the soft fabric felt like it was cooling his skin and preventing perspiration.

"So, who are you?"

He jumped and turned, finding a small teenage girl sitting across from his bed. No, his makeshift-bed. He'd been sleeping on the grimy wooden flooring, with a pillow and sheets made out of the same material he was draped in.

There was a basin of water, a flickering oil lamp, and a chamber pot in the corner of the room, but other than that it was completely bare. The walls were unpainted and there was no door or window to be seen. That explained the almost-unbearable heat of the room.

He'd woken up in a prison cell. The only respite was that he wasn't nearly as hot as he should have been, surrounded by that heavenly fabric.

John eyed the girl up and down before nodding brusquely at her. No sense in being rude to a kid who probably had as much choice as him in being there (which was to say none). She looked wary, even in the dim, flickering light. He held out a hand.

"John Smith. My Master sent me to smooth things over with the Laksamana after gravely offending him at the Armistice Ball last year. You can imagine that it did not go well, as I am now trapped here with you without having met the Laksamana."

The girl stared before grasping his offered hand.

"Wow. Did not expect the mysterious new prisoner to have a Midwestern accent."

The remark startled a laugh out of John. "You… sound like a New Yorker. Am I right?"

"I-wow, yeah. Nice to meet you, Mr John. I'm Melissa, I guess. Got kidnapped trying to source Acromantula silk for a fabric I'm developing."

"A fabric?"

Melissa nodded wryly. "I'm a servant to a wizarding seamstress –  I helped research and develope new types of magical fabrics for her business in exchange for her protection. We came here to barter with the Laksamana for Acromantula silk since you can get 'em here for cheap without any of those pesky regulations. It was supposed to be really quick round trip. Like, back home in time for dinner quick. But I guess those cult-folks were lying in wait instead and captured both of us." She twisted her fingers into the dress she was wearing – it looked similar to the material of John's toga, but not nearly as soft.

"What happened to your seamstress?"

Her face scrunched up in grief, watery eyes threatening to overflow. It struck John then, how young she was – barely more than a child.

"I think they need human sacrifices or something. This place is just an in-between place, like a cage for– for livestock. There were three other people here when we were thrown in, and they took them first."

She swallowed before continuing, "You can hear the screams from here. When they're taken, I mean. They're all dead now, I'm pretty sure."

Oh. That wasn't good. John leveled his breathing. He was not about to start hyperventilating in front of a crying little girl.

"I just wanna go home," Melissa said quietly, her breath hitching over her words, "New York was a shithole, but it was my shithole, you know? Everything's sucked so much since I found out magic was real and fucking out to get me, and I thought I'd finally found my place in the world. Madam Loraine was pretty nice to me, like I was an apprentice or something, and I love fashion too! I… I thought I'd actually make it to fourteen at this rate. I'm so stupid."

Not even fourteen. Holy shit she was a baby. John rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and cleared his throat.

"Listen, Melissa. I'll try to get picked first next time they come. My orders are to find the Laksamana and talk to him, so getting out of this room wouldn't count as disobedience or anything. It'll buy you more time to figure out a way to escape, so..."

"…Disobedience?"

John shifted at the genuine confusion in her voice. Could it be that…

"Your contract with the seamstress – was it magical in nature?"

Melissa nodded, still looking confused.

"Did it have any clauses for absolute obedience?"

"Well, I am supposed to listen to her in the field but it'd be too dangerous to codify it into a magically binding contract, since I'm a no-maj. Why would an employment contract require absolute obedience?"

John blinked. Ah. Melissa didn't know what muggle pet was. Thank god. He grasped her shoulder.

"A word of advice, Melissa, if you ever escape this. From one no-maj to another. Never give up your autonomy. Not for anything. If you die, you die, but don't let anyone take your free will from you just to escape death. Slavery is a fate worse than death. There are things worth dying for, but nothing is worth becoming a slave to another. Nothing."

"Well said, brother," a deep voice rumbled from behind him. John whirled around, trying his best to shield Melissa from view with his admittedly non-intimidating body.

A doorway had appeared on one of the bare walls, and in the opening stood a tall, hulking man with a close-cropped beard and a severe haircut.

The man was wearing extremely impractical clothes for the tropics – a heavy black cloak draped over layers of woolen black robes. Under the cloak, he was wearing what look like a long rosary necklace with the glint of metal at the end. He looked like a medieval monk. At first glance, John had thought he was a Catholic monk, but quickly realised his error when the man walked into the room and his cloak shifted, revealing the Deathly Hallows at the end of his rosary necklace.

He was one of those nutters.

John smiled placidly at the man, swallowing down the mind-splitting terror that had become so familiar to him in recent years. The dancing shadows cast by the oil lamp was not helping matters. Thankfully, Melissa was staying put behind him.

"How can I help you, sir?"

The hulking man tilted his head with a mild smile. He towered over John, even as he stood a few paces away.

"There is nothing you can do to help me, brother. I can only help myself, as you can only help yourself when the Dark One comes to collect what he is owed."

John hated that wizards could say complete nonsense with a straight face and still look saner than him. Because indeed this lunatic (unlike John) looked completely serene, without a drop of sweat on his face. Bastard.

The man turned to the doorway, as though waiting for someone to come in.

Sure enough, a moment later the muffled sounds of several people stumbling down a narrow corridor became audible. Disgruntled voices drifted into the room.

"How could you lose him? He is twice your size!"

The responding voice sounded rather sulky. "I do not know why we invite him into our fortress. He served the Heretic Grindelwald–"

"– yet he has long repented and is the most devoted among us to the Reaper. Shut your mouth, Friend. We owe him our deference, and do not forget that we need him for–"

"I am here," called the Monk-wizard. The voices abruptly stopped and a moment later two figures appeared in the doorway. Unlike the Monk-wizard, these two were appropriately dressed for the climate, wearing only a single silky cloth (in a shade so black it hurt to look at too long) draped around their body, with their right shoulders exposed.

"Great Healer! You should not have wandered off, our fortress is dangerous to outsid–"

"Who are these prisoners?" the Monk-wizard's rumbling voice was serene, but his stillness was foreboding. It was the ominous, unmoving stillness of a forest without animals, of a battlefield before a massacre. John reached behind him to make sure Melissa was safely shielded if anything happened. She was peeking out from behind him with the level of caution he'd come to expect from most middle-schoolers.

"Stay back," he hissed softly. She squeezed his elbow in response.

"Great Healer, these two are nothing but Mundanes – simply raw materials for use in our Divining Rituals. Pay no mind to–"

"Their souls are no different to mine and yours, Friend. It will be Taken by the Dark One when his time comes, and it is a violation to compel Him to reap a soul not yet ripe for the harvest. Or have you learned nothing from pledging yourselves to Him?"

"What did he say?" whispered Melissa from his elbow.

"He's telling them not to kill us because murder is frowned upon," John murmured back. (He had unfortunately become desensitised to the types of people who deliberately used arcane language to sound mysterious and/or obfuscate others.)

Their unexpected ally was now shielding John and Melissa from the figures in the doorway, lifting his cloak to completely hide him from sight.

"I grant these mundane souls shelter under my cloak. If it is a fight you seek, you are welcome to challenge me for them."

"…You!"

"Summon your superiors if you must, Friends."

As the two cult members raced away, the man turned and held out his arms to John.

"Both of you, take my hand. Forthwith, do not dally."

Oh thank god. There were probably no anti-apparition wards up if they could escape this easily.

John gently pushed Melissa forward, waiting for her to get a grip on the man's hand before grasping the stranger's arm himself. Sure, he didn't know the man's true intentions but John would risk trusting an unknown Death-worshipping loon over a guaranteed death by ritual sacrifice.

The world around him melted away, and John finally breathed.

John squinted in the sudden glare of the late afternoon sun. They had apparated into a street corner he recognised; it was just four blocks away from his hotel.

After a moment, he glanced at his saviour. He did a double take, finally seeing the man's face in proper lighting. He was familiar. Putting what the cult members earlier had said together in his mind, John blurted his next thoughts out loud.

"You… you're Cruor Fortis, aren't you? The miracle healer? What are you doing so far from Europe?"

Fortis gazed at him calmly for a long moment. His eyes were still frighteningly serene and so, so still. When John was beginning to regret asking him a question to begin with, he finally spoke.

"The Laksamana has fallen gravely ill after an attack from an unknown group of attackers. I was summoned to heal him, and happened upon that sect of Hallows-followers on the way. They attempted to drug me, sacrifice me to The Black One, and cannibalise my remains. They only managed to do one of those things. I will be reporting the sect to the relevant authorities, not to worry."

"Wait– you're on the way to meet the Laksamana too? Would you mind if I tagged along, sir? Er, Melissa, do you still need that Acromantula silk? We could go together, or–"

Melissa giggled.

"You're wearing it, silly. How do you think they lured us into their fortress? They had yards and yards of Acromantula silk blends. We– we didn't realise it was a trap till the doors disappeared. I draped it over you since you got thrown in there buck naked. Thought you'd appreciate it. Isn't it amazing, though? It's self-cooling, Madam Loraine said."

"I was wondering why they'd give us such fine clothing," admitted John sheepishly, fingering the impossibly soft, cool weave of his toga.

Fortis huffed, his lips curled slightly in amusement as he observed the back and forth between them.

"You may accompany me to meet the Laksamana, brother. What about you, little one? Where are you headed?"

Melissa flushed and looked away.

"I… I want to go home."

"Home? But home is not a place, it is a feeling that only those deprived of it know to treasure. Of course, there is our final resting place, the true home of all mortals which is in Death's Embrace, but I'm afraid I cannot in good conscience–"

"I mean New York. Can you take me to New York, sir? Please."

"Ah. I can do that, yes."