Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was a particularly uneventful day — albeit so many tended to be in spring, after the excitement of a new school year had already dwindled, the buzz about Hallowe’en, the elegant flush of Yule, and the pleasant, cozy merrymaking of the New Year’s holidays had already fizzled out — when Garreth finally caused a stir of a cauldron so experimentally dreadful that he was sent out of Sharp’s class without delay. 

The whole ordeal was rather an overreaction, thought Garreth honestly. It was only a small, safe explosion, and it may have caused a tiny spur of bluebell flames, which in turn proceeded to dance on the classroom’s mossy stone floors, catch on people’s robes as the latter ran away, and then hissy-sing some ditty, listing random ingredients and herbs while hissy-laughing at the panic (entirely unwarranted, of course,) in the eyes of the students whose clothes they — the flames — were hanging off of. 

It wasn’t like the bluebell flames actually burned. They were just a little annoying; much like pixies, yes. 

And they only singed one’s robes once one tried to swat them away. 

The flames that had caught on Garreth’s own clothes had disappeared entirely by themselves — rather rudely dissipated into thin air just when he had tried to strike up conversation, and see if he had, perhaps, accidentally brewed life and/or sentience in a cauldron. 

He should jot all the details of what he had done down in his diary! Only problem was, the leatherbound notebook was still in Sharp’s classroom — more precisely in Garreth’s schoolbag — while Garreth himself was at present banished. 

He’d have to turn today’s events around in his head repeatedly until he could get his notebook back, Garreth feared. Etching, shall we say, all details of the experiment into his deep memory, so that he wouldn’t forget anything. Such was the only way. 

At all times, a master brewer ought to have his wits about him, after all. 

But alas, at the moment, this master brewer was supposed to find his way to his aunt’s office. Well either hers, or Black’s. Both were equally dire options. 

Garreth promptly decided to take the scenic route, as one does in times of contemplation, and made it to the Great Hall, where he did not linger. He went outside, into the lovely, sunny breeze full of sweet-smelling pollen, and headed towards the corner of the gardens which he knew was cleverly secluding some glumbumble hives. 

Garreth sneezed, wiped his nose on his sleeve, but pressed on. 

Yes, this was the long way around to the Deputy Headmistress’s office, in case anyone asked. 

As he walked, half of the sky turned quickly overcast. Promising, perhaps, a drizzle worthy of Scotland’s fickle nature, thought Garreth absentmindedly. Rain would take care of the airborne pollen so he wouldn’t complain, save on the off-chance that he got wet in the process. 

Better harvest a jar of glumbumble trickle then, while he had the chance. And perhaps he’d pluck a honking daffodil or a handful and see what he could concoct with them, later, in the safety of the Gryffindor common room. 

But what Garreth still did not know was that he would not get the chance to do any of the above; at least not as early as he had imagined. 

For as soon as the dragon topiary just beyond which lay the hives came into view, Garreth observed a young boy — probably no older than eleven or twelve — standing as still as a statue amid the lush foliage, on the gravel path. His eyes, which from the angle where Garreth stood appeared as dark as coal, seemed for the moment intent on the gently swaying grass-beast, all wonder. The boy was deathly pale, onyx-haired and curly, and was clothed in nothing but a plain white shirt, sleeves undone at the cuffs, and a pair of all-black trousers, a little old-fashioned — the type your aunt or mother made you wear to school instead of a brand-new pair, claiming they were your great-uncle’s, and convincing you they were just as fashionable, or would be again but in a few short months. Beyond these trousers, the boy wore thick, grey woolen socks, which protruded from underneath his oversized ankle-high boots, only halfway laced — as black as the bottom of a used teacup in Professor Onai’s class, once again, and caked in dried soil. 

Overall, the youth seemed entirely monochrome, as if sprung from a moving picture stashed in an old family album. 

Garreth blinked. A near-inaudible whistle echoed in his left ear, and his feet came to a full stop, his gaze still trained on the boy, who did not yet turn, or seem to notice his presence. 

If someone asked him in that moment what he had found so intriguing about the boy, Garreth would be unable to answer. The other was simply… strange. Fascinating, in perhaps a bit of an unskewed way. 

Maybe, Garreth would later reflect, he had felt a kindred spirit in the younger. 

Or maybe it had simply been the fact that the youth had seemed to almost glow with something ephemeral, something otherworldly, but not quite ghastly. Something sitting on the precipice of a dream. 

Garreth heard himself swallow inside his skull, felt the lump go down his throat; and then, without warning, the air shifted. 

Slowly, the boy stiffened, and turned around. Gaze unblinking, he looked, unhurried, to where Garreth was all but not breathing. As the thin neck of the youth twisted, revealing streaks of teal veins underneath the alabaster skin, his eyes of darkness seemed to come to life, gleaming with a stunning sapphire-hued fire. 

He opened his mouth, teasing the view of pearl-white teeth, then closed them without speaking. 

“Well don’t mind me,” said Garreth instead, sounding more nonchalant than he felt. He cleared his throat into a closed fist, pressed his other to the small of his back, and straightened, refocusing. “Carry on. Whatever it is you’re doing.” He took a sharp breath. “Uh, sorry. What is it that you’re doing, if you don’t mind me asking?” 

There it was. Before he could stop himself, he had inquired something — yet again, unprompted, following nothing but his own curiosity. 

The boy’s lively eyes roved over Garreth’s entire being; ever slowly, ever in detailed study, before he opened his mouth again, and this time spoke: 

“I wonder.” 

His voice was distinctly prepubescent. A little echoing, a tinge distant. Somewhere deeper, there was a note to it that reminded Garreth of the purr of a cat. 

“Hm?” Garreth hummed quizzically. “What about, then?” 

The youth seemed to infinitesimally perk up — a rare reaction to Garreth’s prying, dare he say. He watched the boy point to the slow-dancing topiary-dragon. “Magic,” he said. 

“Ohh, yes,” nodded Garreth again, though he could not stop his brow furrowing. “This is, after all, Hogwarts, a school of magic, a place of wondering and study. Absolutely, I can see it.” 

Almost at once, the boy’s vibrant eyes seemed to fizzle out to barely an ember of their previous bluebell flare. 

“If you wish to have conversations that lead nowhere, which breed no trust nor learning, go,” he drawled. “Leave me in peace.” 

“Why, no need for the ice-cold tone all of a sudden,” Garreth eased, raising his hands. “I just thought your answer a bit vague, is all. Are you Muggleborn, perhaps? I too, matter of fact, am a bit of a wonderer myself, as it turns out.” He puffed up his chest and graced the boy with a cheery enough smile. “An avid master potioneer and brewer of finest drinks known to wizardkind, in-the-making, if I do say so myself. Name’s—” 

“Potioneer,” repeated the boy, perhaps a bit dreamily. His eyes sparked once more, as if they at Garreth’s words became, but for a moment, two bright stars. “Truly?” 

“Oh,” Garreth fidgeted, a wave of sudden embarrassment flooding his arteries. “Yes,” he said simply. 

“Tell me, potioneer, are your eyes more knowing, or are your hands more nimble and steady?” asked the boy, and turned his shoulders and face fully to Garreth in now-evident interest. 

“Pardon?” 

He did not see the boy make any move forward. In an instant, the other simply disappeared and materialised in front of Garreth, his curly head of black vine-like hair level with Garreth’s chest, swaying with remnants of a passing breeze. From somewhere Garreth did not manage to glean — probably a trouser pocket — the youth produced a small crystal vial of see-through liquid. Adorned in gilded web-like wire, the tiny bottle caught what of the sunlight broke out from beyond the clouds, fracturing it into pastel rainbows on the potion, quick to disappear just as to appear, quick to colour and quick to wane. 

“Can you discern what this is?” asked the boy in an eager whisper, pushing the vial practically up Garreth’s nose. 

Garreth cleared his throat again, took a step back, blinked the vial into focus, and reached for it slowly. “Well, certainly not from this, rather intimate, angle. Maybe if I could take a whiff—” 

The vial was snatched away, the view of it replaced by a warning which silently roared from beyond the mysterious boy’s piercing eyes. 

“The scent consumes,” he urged, his voice all but venom, if there wasn’t something in it that reminded Garreth of genuine fear. “Tempts, beyond any restraint. The taste—” 

He stopped himself, teeth clacking as he almost violently shut his jaw. He took a sharp breath, then hissed as he looked to the ground in frustration: 

“Not that you could believe any of it.” 

Now, Garreth was growing confused of course, but more than that, a curiosity bloomed in his heart — one of a nature similar to that of a Devil’s Snare, fast-growing, all-consuming… tight-constricting, the more one fought against it. 

So Garreth simply didn’t. 

“Now just a moment,” he huffed, allowing some irritation to clearly show. “Before we draw any hasty conclusions, I will have you know that I am not one to be sold short, thank you very much.” He waved at the vial clutched in the boy’s hand. “I barely saw the potion you speak of! No one could judge anything from that!” 

“No,” agreed the boy, clearly bitter. “Probably for the better.” 

“That can’t be!” insisted Garreth now, if nothing else but for the principle of the matter alone. “You already showed it to me! You can’t tease me like that, it’s bad manners! And besides, what gives you the right to ask for a potioneer’s opinion and then not allow him sufficient insight?! I might still guess right, what?” 

The boy scoffed now — a ridiculous behaviour, in Garreth’s opinion, coming from someone whose very tip of the head only reached his interlocutor’s collarbones — and pouted down at the ground again, wordless. 

It would appear, observed Garreth smugly, that his last argument brokered some good old conscience-bothering on the brat’s end. Good. Brilliant. 

“Tell you what,” Garreth puffed, and dug his heels in, “Fine. I’ll play your game. What do you want?” 

The boy blinked at him, the bluebell eyes sparking. “What I want?” 

“Yes. Obviously, you’re trying to either pull one over me, or you want something from me, probably because you’ve already heard of my awesome brews. Out with it now, what is it?” 

If this mystical potion business was indeed just some water in a vial and a performance, well it would not be the first time Garreth had taken a gamble and lost. But something the boy had said gnawed at him, in the back of his mind, as if teasing from behind a foggy window — about this concoction’s scent and taste being so irresistible, not even a whiff nor a lick were permitted in testing. Suppose, for argument’s sake, that that was true… If that were true and he, Garreth, got ahold of it… and if there was a steady supply with the boy, or if Garreth could somehow figure out the recipe for it on his own, and then use the concoction in his brews… 

He was not given the time to finish the fantasy. 

Whether or not some of the boy’s confliction lingered, Garreth could no longer discern it. Instead, the other's features melted into something resembling profound longing, and perhaps, resolve. 

“I want to be believed,” he said. 

It sounded like begging. Like a whimper of a hurt child. Garreth felt something uncomfortable settle in his heart. 

Shadows of his own past — of spending childhood in the middle, in the averages, of fighting for every scrap of space and worth amid many, of being forgotten about or neglected to be considered — zipped past on the distant horizon. 

“That’s all?” 

“Sincerely. It needs to be sincere,” insisted the boy, looking up at Garreth; still pleading. 

As if it meant the world and everything in it. 

“Easy enough,” Garreth said leisurely. 

“I cannot show you any proof,” continued the boy dejectedly. “You need to believe my words alone.” 

“Shifty aren’t we,” returned Garreth, stepping back closer to the garden’s ledges. The clouds moved, casting the shadow of the dragon topiary over the boy in front of him. 

Both were now frowning at the other. 

“If you are able to sincerely believe me,” said the boy then, with a non-ignorable amount of gravitas, “the vial is yours.” 

Garreth blinked. The cogs in his mind turned at light-speed twice — the process after which he couldn’t stifle the short amused chuckle that escaped him. 

“What, just like that?” he asked. “This dangerous concoction, this thing that may not be touched or perceived without prior knowledge of it, I can have it, no questions asked?” 

He wished. Inexplainably, inexplicably, but he did. The desire, the ambition, the dreams, were probably the only things still keeping him chained to this frustrating conversation. 

The boy’s assumed inner conflict simmered back into view at the corners of his features — his gaze for a beat seemed far, apparently lost in the fog of some sour memory. 

“That is just how much I trust—” he told Garreth plainly, “—that you would not.” 

“Well,” said Garreth in turn, summoning the entirety of his weighty confidence, “here to prove the doubters wrong, aren’t I?” 

The wind picked up, rustling in the lush foliage around them, playing with the locks of coal and fire-amber on their heads. For a beat of eternity, nothing but the air and sky and light moved, nothing breathed, nothing existed. 

“Then,” the boy announced, clicking them back into linear time. “Let us begin, potioneer.” 

It was Garreth’s turn to scoff. “So dramatic.” 

Something sat heavy in the atmosphere — it had crept in out of nowhere, as if an invisible giant was laid to slumber, right there upon their throats, thickening the oxygen. Every breath, Garreth took with purpose. Truth felt like a lifeline, and lies like eternal damnation. 

As if some ancient magic coiled around him, holding him accountable for his next set of actions. 

He switched his weight on his legs, trying to look bored or impatient, and regarded the boy with expectation. 

The other produced the vial again, holding it out in the palm of his pale hand, in the day-bright beyond the swaying grass-dragon’s shadow which still draped him. Once more, Garreth perceived a wonderful play of light in the vial’s crystalline layers of in equal parts solid and liquid translucent craftsmanship — enticing awe and wonder. 

As if pure magic had been bottled, appearing like unadulterated dew, or a collection of fresh raindrops, to the naked eye. 

This, thought Garreth, was no mere water and performance, no mere smoke and mirrors. His heartbeat slowed, then quickened with exhilaration. 

“I will tell you what this is,” said the boy, and Garreth’s eyes snapped to his. They were once more as blue and vibrant as gasoline fire, and his voice once more a cat-like purr: 

In my palm you will find 

a substance brewed centuries ago, 

by hands not those of wizardkind, 

but of elven creatures, fae, and tender-winged-brine. 

Its story begins by chance and fancy, 

an innocent-enough wish; 

Dew, sweet words, toad-slick and a twig thrice swished. 

But it ends in tragic dance, lunacy! 

Bored you may be, so I’ll spare you the long tale; 

There was one who wanted one more to make a pair, 

and looked they did where look one must not dare. 

A human unknowing they did seek to romance, to ensnare. 

Beware the scent, the taste and the hush 

the whisper of its nectar-venom! 

Beware the senses enthralled, the lush 

visions of imagination, and a curse on ears hearing, against verum! 

More potent is she, than any potion of love, 

More ardent is she, when one denies her power thereof. 

More soft is she, than any dewdrop or droplet of rain, 

And most vengeful and dangerous, when after but a single touch one recoils and refrains. 

So guarded is she, by cold-flame, witch-eyes, and shadows of ancient yonder. 

And whoever is he who may wonder 

of her graceless history and thrall, 

He must know, be aware, that should he seek her, 

she may only grant him ruin and fall. 

“What?” Garreth stuttered, and immediately regretted interrupting. “Sorry,” he rushed to say. “I didn’t quite expect a whole bloody poem to come with it.” 

The boy huffed something close to a chuckle. “No,” he returned quietly. “Almost no one does.” 

Garreth followed with a half-laugh of his own. “Please, do go on.” 

He urged the boy to continue with a friendly wave of both his hands. The latter blinked at him, then inhaled, slow and heavy, and concluded: 

Those who succumb, those cursed to roam Silence’s lonesome march, 

may hope to find comfort in passing on the torch. 

And one day, as with any tale worthy of an end, 

A master potion-maker may yet a hand extend, 

become your curse-breaker, if they tend 

in possession of eyes and mind keen enough to be, heaven-sent. 

“Huh,” Garreth hummed, with no small amount of fascination. He could feel that he was, as Aunt Matilda knew to wonderfully put it, starting to get ideas. “Interesting.” 

“The more far-fetched the tale,” sighed the boy then, “understandably, the less believable it is.” 

“So to summarise,” Garreth said, folding his arms over his chest in thought, “this thing you’re… well for lack of a better word, advertising, is some manner of a pure fae-slash-elven-slash-ancient-forest-creature-made potion, a substance which once upon a time a fae-slash-elf-slash-ancient-forest-creature concocted in order to enthral a human lover? And that didn’t pan out right because the human mind can’t bear the effect of the potion, so… a cautionary tale-slash-poem was composed, and the potion was given over for safekeeping to some manner of a hell-dwelling beast? Or a witch? A hag? Whatever. And a potioneer is prophesied to rid the world of it forever? And conveniently, he or she has yet to appear, and for whatever strange reason, you have it with you now?” 

The rich effort behind the campaign notwithstanding, the youth’s strange tale smelled so keenly of the cheapest of scams. It truly did, but for one key element — the boy knew he was full of it, and deliberately wasn’t trying to hide it in the least. 

If that was a trick, it was a damned good one. 

Nonetheless, Garreth still needed to tease him a little, didn’t he? Just for spite. Out of pettiness. And yes, for that attitude. 

“Not to sound disbelieving or anything, but you’ve got all your corners covered mate, what?” he sneered, cocking his head to throw some curls out of his eyes. 

To Garreth’s generous assessment, the boy’s face responded with a frown so sour, its sourness reached levels almost as epic as the story in his poem. He hummed some noncommittal noise of vague confirmation, rolled his eyes, and apparently chose to honour Garreth with no further cumbersome explanations. 

Yes, definitely for that attitude, Garreth had made the good decision of being petty. 

“Alright well,” Garreth inhaled dramatically, “I guess you’re out of business then. Since I believe you.” 

He could swear he heard something invisible snap right then. The air grew lighter again, the mysterious oppressive weight lifting as if it never was. Breath came easy once more, this time smelling like rain and moss, more-so than sweet pollen. 

The boy went entirely rigid; for a long while, he did nothing but stare at Garreth as if the latter had just performed a miracle. As if he had no idea how to feel. 

“What?” Garreth asked with a mixture of nerves and impatience. “I said I believe you. That means I get the vial now, no questions asked, correct?” 

The boy’s eyes were as wide as saucers, and as blazing as two pyres. His jaw trembled. So did his hand — when it threatened to drop the precious potion, Garreth caught him by the back of it, and plucked the vial easily out of his hold, and into his own. 

The alabaster skin beneath his left was cold to the point of burning. The vial, snuggled between the fingers of his right, seemed to hum pleasurably. It was, contrary to the hand that had held it prior, as warm as a mother’s hug. 

Garreth would think on these details a little later. 

“You really are so dramatic,” he sighed, letting go of the boy, and, ignoring the sting of air on his ‘burn’, tried to offhandedly wipe the sensation away against his trouser leg. “You alright?” 

“Why?” the other finally squeezed out. “How?” 

“Mate, I don’t know what your problem is, but you need to relax, alright?” Garreth pocketed the vial he had just taken, and tapped that same hand on the boy’s shoulder, pushing the other, still feeling a bit odd, likewise into his other pocket. “The question you should be asking, my friend, is why not?” 

“Wh— I was cursed—” stuttered the boy. “Which part did you believe? What convinced you?!” 

“Hmm? Oh, well, you just looked desperate,” was Garreth’s answer. His casual smile fell a little. “And I know desperate.” 

The boy hissed. “That alone shouldn’t have been enough—!” 

“Ah!” interrupted Garreth again, raising a lecturing finger into the air like he remembered Professor Ronen doing, and emanating an elder aura — in his case, that of an elder brother. “But why not believe it? We live amid so many odd and mysterious things already. What’s another strange tale, or a legend such as that of Merlin and King Arthur, or the stories Beedle the Bard used to collect? Who’s to say that any of the stuff their narratives mention — like Excalibur, Merlin’s staff, or the Hopping Pot for example, or the three Gifts of Death given to the Peverell brothers — was fabricated, and not actually just lost so long ago, people nowadays give it no more worth beyond fodder for a goodnight story? 

“If I believed that greatness and legend belonged in the past, what would preserve me in the future? What would drive me forward?” 

The boy snapped his jaw shut. He looked perturbed. 

“You should do well not to spend all your time on tales though,” Garreth advised him sagely. He felt great — his winning the potion had given him a wonderful emotional high. “I’m not saying that you need to study, far from it, but spend some time with your friends, yeah? Take a break from just brooding all on your own. Well then, if that’d be all…”

He turned to leave, a simmering impatience beginning to brew, to stir, somewhere within the core of his being. The private repetition of the day’s events, the harvest of glumbumble trickle, the picking of honking daffodils, his quest to detention, the retrieval of his diary, and the expectation of pollen-sweeping showers, all of these thoughts quickly and smoothly, gently but unmistakably, retreated within Garreth’s mind and feelings to make way for ruminations on the little vial and its crystal-clear contents, and its uses. 

“Do not drink from the vial!” the boy shouted the warning, sounding choked, at Garreth’s back, now several paces away. 

“Honestly…” Garreth rolled his eyes, and began to lazily turn back around. “You might not be familiar because you’re either young or Muggleborn, or both, but every potion is meant to be consumed in some way—” 

Once more, Garreth blinked in confusion, and perhaps a little disbelief. It couldn’t have been longer than a moment that he had turned, languid as it had been, but the boy had vanished. No trace of him remained in the shadow of the dragon topiary, on the gravel path, nor on the wind; no echo nor hint of his cat-like youthful voice, of his burning eyes, could be perceived anymore, at all. 

As if he never had been. As if, like the subject of his imagined monochrome photograph, he simply evaporated back into his frame, or dissipated into the ether, together with the dust which lifted off roads and trees. 

“Blimey,” Garreth breathed. He might have been too hasty in assuming the boy’s non-magical heritage, given how wonderfully decent his disappearing act just now had been. “What a delightfully odd little fellow.” 

The starting drizzle of what’s to become a cooling, rumbling spring storm followed him back into the castle, where this master brewer headed, quite occupied, to excitedly muse on his impending, revolutionary discovery. 

*

Garreth knew that he had been warned. And, if he was being honest with himself, he did believe that the warning had been given for no trifling reason, whether or not its delivery had been exaggerated. 

But, Garreth also was under the firm impression that the youth whom he had won this curious little potion from, along with its accompanying warning, was still just a boy, at the end of the day. One probably only starting Hogwarts, whether indeed Muggleborn or not, and inexperienced, impressionable, by still so many things in this fascinating world they lived in. 

At present, Garreth was sat on one of the many Hogwarts’ stone benches, in one of the many small ground floor corridors, breathing in the wind wet with rain through the open alcoves, and regarding the mystery potion he had won against a backdrop of thunderclap and lightning. 

As if in answer to the absence of the sun, or perhaps the shift of warmth and cold in the air, its contents no longer refracted light in rainbow colours, but muddled lightly, almost like someone had dropped a pixie-sized ladle of syrup into the clear, watery concoction, where it left traces swaying everywhere across the very limited space it had been poured into. 

“Should I open it?” Garreth asked of no one in particular, and was responded to by just the roaring sky. “He only said not to drink it, right then at the end.” 

Garreth stood, and began to pace the corridor, the downpour outside masking the sound of his footsteps. “What if this is indeed something rare, but not unheard of? Like I don’t know… Felix Felicis?” He lifted the transparent little vial to his eyes again, peering into its slow-swirling depths. “Translucent. Several drops at best. It could be,” he murmured pensively. 

It could be, if it wasn’t for this odd heat pulsing from within. It feels almost… alive. 

“And besides!” He rounded jerkily at a pair of suits of armour in one corner, which seemed to stiffen with a clank at his approach. “How exactly did he imagine I should test this, or use it, if I’m not allowed to either smell or taste it? Pour into a cauldron with a mask over my mouth and nose? Give it to someone else to try?” 

There was an idea, certainly. If Garreth was a filthy snake, that is — like that bastard, Sebastian Sallow, had been. 

Garreth had heard that Sallow had been guilty of all manner of roguery a year back, when their then-fifth year class had been joined by that charismatic new wizard, new in every sense of the word. There had even been a rumour, circling near the end of first term, that Sallow had been responsible for his own uncle’s death — however, when Aurors had come to investigate the matter, all of Sallow’s little friends had testified on his behalf, including the new fifth-year, so the true events of the older man’s demise had remained, even to this day, a general puzzle. 

“A load of crap. And they call me dangerous, volatile…” hissed Garreth, running his left hand through his ginger locks in agitation, and then stopping to observe the palm of that same hand. 

The boy’s skin was ice-cold, and yet the vial remains always warm… 

Suddenly, as if drawn on his own skin, the recollection of what he was actually meant to be doing flashed before his eyes, right as a heavy grumble echoed in the dark, overcast sky. 

“Shit! Matilda!” he cussed, twisting around himself as he sought a clock. 

Of course, there was none to be gleamed, not out here. Garreth paced quickly to the nearest open archway, and immediately reeled back as he spotted a gaggle of students headed right at him. His year, no less! He hadn’t heard their footfalls, their animated conversations, their complaints of the weather, due to the very same! He must have also been too far away from the Clock Tower, or the class bells could have been suspended again by Black or Peeves, the fiends! 

Cursing once more under his breath, Garreth rushed to duck behind the suits of armour he had just talked at one-sidedly. He pulled the black hood of his school robe over his flaming red hair, so as to better blend in with the darkness, and waited for the crowd to pass him by. 

It seemed to take them a small eternity. Shadows lingered, voices whispered, the suits of armour clanked and hummed, and Garreth pleaded mutely with them not to leave their posts and reveal him. 

And all the while, his newest little treasure all but continued to vibrate with warmth and allure from within his pocket. As if calling out to him. 

Open me. Reveal me. Smell me. Taste me. Drink me. 

It seemed to whisper with no sound, and no pause for breath. 

Had it had the same effect on that boy whilst he had been carrying it? Had that been why he had been so testy? On top of it being a potion, had it been hexed somehow? How had that poem gone again? Perhaps it was indeed relevant. Garreth had only heard it once, and it had been quite lengthy. Maybe he should have had it written down, along with some concrete instructions for use… Some potions were, after all, brewed or drank with constant chanting… But then again, the little blue-eyed brat had vanished before they had gotten the chance at a satisfactory closure to their encounter in the first place! Could Garreth find him again, somewhere in the corridors? The Great Hall at dinner, perhaps? The boy hadn’t worn a robe, nor any shawl nor designated uniform tartan, so there was no telling which Hogwarts House he belonged to… 

Garreth chanced a slight shift on his cramping legs, and a one-eyed peer, as quietly as he could, through the two suits of armour’s legs into the corridor beyond. 

The torches were lit now, encompassed in blackness and elongated shadows of dusk, which had fallen upon the castle well before its due time. There remained only two boys from his year now, seated alone on the very stone bench Garreth too had used a small eternity prior. The boys were huddled close, almost forehead to forehead, whispering and chuckling. Both wore Slytherin colours, however from where Garreth had been crouching, it was impossible to see their heads and faces. 

Directly, anyway. Their shadows fell, dancing amid the firelight on the walls, quite clearly upon the stone floor right in front of the suits of armour, and Garreth had quite a good view of those. 

Any moment now, surely, they’d move to go to dinner. His poor calves were begging for it. If anybody who knew him saw him here before then, they’d very likely gather that he’d never gone to his aunt to receive his detention, otherwise he’d be serving it now. Offhandedly, and swallowing a dejected sigh, Garreth wondered what had happened to his school bag, his diary, when a small but sharp breath stole back his attention. 

It was loaded with something heady. Shortly after, it was followed by a low moan that made Garreth blush despite himself. 

Oh Godric, he mouthed, as panic grew within him, twisting in his gut. Please, no. 

The Slytherins were snogging. Yes, most definitely. Their shadows were now pressed practically into one, their hands were in each other’s laps, grabbing thighs and other things tightly, one pale and one sun-kissed and freckled. When the one on the left threw his leg over the other’s, Garreth had to clap his hand over his mouth to keep himself from exclaiming. 

Reveal me. Taste me. 

Shut! hissed Garreth in his mind at the blasted potion, which apparently definitely had a mind of its own, and on top of it also nurtured a certain amount of sadistic tendencies. Not the time! Really, really not the time!! 

“Sebastian…” came another heady breath, distorted enough with desire so that Garreth could not attribute it to anyone he remembered hearing in his day-to-day, and for a second he thought that that was definitely for the better. Especially because he did not want to hear the other boy, now identified, in this context either! 

“Please…” 

I’ve got to stop this! I’ve got to get away! 

Garreth pushed his mind into overdrive, trying to think of something, quickly. Honestly, hadn’t these two heard of a locked room? Or at least a broom closet, for mercy’s sake! 

Open me. Tear me asunder. Consume me. 

Garreth patted his pocket furiously. You’re not helping! 

At that moment, a particularly violent flash of lightning swallowed all the light in the corridor for its own, followed closely by an explosive crack of thunder. 

Garreth, despite his best judgement, flinched, and loudly collided with the suits of armour he had been hiding behind. 

Mercifully, the sets both stood their ground. However, other than the roar of the rain outside, deafening silence fell upon the torch-lit corridor. No one was moaning, nor breathing, anymore. 

“Is someone there?” came Sebastian Sallow’s voice, and his shadow elongated right across where Garreth was crouching — he had stood up, and was sounding as irritable as Garreth had ever heard him. 

Reveal me. Smell me. 

No! Garreth pleaded internally. Please, no revealing! Conceal me, conceal!! 

“Sebastian,” called the other Slytherin, and this time Garreth did recognise him. Fuck, of course, he should have known it was last year’s new fifth-year! 

“Calm down,” said he, quite leisurely. “Those suits move on their own. I’m sure you know. I’ve seen them brawl a few times, was quite funny. Perhaps the thunder spooked them.” He chuckled, and there was a sound of rustling fabric, as he repositioned himself on the bench. 

“Still,” insisted Sebastian, and Garreth was rapidly adding bullet-points to his mental List Of Reasons Why To Loathe Sebastian Sallow, LORWTLSS for short. 

The other Slytherin’s shadow shrugged on the stone floor, and elongated too as he stood as well. 

“If you must,” he said flirtatiously, walking up behind Sallow, and dragging a hungry hand across the latter’s chest and stomach. He stopped this sultry motion by hooking his fingers in Sallow’s belt. Garreth wished he didn’t have to look, but at the same time he feared that averting his gaze might somehow doom him all the same. 

“But…” the new Slytherin continued uninterrupted, lowering his voice into a suggestive whisper, which unfortunately echoed audibly enough for Garreth to still hear, “…I’d much rather we continued where we left off.” 

If you must, repeated Garreth sarcastically, making sure his breathing was even and his mouth was definitely not moving, …I’d much rather you move along elsewhere with that stuff! 

“Fine,” sounded Sallow’s voice after a moment, significantly more loaded, much to Garreth’s dismay. He’d have to look into Memory Charms now, he feared. “Just a quick check.” 

Merciful Godric, Garreth was so fucked. Hopefully only figuratively — he shuddered at the thought. 

Consume me, came the potion’s persistent non-whisper again. Smell me. Drink me. Conceal. 

For a beat of a second, Garreth was once more about to quip back. However, instead, something clicked into place, somewhere in the back of his mind. Quite suddenly, he felt almost clairvoyant. 

And for a period of time that couldn’t have lasted very long at all, and yet stretched on like a century, he could see the storm as it rolled across the horizon, even as he physically faced the wall, completely sunken in blackness. He could smell the rain and the grass and the forest, hear the buzz of sheltering, squatting nature way beyond this corridor, this castle. He could feel the flow of Hogwarts’ magic coursing through its foundations, its massive structure, like hidden, invisible rivers. 

The potion pulsed pleasurably against his skin as he reached into his pocket, and pulled it out in a daze. 

Open me, it purred. Use me. Make a wish. Conceal. 

Against the clamour of rain, two pairs of footsteps approached the two sets of armour — in response, the latter clanked rigidly. 

“See?” said last year’s new fifth-year amusedly. “Probably just the armour itself.” 

“Yeah,” muttered Sallow noncommittally, and advanced further anyway. He sounded alert, if not at the precipice of vindictive anger. 

The other Slytherin seemed to pout. “Not that I don’t understand,” he said, “but ever since you almost got arrested last year, you’ve become a little less fun.” 

“Shut up,” snarled Sallow, and reached for the first suit of armour, which clattered still more rigidly, as if uncomfortable that its personal space was being so rudely violated. 

Garreth uncorked the potion with purpose. 

At once, everything was cloaked in a scent so powerful, Garreth’s heart thumped with the worry that that alone would reveal him. Betrayal shot through his veins, but he could do nothing to stop himself from inhaling it anyway. 

It was beyond anything he had ever had the pleasure or displeasure of smelling, and heavens knew he had smelled a lot of things, both foul and pleasurable. This was… raw, seductive, primal. Floral, marine, mossy, earthy and woody, all at once. Sealed might itself, almost; entirely overwhelming. 

It was the scent of wilderness, of night, and brine, and moonlight and daybreak, of storms and winds which went beyond those humanity had known. It was the scent of magical realms beyond those of wizarding — he knew somehow, instinctively. 

It was a promise, and a curse, bottled in a contradiction. 

The two Slytherins seemed to choke with it. Quickly, Garreth pushed the vial to his lips, and tipped a single drop onto his tongue, shutting his eyes as the faint echo of that boy’s warning seemed to plead from somewhere far, far away. 

He swallowed. 

For a brief moment, time seemed to sit quite still. Even the rain seemed to drown away. And then, agony. 

Pain the likes of which Garreth had never known shot through his entire body, seemingly burning away at his nerves, his muscles, his flesh and his bones. He couldn’t tell if he was screaming or not — his senses shut down, and he couldn’t hear a thing, taste nor touch nor smell nor see a thing beyond an excruciating ache that covered him whole, penetrated every cell in his body, coursed in every drop of his blood. 

His head was by far the worst — it felt like it was falling apart, reassembling, then falling back apart, over and over. 

And just as suddenly as it was brought on, the agony released him all the same. 

Panting, Garreth struggled to clear his vision, to banish the vacuum in his ears, for long enough to figure out what had happened. He had no perception of where he was, could feel no armour nor wall nor stone floor, nor foreign bodies anywhere around him. He did not know whether he was sitting, lying down, or standing. 

Eventually, the first sensation that came back to him was that of his stomach turning, pushing itself up into his oesophagus; he heaved, but only managed to spit. He felt numb all over. There was some sort of ground underneath him, most of him — so he had collapsed, he was moderately sure now. 

Something murmured, as if drowned underwater, close by. Or maybe not close by, Garreth still couldn’t tell. Frantically, he was trying to recover enough of himself to ascertain where the two Slytherins had gone, if this geniusly stupid maneuver he had just attempted had worked or not. 

Never again, he swore privately. 

The murmur from a moment ago sounded once more — it was definitely close by. Garreth blinked in the general direction, seeing only a blur; he shut his eyes, shook his head. 

It seemed to be someone talking. Well, fuck. Apparently, the potion thing had been a ruse after all. 

He began discerning individual words. 

“Grievances… wizard… bad… poor wizard… another victim… bad grievances… cute, fiery… she got ‘im… been centuries… no escape… grievances, grievances…” 

It wasn’t Sallow, nor his lover. It was an entirely new voice speaking — high-pitched, squeaky… chattering, cheery. 

“Who…?” Garreth managed, to which the answer was something that much sounded like a flutter of wings. 

“Awake, awake!” chittered the high-pitched voice. “Welcome, welcome!” 

“Where…?” Garreth grunted, holding his head and finally managing to sit up — at least, he was pretty sure he did. 

“The fae realm!” was the jabbered response. “Welcome, welcome, Wizard Sleeper, Miajyre’s Keeper! Grievances, oh bad grievances!” 

“The what…?” gasped Garreth. 

Clearly, he was hallucinating. That had been one strong hallucinogenic potion he had drunk, and Sallow and the Hero of Hogwarts bastard were probably by now laughing themselves hoarse, if not calling Moon or someone over to deliver Garreth to his aunt, still delirious and all. Possibly, although probably not, but if he’s lucky, yes… they might find in themselves the mercy to carry him over to Nurse Blainey, who then might just beat him back to his senses with a common stick, out of sheer frustration for seeing him back in her ward so soon after the last time. 

“The fae realm!” repeated Garreth’s imagined interlocutor cheerfully. “The Wizard Sleeper, Miajyre’s Keeper!” 

“What does any of that even mean…?” huffed Garreth, finally opening his eyes, and blinking rapidly against the remnants of his befuddlement. 

The owner of the voice indeed did not look very human, or wizarding. It was a creature, gangly and thin, apparently male, of greenish-blue skin and yellow-pinkish eyes, sporting pointed ears, and a rumpled face which reminded Garreth of a very old bloodhound, or a seriously deformed house-elf. Its hair was long and tied up in a bun high upon its head, jet-black, riddled with clover-grass. It wore nothing but more leaves and flora, which barely covered anything. And, most notably, beyond its torso rose a pair of crystalline, beautifully transparent wings that fractured light into rainbow colours. 

“Good Godric…!” Garreth gasped, astounded, and pulled back slightly from the sight. The creature was about as high as his own shin was long. 

Offhandedly, Garreth also took note that they were both sitting not in Hogwarts castle, or anywhere of the sort, but somewhere in a forest clearing, surrounded by sunbathing birch trees. There was no trace of either of the two Slytherins from earlier, nor of the spring storm that had encompassed them until the moment Garreth had drunk that potion. The air was calm now, warm, and as fresh as Garreth had ever breathed it. 

“Godric Gryffindor won’t help,” said the creature sadly, fluttering its magnificent wings. “Though he hears. He wishes. Oh! Bad grievances! Good Godric!” 

“Uh-huh…” muttered Garreth confusedly. “I must’ve hit my head…” 

“Not too much! The mind is still functionable! Good grievances!” chittered the creature. “Master Wizard asked Miajyre to conceal, so she granted the wish! She already claimed Master Wizard, though she know his name not yet!” 

“Wait, hold on,” Garreth said, raising a hand to further illustrate his request for pause, “First things first. Where are we…? Who, or what, is this… mai-a-joor?” 

“Oh! Oh oh oh!” shuddered the fairy-creature in answer. “Bad grievances, very bad! But Beithe must not speak ill of The Mistress, they mustn’t! She is only bad for Master Wizard Keeper, she is very benevolent to Beithe!” The creature — Beithe, Garreth assumed, was its name — flapped its wings, and started buzzing about Garreth as it spoke. With his still feeling somewhat ill, the frantic movement of his interlocutor made Garreth dizzy, so he quickly settled for only listening, and pressing his fingers to both his temples. 

“Beware the scent, the taste, and the hush; the whisper of its nectar-venom! More potent is she, than any potion of love! More ardent is she, when one denies her power thereof! So guarded is she, by cold-flame, witch-eyes, and shadows of ancient yonder!” recited Beithe, and Garreth immediately rounded on it. 

“What?!” he squeezed out, breathless. 

“The poem, dear Master Wizard Keeper!” pleaded Beithe, fluttering its wings as it backed a little away. “Surely, Cat-sith told you it before they gave you her? It explains everything best!” 

“Gave me her? Cat-sith?” Garreth gasped once more, entirely bewildered. “Wait, the Cat-sith, the King of Cats? The Dark fairy that appears only when one performs that ludicrous cat-killing ritual?” 

The more far-fetched the tale, understandably, the less believable it is, that blue-eyed boy had said. Could he had been—? 

“That ritual is a foul thing!!” cried Beithe, suddenly very upset. “All of fae realm are most disgusted by it! Ignorant, ignorant men!! Cat-sith is always very saddened by it! That is why Cat-sith steals their souls! They deserve it!! Good grievances! The right prices paid!” 

“Alright, alright, I’m sorry,” eased Garreth, raising his hands at the squeaking fairy. “I only heard of it, I’m sorry. Back on track, if you don’t mind?” 

Beithe puffed, but conceded, nodding its head at Garreth, and landing in the soft, lush grass before him. 

“So… Was the boy who gave me this…” Garreth reached into his pocket for the vial of potion, and found it once more clearly shut, its contents reduced by one drop. “…Was he Cat-sith?” 

“Ohh!!” twittered Beithe distractedly, looking at the vial as if it was the most beautiful thing it had ever seen. “The Mistress Miajyre! How beautiful she is!” 

“Pardon?” gaped Garreth. He turned the potion in his hand, perplexed, eyeing it once more, as if he was seeing it for the first time, then the odd little fairy, then the potion again. The dawn of the realisation physically hurt. 

“This is a fairy?” 

“Certainly!” cried Beithe excitedly. “The Mistress’s only essence, the one she gave her true form for! She uses it to enslave her Keeper, but only the worthy resist the burden long enough to survive! Then she evokes, changes hands, changes Keepers! Since her lover was unworthy, all those millenia ago, she is very vexed, very vexed indeed!” 

Garreth recoiled. Quite abruptly, the intimate, seductive, pulsating warmth of the potion in his hand felt soiling, dirty. He swallowed thickly, and dropped the vial, too disturbed to keep it pressed against his bare skin for any longer than necessary. 

He did not want to even think about the fact that he had drunk a drop of it. 

“Can she uh…” he lowered his voice to a whisper, and leant closer to Beithe, only stopping to quickly cover the vial in the grass between them with a hand wrapped in his sleeve, as if to stifle any sound that may reach it. “Can she hear what we’re saying?” 

“Sometimes,” the little ugly fairy answered cheerily, at exactly the same volume as thus far. Garreth sat back again, to spare his ears. “She seems to slumber now, alas! Must be tired! Beithe wanted to express their utmost reverence!” 

“Oh,” Garreth hummed, visibly relieved. “Good,” he murmured. 

“Master Wizard will tell her when she wakes?” asked Beithe in its most sweetly grotesque manner, and Garreth only quickly nodded. 

“Absolutely, consider it done,” he rushed to say. 

“Hear hear! It is a promise!” twittered Beithe happily. 

Garreth couldn’t shake the feeling that he had just done something cumbersome, by agreeing to do anything a fairy had asked him. 

“So then…” he licked his lips, refocusing, and continued. “About Cat-sith…?” 

“Ah, they are finally free!” answered Beithe at once. “For many years, they served Miajyre in place of a human Keeper. Kept her in check, pushed their magic against hers, endured her curses and her slurs! So guarded is she, by cold-flame, witch-eyes, and shadows of ancient yonder. Cat-sith succumbed to her charms, long ago, then bitterly regretted it, for a long long time! They must be tired, poor, bad grievances! They finally gave her up, gave up their mission, saved themself, burdened someone else! Those who succumb, those cursed to roam Silence’s lonesome march, may hope to find comfort in passing on the torch!” 

Garreth took a few to process this. Truthfully, he was quite lost between feeling sympathetic for Cat-sith’s plight, feeling mortified for looking down on him the entire time, and cussing out the blue-eyed brat with everything he’d got for picking himself specifically to ‘pass on the torch’ to. 

“Why me?” he groaned, and Beithe chirruped with delight as it sought to answer this question as well. 

“Master Wizard believed Cat-sith!” the little fairy beamed, fluttering its wings. “Unconditionally! No one would trust a tale as harebrained as this one! It is Miajyre’s curse! Tell all you like, speak all you care, across all time, no one will consider your truth, no one will dare!” 

“The bitc—!” Garreth hissed, but bit his tongue before he finished the slur, lest Miajyre’s essence had rested enough and could now hear him again. “That is just cruel!” he corrected. 

“Such is her covenant,” shrugged Beithe easily. Too easily for Garreth’s taste, at least concerning this matter specifically. “Agreements and pacts are sacred to faefolk, dear Master Wizard Keeper. One must be clever about it, one must have their wits about them, if they want good outcomes, good grievances!” 

Shit. Garreth had definitely made a mistake in promising anything to either Beithe or Cat-sith. Thanks to the former, he was likely stuck with the vial at least until he communicated Beithe’s message to Miajyre, and thanks to the latter, he had found himself in this mess to begin with. 

But at the very least… 

“So then!” chirruped Beithe, and Garreth felt something shift in the air between them; the lulling breeze coming off the birch trees started subtly nibbling at his skin, like a cat that switched from a purr to a bite. 

“May the honourable Master Wizard Keeper grace the humble Beithe with his name?” the creature asked, bowing, its wings folding beautifully on its back. 

There it was. Garreth’s key out of this entire conundrum — perhaps his only one. The only thing he still held control over and ownership of, in this entire impossible tale. 

“No, the honourable Master Wizard Keeper may not,” sneered Garreth simply, leaning back on his arms in the grass, as if bored, and tossing his fringe out of his eyes. Briefly, his gaze flickered to the vial lying between himself and the lesser fairy, and for the first time, Garreth hoped she was listening. “Beithe is too humble,” he clarified, with gravitas. 

“Ohh, Beithe is unworthy!!” yowled the creature, bowing lower still — its little bun of hair now brushed the ground. “Beithe revealed their own name, answered every question, but is too poor to be in equal measure compensated! Bad grievances! Woe, woe!” 

Garreth felt a little sorry; but even so, he bit his lip, and kept mum about his name. 

“You revealed all that on your own,” he told the little fairy, who seemed to subtly shudder at the quip-back. “I just asked, but you had no real obligation to answer me. The information you supplied was not part of any covenant, so I owe you no pay for it. Bad grievances,” explained Garreth patiently, adding the tidbit at the end in place of an apology. Somehow, he had the feeling that this particular phrase might mean more to the creature than any man-made words he may offer. 

“Indeed, bad grievances, bad!!” howled Beithe and, much to Garreth’s horror, slapped itself hard with both palms on both cheeks simultaneously — the sound echoed through the clearing, and seemingly, in Garreth’s own bones also. 

“Then, let us make a covenant, good Wizard Keeper!” pleaded Beithe, offering both of its hands to Garreth now, who promptly shuffled a foot out of reach at the jerky movements of the fairy. 

“Pardon?” he croaked. 

“Ask of me a favour, good Wizard Keeper!” insisted the little fairy, lifting off its seat. “Anything! And Beithe asks the Keeper’s name in return! Ohhh, shall Beithe kill his enemies? Punish them for all the harm they do to good Wizard Keeper? Just say the word, and Beithe will find them, Beithe will curse them, Beithe will whack them on the head! Beithe will slay them, Beithe will poison them, Beithe will render them useless, tear them asunder—” 

“Wait, wait wait wait!” Garreth raised both hands, catching the feral fairy midair amid its zealous soliloquy, and pushing it back down onto the ground. With an off-handed ‘ugh’, Garreth removed his hands from the creature’s bony, slimy shoulders, and wiped them on the grass, refocusing swiftly. 

“What enemies? I don’t recall being in a war or anything like that—” he began with a nervous chuckle, then paused as the thought found him. 

“There is one young man the Wizard Keeper hates,” chirped Beithe knowingly. “One young man whose demise would be coveted, would benefit!” 

Garreth swallowed thickly, thoughts racing. Sure, there was enmity with Sallow and his clique, and there was the List Of Reasons Why To Loathe Sebastian Sallow, LORWTLSS for short, but killing? Maiming? Rending asunder? That was a little much, wouldn’t he say? 

“No, no need,” Garreth hurried to respond. “I can— I can handle them myself.” 

“Can he indeed?” Beithe chirruped, and it was the first time Garreth had found the overgrown pixie truly and undoubtedly annoying. 

“Yes, yes he can,” he said, significantly more firmly. “Speaking of, where are Sal—” names!, Garreth caught himself, and amended: “...the two others who were with me when I drank the potion?” 

“They are back in Hogwarts castle, sir,” fluttered Beithe in answer, as readily given as the rest of them had been. If he had been feeling any less dread, Garreth would have found the creature’s innate inability to remember to withhold information hilarious. “Perfectly safe! The Mistress only scooped up her Keeper, that was all she managed! She did as he wished, performed the favour he asked for, concealed!” 

Garreth felt a cold shiver roll down his spine, not unlike a strike of thunder. 

“Wait, hold on,” he breathed thickly, eyes darting to the small vial still laying harmlessly in the grass. “Do I owe Miajyre anything?” 

“Oh, yes,” twittered Beithe gravely. “For one favour and one drop of her essence, she will want, no doubt, her Keeper’s name and body.” 

“Body?” Garreth repeated, trying hard to suppress the wave of gooseflesh that threatened to overcome him. He chortled. “As in, hard physical labour?” 

Beithe — the little bugger — actually laughed. Cackled, in that twitchy, pitchy voice it had. 

“Master Wizard Keeper has humour abound!” it chittered, but Garreth felt like it would be at least a month before he could laugh freely again, following the delivery of that information. 

Think, Garreth urged himself desperately. Think! Get that brilliant brain of yours into gear and yourself out of here, on your own! No more fae help! 

But how could he? What could he do alone, against these ancient beings? His only asset was his name, which the fae did not yet know, despite being privy to other knowledge about him. Garreth highly doubted that fighting his way out of this with his wand and brute force would somehow benefit him, at least right now, even if his only perceived opponent looked terribly winnable-against. 

And then, there was his intellect that he may hope to rely on, coupled with his profound ability to bullshit his way out of problems — and after that, not much was left. 

So. Better than nothing at all. Here goes. 

“Ah!” Garreth exhaled loudly and suddenly, making Beithe jump up with a surprised whimper, wings flapping. “But that’s an unfair price, isn’t it?! A whole body for one drop, and there is still more essence left!” 

Think! Garreth pushed himself. His mind was reeling so hard, he felt himself physically flush. The creature mentioned fair and unfair prices. Let’s bet on that! Think!! 

For a split second, Beithe looked like it was about to take on this complaint of Garreth’s as well — it fluttered its wings, opened its disproportionally large mouth, but nothing came out before it abruptly shut it back up, its elongated, sharp teeth clicking loudly at the motion. 

Then, Garreth felt a foreign warmth wrap around his chest, his gut, the back of his neck and his spine, and shivered with panic. 

How amusing, murmured a non-whisper somewhere inside him, that you should question my covenant. 

“How nice,” returned Garreth, faking the composure he did not feel in the least, “that you should finally join us properly, Miajyre.” 

Beithe bowed low — prostrated, is a better word for it — directly to Garreth. Garreth ignored the lesser fairy entirely, watching instead the bottle of Miajyre’s essence where it vanished before his very eyes; he could feel its subtle weight reappear within the pocket he had been keeping it in thus far. 

So that was how that worked. 

“Had a good nap?” he asked casually. 

Miajyre seemed to giggle — a most disturbing sensation. 

What complaint have you with what I offer you, continued her vibrating non-voice from within Garreth. He couldn’t help but notice that she was, unlike the fae he had met so far, a very no-nonsense, on-point type of conversationalist. 

Have you not felt for yourself the might that I can bestow upon you? Have you not become one with the living world, with breathing nature, for a moment that dragged on as if it were a hundred and odd years? All that, before you drank me, before you smelt me. And have I not taken you out of Hogwarts castle’s very own wards, concealed you, as you wished, as you needed me to, for a limited time? Hogwarts fought for you, but my will prevailed, for I am more ancient, I am more primal, I sit closer to the source of the universe, I was built by wind and soil and ocean-brine, not by human hand! 

So? What more prevents you? Give all of yourself to me, and I shall bestow that might, that clairvoyance, that protection, and more!, upon you constantly, make you powerful and rich and satisfied, beyond your wildest dreams, she coaxed sweetly. 

“Wow,” said Garreth, genuinely a little impressed, and letting it show. “Sounds brilliant, Just brilliant. Yes.” He nodded sagely, and made a small show of feeling conflicted. “Problem is, sweetheart, you have a really, really bad reputation.” 

Trifling, scoffed Miajyre disdainfully, though Garreth could tell that it bothered her greatly. Each success brings with it hatred of the lesser. 

“How right you are!” exclaimed Garreth, and clapped his hands excitedly. 

We have that in common, purred the sorceress-fae, and Garreth had to suppress a laugh of success. 

“Or do we?” he returned cheerfully, leaning conversationally on his knees where he sat in the grass, and twirled a finger in one of his fiery locks. Across from him, Beithe whimpered meekly, as if in warning, but said or moved no more than that. 

“You see, the people who talk ill of me are liars, plain and simple,” continued Garreth. “But last I checked, the fae, who talk ill of you, compose whole poems about your wickedness, are unable to lie. Why else would you curse them, after all, for their truths to fall upon deaf ears forever?” 

Garreth felt a rumble of ire spread across the so-far pleasurable warmth of Miajyre’s hold. The whole matter was absolutely vile. 

He pressed on, lest he got the urge to throw up. 

“But even forgetting that for a moment,” he said, feeling Miajyre’s interest spark back up in his own chest, “I have no need of any of the things you’ve so generously offered.” 

No need? she quarried. Need has nothing to do with it. It only matters if you covet it, if you desire it, now that you know that you may have it. 

“Oh no, I don’t covet nor desire it either,” shrugged Garreth simply. “So, you see, I’d like to trade down.” 

A quiver of confusion, mixed with something Garreth could best describe as an insulted growl, passed through him. Beithe could be heard whimpering again, faintly. 

“Don’t be so miffed,” Garreth cooed now. “One drop, and you still have so much essence left. And I think I’m right to assume that I couldn’t be rid of it, even if I threw it into the Great Lake, or buried it under an oak. So, why not trade me one single drop for, instead of all of me, say… one single kiss? That sounds more fair, doesn’t it?” 

Garreth prayed fervently, to whichever deity or spirit or whatever was able to help and listening, that she took the bait. Mutely, he begged the heavens and the earth and everything with power residing in them both that this ancient monster wouldn’t realise that she did not possess lips to kiss with until she became a fish out of water, figuratively speaking; until it was entirely too late for her to turn back, and realise that she had agreed to an impossible payment. 

Utter silence fell upon him. He had absolutely no way of telling whether that was a good or a horrible, dreadful prospect. 

“By the way, before I forget,” Garreth added with more fake casualness, hoping to talk her out of any serious focus, “This one here expresses his utter reverence of you, or something along those lines,” he said, pointing to Beithe, its ugly snout still pressed into the grass as if it were asleep in one of the most uncomfortable poses for rest Garreth could imagine. 

This should take care of his promise to the lesser fairy, at the very least. ‘Tell her when she wakes,’ was it? One less problem to worry about. 

Miajyre laughed — or at least seemed to. It was an odd thing, as everything regarding her seemed to be; her laughter felt like an army of tiny insects was rushing through Garreth’s arteries, up and down, repeatedly. 

You are silly, she crooned, as if she liked him. Garreth was torn between revulsion and elation at that. 

“Besides, love,” he continued smoothly, albeit privately with some effort, now, “drinking that one drop really, really hurt. Frankly, it’s not worth my everything, what with that fatal little drawback.” 

It only hurts the first time, I assure you, purred the sorceress-fae, and this time Garreth could not keep a shudder contained. 

“Fae don’t lie, do they?” he squeezed out, trying to distract her. 

No, she accepted readily. Never. 

She seemed to sigh. Very well. I shall, as you say, ‘trade down’, and accept that for the first drop of my essence, I am owed one kiss from my Keeper. 

“Brilliant! Thank you,” exhaled Garreth, genuinely relieved. 

But you will want more, Miajyre hummed. Sooner or later. We still have time together. You are young, and strong, and pliable. 

“Oh yeah?” quarried Garreth dumbly. 

I shall bide my time, study you, and in the end, make you an offer you shall not be able to resist, cooed Miajyre softly, before her warmth retracted entirely from Garreth’s person. 

“Negotiations concluded, I take it,” said Garreth into the ether. He received no reply. 

He held his breath for a beat longer, not unlike a prey animal on a lookout for predators, before allowing himself a heavy, plosive sigh of relief, and a few slow moments of calm silence. 

“So, Beithe,” he called after a short while, his voice just a smidgen shaky; the little fairy raised itself at the summons like Garreth was its sole owner. 

Garreth winced; he spoke his next, and hopefully last, question very politely: 

“Do you mind telling me how I could get back? To Hogwarts, I mean.” 

Am I even going to go back at all? Garreth suppressed the thought. 

“Soon,” chirped the fairy meekly. “The Mistress will take her Keeper back. He was only concealed here, temporary here.” 

“Ah,” nodded Garreth in understanding, and no small amount of genuine gratitude. “Thank you.” 

“Yes, sir,” yelped Beithe quietly, and so ended their little conversation, neither here nor there in terms of pleasantness. 

Garreth looked up into the birch trees, already delightfully green, where they peacefully swayed in the light breeze. He felt the wind play with his hair, and took deep breaths. He didn’t quite know if he was actively waiting, or simply relaxing. Time and atmosphere felt skewed, shifted, compared to home. In the end, before he knew to notice, all his senses slowly numbed and faded once more. 

Mercifully, just as Miajyre had promised, the excruciating pain that had accompanied him to the fae realm the first time had not returned again. 

*

Garreth awoke jumbled in a heap of parts of two sets of armour, entirely torn asunder. He blinked confusedly at the torch-lit ceiling, and groaned under the weight of all that bronze and heavy leather. He felt the old, rusty war equipment press upon him, his stomach, his chest, his throat, his muscles… push his spine, his sweated back, down onto the cold stone floor… Then, there gradually came the sound of distant rain, still pitter-pattering against the open alcoves… 

In the next instant, Garreth jerked entirely awake, and was on his feet, throwing the clamouring armour pieces in every direction amid a cacophony of wasted, inelegant movement, and drawing his wand in a panic. 

Sallow and his lover were not around, not that Garreth could see. Nobody was. But more than that, everything that he could see, all of it was… different. 

If the vial of Miajyre’s essence had looked ephemeral and alluring compared to the world he had known before the fateful encounter, now it seemed that everything else had gained that same glow. Light appeared more vibrant, shadows more profound; all of it, literally everything, was tastefully coloured with subtle strokes of moving smudges, decorated with a myriad of half-live, half-reflective-half-luminicent little accents; Garreth had only seen something remotely similar on the occasions when he’d pressed his eyeballs though closed eyelids hard enough to stir his vision, or that one time he had eaten a handful of dubiously sourced mushrooms. 

Sound was enhanced, more nuanced, too. By straining slightly, in order to suppress the crackle of the torches and the tapping of the rain, Garreth was able to hear the distant hum of voices in the Great Hall, the clacking of cutlery moving against china, the fall of footsteps, through the walls. He picked up on an almost indiscernible rustle in the corner by a lone stone statue nearby, twitched and turned, then saw a spider crawl lazily out of view. 

“Good Godric,” he exhaled an exhausted breath, and fell against the nearest wall, sliding down it until his bottom hit the ground, disturbing a thin layer of dust in its wake. 

“Am I really back home?” he muttered weakly to no one in particular, then balled up with his forehead on his knees, and heaved another long, heavy sigh. 

He began to shake, and once the tremors seized him, he could not stop them. The chattering of his teeth in his skull was deafening. At some point, he caught himself sniffling. 

He sat there a long while, calming down. Turning over the day’s events carefully in his mind, scene by scene, thinking, and then not thinking at all, only feeling. 

He had not made it to detention. Couldn’t fathom what it even would have been. He had not seen his good aunt at all today. He had not harvested that glumbumble trickle, nor picked the honking daffodils. He hadn’t brewed, privately, at all today. Nobody had yet said ‘no, thank you’ to him — he counted those, daily; jotted them down in his diary, sometimes, when the numbers or the people speaking were interesting. He had not yet had anything to eat, not since lunch. But, he wasn’t feeling hungry. He didn’t know what he was feeling, really. What he could vaguely identify was mostly all miserable, so he turned to empty observation of a small portion of his surroundings, and then careful, rational thinking again. 

Cyclically, languidly, Garreth figuratively ran around within this think-dash-don’t-feel-dash-don’t-listen-dash-observe-the-floor-stupidly little magic circle in his mind, sitting there against the wall. Getting entirely consumed. 

Decaying. 

By the time he had found the motivation to look back up further than the lowermost row of bricks in the wall opposite, it had become treacherously cold. Without any strength to speak of, Garreth blew a cloud of his own breath in front of himself, and watched it disappear in a swirl of vibrant, dancing, fleeting wonder. 

‘I wonder.’ ‘I am a bit of wonderer myself.’ Magic. All awe. Dancing dragon. All wonder. 

The sound of running footfall in a corridor nearby yanked Garreth out of his reverie. It came unmuffled and abrupt, as if sprung from an ambush. Garreth jumped to his feet, waddled, and as he caught himself, he came face to face with the Hero of Hogwarts. 

The Slytherin’s short, neatly combed hair was gently blown back in the wind. His handsome face was sleek with sweat, glowing amid the dim torch-light. His mouth was open; his hot breath left him in puffs, crystallizing into artistic mist around him. His eyes were two glorious gems of forest-green meadows and orange sun-freckles, brimming with life and purpose — he was the most beautiful human being Garreth had ever seen. 

Garreth felt himself blush madly, and staggered back in shame. 

The Hero of Hogwarts’ wondrous gaze flickered over to Garreth’s wand, held loosely in his hand, and he swiftly and expertly drew his own, twirling it on his long, pale fingers. 

“Weasley,” he drawled, and merciful Godric!, it sounded like sin. “Haven’t seen you all day. What’ve you been up to, hmm?” 

Garreth blinked at him. Something ominous was shifting in the ether on his shoulders, around his head — a visible vibration that did not leave Garreth feeling comfortable at all. 

“Oh you know,” he started clumsily, sounding somehow foreign to his own ears. “The usual.” 

He glanced at the suits of armour then — they had at some point during his little dissociation session reassembled, he observed quickly. He had successfully suppressed the clatter. 

“Avoiding responsibilities, are we,” smirked the Slytherin, and took a step forward. Garreth looked back at him, and took one step back to match him in a sort of twisted dance, squeezing his wand tighter in his sweaty palm. The vibration grew around the other’s head, and Garreth could now hear faint, high-pitched whistling, not unlike that of a boiling kettle. 

“And consequently, not taking responsibility for your failures while you’re at it. Aren’t you, Weasley? Aren’t I right?” 

“I thought you were with Sallow?” tried Garreth, without thinking. 

Something snapped in the air. It was apparently the wrong thing to say — for no amount of fairy-sight could beautify the savage expression that contorted the features of the Hero of Hogwarts in the moment Sallow’s name had fallen out of Garreth’s mouth. 

“Well well,” crooned the Slytherin viciously. The ether around him rippled as if his body were heated stone on a hot summer’s day. “Little Gryffindor rat, still up to his tricks. Sneaking around. Spying.” He stopped twirling his wand abruptly, and snapped it into a duelling position in his hand. “Stealing.” 

“Honeydukes was a mistake, and I apologised—” inhaled Garreth somehow, very distracted, but a crackle in the Slytherin’s wand’s wood told him to duck to the side. He did so, and a red flash brushed past his left cheek. 

Garreth gaped at his classmate, disbelieving. 

“Honeydukes cost me, cost Slytherin, the House Cup last year,” growled the Hero of Hogwarts. 

As if that was any valid explanation for assaulting a fellow student in the middle of the school! 

“I didn’t get you caught,” breathed Garreth defiantly. Where he had got the courage from, he could not tell himself. “I only asked you a favour, and it was a dumb one. But the rest was all you.” 

Another crackle, another dodged flash of red magic. The way it hit the wall and thundered made Garreth want to clog his ears with beeswax. 

He could do this. He couldn’t do this. He wasn’t sure — there was too much information at once. 

So, he did what he did best — talked bullshit to distract himself from some of it, from the excess. 

“And since getting caught was all you, so was the loss of fifty of your precious Slytherin points, and your damaged integrity when the Aurors came poking around Sallow!” he sneered, and earned himself a stronger hex from his now-opponent, happily also evaded. 

“And if I remember correctly, Sallow almost getting arrested lost you even more points!” Garreth spat additionally, just for spite. “So really, I count very little in that equation, don’t I!” 

A year, and an entire second term of last year on top of it, of pent-up frustration — that was his fuel, that’s what it had been. 

“Shut your filthy, lying, thieving mouth!!” roared the Hero of Hogwarts. “Thanks to your ratty little privilege, you and your clan of Weasley rodents always come up unscathed!” He aimed a Confringo at Garreth, and managed to make the lone statue in the corner burst briefly into flames, before they fizzled out again on the stone, leaving charred burnmarks in their wake. Garreth could swear he heard the stone cry. 

“Isn’t it sooooo nice, to have your precious aunt, seated conveniently in a very high position, cover for all and any of your mishaps! Must be so liberating!” 

Garreth laboured to dodge an Arresto Momentum, firing back with a series of basic casts; they ricocheted off his opponent’s Protego shield like headless flies. 

“Take a hit!” snarled the Slytherin, and sent a Slicing Hex Garreth’s way — Garreth blocked, barely, and felt his entire body shudder. 

“Are you aiming to maim?” he gasped, before blocking a powerful Glacius. 

“Once in your life, Weasley,” spat the other, “just once. Be a good boy and take it head-on.” 

“Is that an innuendo, loverboy?” teased Garreth brattily, and for the next five whole seconds, he was not able to open his mouth again, for the shower of hexes coming relentlessly down on him. 

“I should have known,” panted the Slytherin once he was forced to take a breath. “Seb was right. I should have let him drag your arse out of those suits of armour, and hammer you to the fucking wall!!” 

“Maybe you shouldn’t’ve snogged poor Princess Sallow so loudly in the middle of the bloody hallway to begin with, how about that!” Garreth yelled back, casting a Levioso. 

The bastard dodged. 

“WHAT DO YOU KNOW ABOUT HIM?!” he roared, showering Garreth with basic hexes. “WHAT COULD YOU POSSIBLY KNOW ABOUT HIM, YOU PRIVILEGED LITTLE GINGER PUFFSKEIN!!” 

“Rude!” gasped Garreth, right before he was forced to throw himself out of the way of some force spell that looked suspiciously like a Descendo. Had it hit, had he been lifted and then thrown violently back against the floor, his spine might've broken. 

“You’re insane!!” bellowed Garreth, erecting a haphazard shield, and once his eyes were back on his opponent, for a second it felt like time slowed for him to take a good look. 

The rippling and vibrating that had danced about the Hero of Hogwarts now formed something like a semi-alive cloak around his person; and the only descriptor for it Garreth could muster was ‘vile’. 

It was a flurry of rotted red, stormy grey, and coal black, and moved like melting, jellified flesh, though it was not material; it covered the Hero of Hogwarts all the way to well under his knees, uneven, coating his duelling arm and the crown of his head most thickly. At his head, it formed some sort of deformed helmet that looked like a shrieking human skull. And the wails that broke from it… they pierced the ears, covered one in gooseflesh, and made their eyes prickle with tears. 

“What the hell…” breathed Garreth, but sitting there and gaping had been the wrong thing to do. 

The Hero of Hogwarts raised his wand to the ceiling. A flash of pure magic resembling lightning crashed against Garreth’s shield, blasting it to quick-fading smithereens. The force of the impact lunged Garreth’s head face-first into the cold floor, breaking his nose against the hard stone. Blood gushed into his throat, his lungs, and he began violently coughing, fighting for breath. 

The Hero of Hogwarts growled: 

“Crucio—!” 

Garreth, entirely disbelieving, barely coherent, shut his eyes— 

And then nothing. 

For a second, for two. On the count of four or five, there was a light thud, and Garreth slowly looked up, still breathing heavily, caked in dust and debris, and tasting iron. 

The Hero of Hogwarts lay motionless on the floor, right across from him. Almost nothing of the grotesque spirit-cloak that had draped him remained, save for a few patches that were now burning away steadily amid concentrated bluebell flames, right there on top of his body. His pale skin was criss-crossed with glistening patterns of frost, glimmering silver in the firelight of two types of flames, one cool one warm. 

And beyond him, on the open alcove window, against the backdrop of darkness and cold spring rain, sat a humanoid creature Garreth knew to recognise at once, even in his changed form. 

His face had matured slightly, but those flamboyant blue eyes were still unmistakable. The fae’s wiry, onyx-black hair now fell to his shoulders, guiding the eye to gaze upon the same old white shirt from before, only now unbuttoned by five buttons, and teasing the view of a female chest that was marred by a huge, cross-like scar. Their slender fingers ended in long, sharp-looking nails, and their ears were, where they softly protruded amid that flurry of night-hued locks, unmistakably pointed. 

“Cat-sith,” sighed Garreth, with an emotion that frankly completely escaped him — whether it was relief, wonder, fear, he had no idea. 

“You call my name,” hissed Cat-sith in the same boyish, gently vibrating voice from before, very clearly offended, “as if you have any right to know it.” 

“Haven’t I?” Garreth blinked at him, her now, and began wiping his bloodied nose on his sleeve. “Apologies. I was told it by that ugly servant of Mia—” 

“DON’T!” Cat-sith interrupted in a reverberating, sibillating tone that sent shivers down Garreth’s spine. He halted everything, even his breathing. 

“Do not call her name,” Cat-sith whispered ominously, flashing two sets of pristine white, elongated fangs. 

“Sorry,” said Garreth in a swift whisper. “Is she listening? Can you tell?” 

Cat-sith did that thing where he— she!, vanished from where she was, and reappeared very close in Garreth’s face, her hair swaying in the breeze she’d created by moving. 

He… she, smelled like autumn air, rain and mist and starry calm. And something vaguely sugary. 

Like Hallowe’en, Garreth reflected very briefly. 

“We have got to stop meeting like this,” he continued conspiratorially, still whispering, just as Cat-sith wiped, without any preamble, some new blood off his face with a dainty, pale middle finger. 

Looking at him— her, now, from so close a distance, Garreth could perceive teal-hued veins gently shimmering from underneath the cat-fae’s translucent skin, marking her all over in curious, playful, subtle patterns. It was like beholding tattoos spun with light which had been threaded through a single mending needle, and then etched into the skin as if it were a silken canvas. Garreth additionally laboured to keep his eyes off the giant scar between Cat-sith’s moderate breasts; the open shirt was not helping preserve any modicum of decency much, but whether that was Garreth’s fault or Cat-sith’s own… he’d leave that up to later debate. 

Cat-sith brought her middle finger to her mouth, licked it, then grimaced like it had been Garreth’s piss and not his blood she’d tasted. 

Garreth watched her do it through narrowed eyes. 

“Your wisdom, oh great fae,” he murmured dejectedly. 

“It’s fine,” Cat-sith responded, sputtering, but still talking in that quiet, subdued way of theirs. “Tastes like iron.” 

Garreth blinked confusedly, then sighed. “You know, you should work on getting your point across,” he advised sagely. 

Cat-sith gave him that sour look he now felt he knew so well. “Your blood. If it tastes like iron, there is no fae influence there.” 

“Oh,” said Garreth, finally understanding. 

Famously, in the mythology they’d been taught in DADA class, fae heavily disliked iron — he’d forgotten. Hecat would probably skin him for it, and for his shit duelling tonight. 

Cat-sith jerked their chin toward the Hero of Hogwarts, still lying motionless and burning several paces away. 

“You should thank him,” he— she, said, and Garreth was just inhaling to argue that logic, when Cat-sith added: “Had he not made you bleed, that drop would have still been in your system when the bitch next awoke.” 

“Ah,” Garreth deflated. “Point taken. I shall write him a card.” 

The joke didn’t seem to land with Cat-sith. Maybe he— she, was illiterate. 

“So,” said Garreth conversationally, “Is he even still alive enough to receive my thanks?” 

Cat-sith scrunched up his— her nose at him. 

“I don’t kill humans,” she quipped. “It’s in bad taste.” 

“What did you do to him then?” asked Garreth, stretching across the floor to poke at the unconscious Hero of Hogwarts with the very tip of his wand, like a small boy would an anthill with a stick. 

“He is a murderer,” said Cat-sith with some distaste, as if discussing their dislike of tepid tea. Garreth withdrew promptly, eyes very wide and back on her. “What you saw with your borrowed fae-sight was the consequence of that. I’m burning it now.” 

Indeed, the bluebell flames which only seemed to encompass the charred remains of that grotesque cloak were almost done with their task. They began to look, to Garreth’s weakening new eyes, faintly transparent. 

“And the uh… frost?” he asked with a note of alarm in his voice, gesturing politely at the Hero of Hogwarts’ very pallid, very glittery complexion. 

“I’ve frozen his soul,” said Cat-sith calmly. 

“Oh have you?!” squeaked Garreth. “And how’s that working out?!” 

“He’ll wake soon enough,” Cat-sith practically shrugged, then rounded on Garreth with zero warning. “More importantly, you are a true and honest idiot, Potioneer!” 

“You’ll have to specify in regards to what, today,” Garreth retorted bitterly, leaning slightly away and raising his hands in defence. 

“I had warned you about that essence,” hissed Cat-sith. 

“You gave me it!” retorted Garreth, still whispering. 

“You’re a fool for believing me!” was the counter-argument. 

“You asked me to!” Garreth raised his tone in the whisper. 

“I was cursed against that succeeding!” 

“Then why did you attempt it in the first place?!” 

No answer. Only an angry, conflicted, flaming set of piercing blue eyes, and a quiet echo of slightly laboured breathing. 

“Button up,” murmured Garreth. 

“What?” 

“Nothing,” he backtracked promptly, raised his face to the ceiling, and carefully pressed on the bridge of his still-clogged, still-broken nose. It hurt like hell. 

Next thing he knew, he felt an ice-cold, but impossibly strong hand yank his head back down by the jaw. 

“You’ll suffocate like that,” whispered Cat-sith emotionlessly. 

Before Garreth could blink, she brushed two fingers of her free hand over his nose. The bone snapped into place with gusto, and a sharp flash of an ache to match. Garreth grunted loudly, tearing up. 

Cat-sith didn’t remove her hand from his jaw, yet. Not for a beat, not for two, not for three. 

Not for five. Not for seven. Not for eleven. 

“You’ll freeze my cheeks off,” Garreth articulated slowly, the flesh within his mouth being in the way of his teeth as that claw-like hand had pressed it inward. 

Cat-sith released him, still expressionless. Garreth stared directly at her face, into her eyes. 

Had the borrowed fae-sight dissolved yet? Because he felt like everyone he had gazed upon since he had drunk that damned essence, with the exceptions of Beithe the Chittering Overgrown Pixie and Madam Formless, was the most beautiful person he had ever seen in his life. 

It was truly a curse. No wonder these creatures were constantly looking to drag someone to bed with them, if the world looked like this to them all the time. 

Garreth cleared his throat, feeling his body warm slightly. Close by, Cat-sith’s flames finally extinguished, submerging the corridor in which they’d been sitting into a bit of a deeper, warmer, quieter half-darkness. 

“Wasn’t the ‘sith’ in ‘Cat-sith’ meant to mean ‘King’, by the way?” asked Garreth suddenly. He avoided the cat-fae’s direct gaze, feeling his cheeks distinctly colour in the absence of her chill. “Or what, does the ‘sith’ in ‘Cat-sith’ actually stand for ‘she’, true to pronunciation?” 

This might have been terribly rude of him. Especially the half-joke at the end. But, he felt like if he didn’t ask, he was going to burst from some sort of gnawing, insufferable frustration. 

Cat-sith seemed significantly less offended by this inquiry than by the fact that Garreth had found out their true name. 

“I am the King of Cats,” responded Cat-sith evenly; almost boredly. “It is the title I hold. It has nothing to do with sex, unlike the titles of humans in their realms. However, if you do ask about sex, know that I am both male and female, and I am neither.” 

“That… explains a lot, I guess,” sighed Garreth resolvedly, colouring some more, and feeling thankful for the night. He raised one hand, and covered his eyes with it, rubbing in a feeble attempt at self-regulation. 

“I have many forms,” supplied Cat-sith on their own. “Male, and female, and neither. This one, and the youth you know, are but some of them.” 

“Hrm,” Garreth hummed noncommittally, feeling thoroughly embarrassed by this flow of conversation he very well was aware he had started, and was not as easily authorised to halt. 

But then, something occurred to him. Something Beithe had said, about that bitch-fae. 

He removed his hand and looked back at Cat-sith, expeditiously animated. 

“And your true form? Do you have one?” 

Cat-sith’s vibrant eyes bore calmly into his own — into his soul, actually, or at least so it felt like to Garreth. Then, slowly, for the first time since the two had met, she smiled. 

It was… yes, fuck it, the most beautiful thing Garreth had ever, ever seen, fae-sight or not. 

The stretch of that thin mouth revealed Cat-sith’s pretty teeth. The creases of joy in the corners of her eyes promised laughter and elation, wind in one’s hair, and pure, unadulterated freedom. Her starry-night locks bristled as if raised by a fresh breeze of merriment around her round face; and that breeze reached Garreth somehow, inexplicably, unexplainably. It brushed his own locks of fire-hue out of his grass-green eyes, and whispered mutely of child-like euphoria, and high roars of playful hunt. 

He wasn’t breathing. Couldn’t, quite. 

“I have a feeling you will know it by sunrise tomorrow,” Cat-sith purred in answer to Garreth’s question, which he had almost forgotten by the time she had spoken. The gentle rumble she’d produced behind her voice climbed his spine with mischievous, tickling pitter-patter. 

“Brilliant,” he sighed. 

His ease, this eternal-and-yet-fleeting moment of unsullied peace that had descended upon himself and the cat-fae, was fated not to last — for better or worse. What sweetness the night held for Garreth seemed to end there, in that moment, and remain obscured until dawn broke, as the pair delved into deep-night, and talk of strategy. 

“You promised her a kiss?!” Cat-sith hissy-spat at Garreth. 

They were now in the form of a small, long-haired black cat, with a single cross-like white patch decorating their fluffy chest. When they’d transformed and Garreth had called them cute, they had almost clawed his eyes out. 

But, noted Garreth somewhat vindictively, they had not transformed again. 

“It seemed smart at the time,” he groaned meekly in response to Cat-sith’s current chastising. 

The pair had snuck over to the kitchens to plead with the house-elves for some food and pumpkin juice, leaving the Hero of Hogwarts asleep on the freezing stone floor by the bronze suits of armour, to be discovered by anyone unlucky enough on their way back from dinner. When Garreth had passed the sets of armour last, one of them had pressed a rusty, heavy gauntlet down on his shoulder, and mutely squeezed. Garreth had taken it as an expression of empathy and support, and had almost teared up with manly emotion. 

The kitchens were still full of activity, despite midnight approaching. Hearths were roaring with fire and flame, sweet and savory smells of all kinds filled the air, and the house-elves chitter-chattered amongst themselves, some more sober than others. They squelched with their bare feet on grapes and near-wine and cut and thudded with their knives on the wooden cutting boards, as they rushed about preparing the next day’s breakfast and lunch, and some dining themselves. It was the first time in his life Garreth had envied them their mundane day-to-day. 

“You do not promise a fae something you cannot fulfill!” Cat-sith went on. 

“You still have some milk on your whiskers,” noticed Garreth over the rim of his goblet, but the half-arsed attempt at a distraction did him no good. 

“Normally you would look to make the fae promise something they cannot fulfill!” 

“That had been the design,” gurgled Garreth through his pumpkin juice. The meal he had been fed made most of his energy descend into his digestive tract, and he was at present feeling mighty drowsy. 

Pop. A silver tray with a smoking hot pot of coffee and a single cup sprung into existence next to him, on top of the fraying hearth rug. Garreth raised his goblet in appreciation towards the general direction of the hard-working elves. 

“Concentrate!” spittered Cat-sith. 

“I can’t,” moaned Garreth as the coffee poured itself for him. He had to admit, the aroma was tantalising. He took the cup, switching it with the pumpkin juice. 

In his other hand, his left, he twirled a quill over a piece of parchment, all likewise graciously borrowed from the kitchen elves. And on the parchment, he had written out the now very relevant poem. 

“Fine,” grumbled the black cat across from him, on the other end of the parchment, and licked its left shoulder exactly four times. Garreth counted. “If you want to be enslaved to an ancient sorceress-fae until you die, be my guest. I couldn’t recommend it.” 

Looking for something to prevent him from asking ‘Why do you, oh great, legendary Cat-sith, care so much about what happens to me?’, Garreth sipped his coffee and pretended to read. Slowly, his eyes found their way to the white fluff on Cat-sith’s chest. 

He knew that, when they assumed a human form, that patch of blank-hued hair became a scar. 

“Did she do that to you?” he asked low, pensive. 

Cat-sith’s ears twitched as they looked at him, and Garreth saw their pupils dilate when they understood the question. 

“No,” they said simply. “This wound is so old, I no longer remember how I got it.” 

“Mm,” nodded Garreth, dissatisfied, and unsure why it was so. He sipped, and read, and then looked up again. 

“You know, I heard one more interesting thing about you,” he drawled, licked his lips, inhaled for courage, and went on: “I was told by a fae, who I know cannot lie, that you take people’s souls away.” 

Cat-sith simply stared back at him, eyes glinting, brush-like tail slightly curling at the tip, but otherwise expressionless. The characteristic was beginning to mildly tick Garreth off. 

“You said you don’t kill people,” Garreth prompted. “And I was told something about right prices then, too?” 

“That birch spirit sure is talkative,” growled Cat-sith silently. 

For a few precious seconds, Garreth thought that he would be refused an answer. His first ‘no, thank you’ of the day, so close to midnight. He lowered his gaze back to the parchment, resolved, when Cat-sith’s voice reached him again: 

“The souls I take are those of sinners, those who do dreadful things to defenseless creatures, just so they can ask of me selfish wishes. They do not deserve to go to paradise, they are too foul to be purified by hellfire. I respond to the cries of my next-of-kin, my protégés. My friends.” 

Garreth watched the cat-fae’s demure form as it spoke, attentive and lost for words. 

“I do not come before deep-night, for hope that the sinners’ souls shall break on their own, that they will repent, and stop, and mend. Oft, they do.” 

Garreth stayed mute, pensive, for a longer while, but then, a single curiosity filled him whole, searing and piping hot, not unlike the coffee in his cup. 

“Where do you take them?” he whispered. 

Cat-sith leered, unrepentant. 

“Some, I store in jars in my burrow. I burn them with my bluebell flames, until they fall apart whole, for they are so corrupt that no purity is left in the ashes. Some, I eat,” they replied. “But when they die, they die when it is their time. It is not I who kills them. I only collect my due. The right price for the wishes I grant, and the sacrifices my friends make.” 

For what it was worth, Cat-sith’s chilling tale served the purpose of waking Garreth up better than the coffee. He was now very much aware of the hour, of the powerful creature sat tamely with him, helping him, and of the full extent of the problem he was facing. 

Clairvoyant. 

“Cat-sith,” he called, and the cat growled low at the address, but remained responsive. “What did you call that bitch’s servant right now?” 

Garreth was staring at the poem. At a specific verse. 

“I had called it what it is,” replied Cat-sith carefully. “A lower fairy, a tree spirit.” 

“Birch tree,” breathed Garreth. 

“Yes,” offered Cat-sith. “Its true name, which we now refuse to speak, is the Celtic name for the species. Birchwood is the first tree of the Ogham, and it is revered during Samhain.” 

“Of course,” mumbled Garreth, underlining the verse he had been staring at as if it were the key to everything. It probably was. He could bet on it. 

He could do this. Actually. Probably. Hopefully. 

“Alright, Kitten,” he said excitedly, smilingly, getting to his feet to the sound of an unholy hiss of disapproval that rolled out of Cat-sith’s throat at the nickname, “I am going to need a toad, and it would be stellar if we could get some sleep before dawn.”