Chapter Text
Count Scott W. Goldsmith, second in command of the Wildflowers, had an uncanny ability. It wasn’t anything explainable or logical, and it wasn’t any of the abilities gained by one of his many blood rites, although those were impressive. It wasn’t that he could turn into a moth, and it wasn’t that he could make magically bound deals and it wasn’t even the fact that death and tragedy seemed to follow everywhere he went.
It was the fact that, when problems did follow, he could feel them brewing long before they reared their ugly heads. The odd feeling deep in his gut was rarely ever wrong, that’s how he knew his sister was sick, how he was sick, long before signs started to show, and that’s how he knew that his best friend’s “illness” was so much more than anyone would predict.
That’s why he was in this situation to begin with, as without that gut feeling, he would have never ran away to join the proverbial circus.
In fact, that gut feeling was why he was alone at home when it happened.
The feeling had returned a few weeks before, when he first noticed his family getting comfortable in Dogwarts, and it had just been getting worse and worse until that day, when he knew it was all ending. As nobody beleived him, he knew there was nothing to do but ensure his friends had a good last day, so he suggested the wildflowers go on a picnic by the lake, while the roses went on a hunting trip.
So now he sat at his desk, scribbling a final note on some spare paper, a final warning to any who may find it, before slipping it into a small envelop. It didn’t take long for him to find the loose floorboard he used for secret storage, the one his husband didn’t even know about.
There was a knock on the door as he finished putting the board back.
He stood up, brushed himself off, made sure he looked presentable, and went to accept his fate. On the other side of the door were two street guards, both of which Scott knew quite well, but didn’t know either of their names.
“Count Goldsmith,” the first one nodded.
“Oh, please, Count Goldsmith is my father, you know you can call me Scott,” He smiled, turning up all the charm, “We’re all friends here, aren’t we?”
“We are not.” the second one deadpanned, “Sir, you are hereby charged with multiple counts of treason, witchcraft, fraternzing with and harbouring known criminals, and fleeing arrest, how do you plead?”
Hmm, interesting, Scott was expecting much more random B.S. to be arrested for, but almost half of that was realtively true. At least, depending on your definitions of “Treason” and “Criminals”.
“Officers, the only thing I’ve done is come to dogwarts in search of a home for me and my family, is that really a crime?” Scott half-lied.
“Yes.”
Before he knew it, there was a sack over his head and chains around his wrists. He was dragged roughly through the streets, where he could feel the uneven stone roads and hear the shouting of angry townspeople next to him. He was pushed into what felt like the dogwarts castle, although that was just a guess, and down some stairs, and more stairs, and– did these gueards even know how hard it was to walk down stairs with a bag over your head?
Anyhow, eventually the stairs ended, and Scott was forced to walk for what felt like an eternity, through echoey hallways where the only sound other than his and the guards footsteps were the crackling fire torches which sounded far too close to his head for comfort.
Suddenly, the guards ordered him to stop.
“Do you know what happens to dead people, Goldsmith?” the first one asked. He sounded like he was having fun.
“Does it matter? I’m not quite dead yet, am I?” Scott couldn’t resist the urge to be snarky, especially since he knew it may be his last words. Completely ignoring the fact that he was, in fact, already dead.
“Oh, yes you are.” the second guard laughed.
“I’m sure I don’t–”
Suddenly, something hard and dull swung into his stomach, causing him to double over and drop to his knees. In this position, the sack was pulled away, and Scott saw what his punishment really was.
A large, stone coffin. Iron locks were already partially attached but, as the lid was not closed, they weren’t locked quite yet.
It took a second for Scott’s mind to process what was about to happen to him.
“No, wait–” he immediately tried to talk his way out of it, but was quickly grabbed by the arm.
“No escape now, pretty boy,” The first guard smiled. It was a cruel smile, like he was going to enjoy making him suffer.
“Please– Wait–” Scott tried to struggle against it, but the guard harshely pulled him towards the coffin and the other one grabbed the locks. “Don’t– I’ll be good– I promise–”
“Too late for that now.” the guard growled. He threw Scott into the coffin, and the vampire was too restrained to get back up.
“Please– please– I’ll do aything!” Scott cried, feeling hot tears go down his cheecks, “Please- just– why don’t you just kill me?”
“Bye bye, pretty boy…”
The coffin lid slid shut, and Scott was engulfed in his prison, his tomb, one of eternal darkness, forevermore.
He didn’t even get a chance to say goodbye to Pearl.
*****
Count Scott Goldsmith, head of the Oakhurst Coven, had an uncanny ability. It wasn’t anything explainable or logical, and it wasn’t any of the abilities gained by his many years of being a powerful vampire, although those were impressive. It wasn’t that he could turn into a bat, and it wasn’t that he could lie his way out of any situation, and it wasn’t even the fact that drama and chaos seemed to follow everywhere he went.
It was the fact that, when problems did follow, he could feel them brewing long before they reared their ugly heads. The odd feeling deep in his gut was rarely ever wrong, that’s how he knew he was trapped and how his fellow vampire was, in fact, a vampire, long before signs started to show, and how he knew his newest fledgeling would end up being a large thorn in his side, and that’s how he knew that the humans would be such an issue for his new coven.
That’s why he was in this situation to begin with, as without that gut feeling, he would have never left the town at all, never reavealed himself as the proverbial boogeyman of Oakhurst.
In fact, that gut feeling was why he was alone at home when it happened.
The feeling had returned a few weeks before, when he first noticed the Oakhurst militia scheming, and it had just been getting worse and worse until that day, when he knew it was all ending. As he knew nobody would believe him, he thought it would be smart for none of his flegdeings (or Owen) to still be hanging around, so he suggested that the fledgelings go on a hunting trip, and that Owen go on a picnic by the lake. Owen refused to listen to Scott, and went deep into the woods out of spite.
So now he sat at the head of the dining table in the castle foyer, scribbling a final note on some spare paper, a final goodbye to any who may find it, before slipping it into a s small envelope. It didn’t take long for him to find the crevice in one of the seats, the perfect place to use for secret storage.
There was a knock on the door as he finished putting the chair back.
He stood up, brushed himself off, made sure he looked presentable, and went to accept his fate. On the other side of the door were the four miltia members, none of which Scott knew very well, but he did know their names (and their backstories).
“Count Goldsmith.” The first one, Ren, nodded.
“Oh, Please, Count goldsmith was my father, you can call me Scott,” Scott smiled, turning up all the charm, “we’re all friends here, aren’t we?”
“We’re not,” Apo said, “You are accused of–”
“Hold on,” Scott put a finger up, “I’m getting terrible deja vu’ from all this, do you think this time you could just… tell me what you plan to do here? I genuinely do not care why.”
“I guess… in that case, would you mind stepping outside?” the whole group seemed mighty taken aback by his calmness.
“Of course.” Scott did as he was told.
Before he knew it, he felt the impact of a glass bottle and the agonizing sting of holy water hit his chest and torso, causing him to double over and fall to his knees onto the uneven stone bridge.
Wow, humans really have been getting more efficient over the years.
The militia wasted no time in pulling out a leather-bound book Scott didn’t recognize, and tying him up in thick rope. Martyn began to chat something strange in latin.
It took a second for Scott’s mind to process what they were doing.
“No– Wait–” He tried to struggle dagainst the chains, but they were too strong.
Martyn kept speaking, and Scott’s mind began to fog up.
By the time he tried to protest more, his mind wasn’t clear enough to let him speak, so no sound came out.
Scott wanted to scream, to shout for help, but all he could do was slowly close his eyes as he felt his senses dull. It only took a few more seconds for him to loose conciousness completely.
His head hit the stony ground, and Scott was engulfed in his prison, his body, of of eternal numbness, forevermore.
He didn’t even get a chance to say goodbye to Shelby.