The midnight oil was burnt and gone, and the streets were slick with rain. It had been drizzling all evening with the cold promise of early winter. Now, vengefully, it hung around in spitting mist: proper English weather.

So the streets were empty but the clubs were not, this Friday night in Diagon. Light spilled out of a building as it disgorged a group, who split off with much cooing and kisses and calling after a familiar red-headed designer, the only one of the whole lot who was not headed home. Darian waved, shooed, smiled, and took off down the street with a well-timed wriggle, laughing as the calls started up again. It had been a good night. It was far too early to go home.

Flashy in his club wear, leather and silk, silver and black, he luxuriated in the cool air as heat poured off his skin. His hair was wild and curling, damp with sweat, and the sheen of his eyes in their blue depths burned. With no one at his side he still sauntered like a star, hips rolling in his low-slung trousers, jangling with jewelry at every step. As he went he deviated - swinging wildly this way then strolling carelessly that, swinging off lampposts, bowing to passerbys with theatrical flair. Darian was a popular man in Diagon, and many, laughing, bowed back.

He stopped for a cigarette, leaning against dirty brick heedless of the damp which seeped through the back of his thin shirt. Darian was a tactile drunk; the things he could do with his mouth were positively obscene, and he fingered the fag thoughtfully as he slid it from its case. But in the end, with no audience, he only inhaled. Smoke dribbled from his lips as he glanced up and down the street. His lighter glinted in the darkness as he spun it, heavy silver, a muggle antique.

In the momentary stillness he observed his own heartbeat slowing, coming down from dancing and velvet-room tussles.  Fortunately there was still energy thrumming in his blood, making him shift and sigh, arch his back, curl his toes, fidgeting in place out of this relentless hunger for entertainment. The night wasn't over yet. Darian always went until dawn.

The wet streets reminded him of home, in the way the water ran off the lacquer of the painted wagons, or how they would all huddle under the tents to wait out the storm. But tonight the rains didn’t find him in the spirit he had wished. His loneliness outweighed the excitement of the midnight theater, and how all the entire month of October old films were played back to back on screens of silk. Tonight’s showing the of The Astronomer’s Dream was a classic favorite, one that he knew he was named after, or made of. He wondered if it was the one that played around the campfire while his parents committed him to life in the back of their trailer.  In French he repeated the name of the film maker, having always been asked to translate by other patrons of the theatre, he knew it’s pronunciation by heart.

La lune à un mètre The Moon at One Meter, was beautiful in the way it was shown in silence, the music played along with the reel different every time, but his favorite had been tonight. The long eerie drippings of ivory keys, and pulling of silver strings made the night walk sing out in symphony all around him as he continued to hear the music played. He would think of the tune the entire way home, and worry of it’s origins later.

With his hands in his pockets, and his worries over his shoulders Nightingale made his way through the streets to head to the station that would lead him back to Hogwarts. One day, he wouldn’t do so alone, and perhaps that day would come at last when he remembered how it was you spoke to another. His snappy words, and quiet nature often cast him as rude. Or his backward way of speaking, and ‘pasty face’ (As Dietrich loved to call him) made him seem insane when he walked the halls at night in search of inspiration—or his mind.

The alley he turned down wasn’t an unfamiliar one, but one he often avoided. This late at night it would be crawling with trollops and dealers alike, and he’d be bummed out a few pennys by some point. However, upon first glance it seemed empty enough, and he took the short cut anyway. Party goers and club enthusiasts all lined the walls looking for their next high, and Mr. Morgan wasn’t any different. A better dressed hooker, or so he thought—Gale wondered how it was such a lose man could afford such pretty trinkets.

Darian Morgan, was a stranger to Gale’s eyes, though his cousin was not, and as he flicked a gaze over the young gentleman as he passed he noted a bit of similarities between the two. He didn’t know the man’s profession, nor of the reason he was out this late, but at this point…he would happily pay the man’s fees to just not have to travel all the way back to Hogwarts.

Gale paused a moment to look at the young man, to wonder how it was you asked a whore how discrete they were, or how one even got this sort of thing going? But his hands were cold, and his feet were soaked. And with the rain water dripping from his hair it looked like spider’s webbing, and that damn movie always got him.

For a moment Nightingale stood there in silence, and waited for him to say anything. But thought better of it, and started back down the alley.

While Darian was communing with his nicotine, someone stopped to take note of him. Darian regarded him back with open curiosity before - not a whore, but possessing all of a whore's tricks - he slid a boot up the wall, shifted his weight, canted his hips. He pursed fat lips around the filter of his cigarette. His eyes flickered in interest.

He wouldn't, if asked, have labeled it an outright invitation, but generally Darian operated on the "stop them in their tracks, then ambush them in their distraction" system of making friends. With the way the man was looking at him, it seemed he'd have a pretty good chance of at least slowing him down.

But then, alas, the man went to keep going. Unfortunately (fortunately?) he did not know that the clubcat on whom he turned his wool-bundled back was one Darian Cadoc Octavius Morgan, famed for his persistence, resistance, and everlasting endurance.

Darian pushed off the wall with a boot to the brick, a quick hop and dart sufficient to carry him quickly to Gale's side. Up close he was even prettier, more than just a pale rain-soaked blur. Pink-nosed, with hair as fine as fairyfloss, he was bundled like a sensible person against the invasive wet mist. Thus Darian was cruelly deprived of a chance to peek under that greatcoat and see whether he was pretty under it too, but frankly, what did it even matter, Darian was so easy. He'd make friends with anybody. Even the unfashionable. Tch! Not a single seed bead on that eyepatch, nor a dash of subtle embroidery. He was bent nearly double at the waist to catch a glimpse under all that fair hair when he realized that speaking of subtle, that was not it. He sprang upright and fast as a snake grabbed Gale's hand.

He flung his other hand, with the cigarette, out to the side as he bowed over the pale limb he had captured. His curls, damp and dark, still tried very hard to bounce.

"Hello there!" he said warmly, with all his dashing aplomb. "I could not help but notice that you paused. Then, as you kept going, you must have someplace very important to be. As a matter of fact I have no place at all important to be and was just contemplating the loneliness and disparity of my own situation. Might I accompany you down this stellar - " His gaze darted ahead - "weed-choked alley? I see the moldering piles of trash are looking particularly ripe this year. Hm, are you certain that's the direction you want to go?"

The night was cool, but nothing compared to the ice that closed in around his heart. The air that forced it’s way in seemed relentless with his little gasp as the other man grabbed his hand. His fingers were cold he knew this, but they ached inside the heated palm of this stranger. And the darkness kicked up around them, like a blanket of smoke at their feet.

In the shadow of his body Gale’s free hand closed into a fist, a tight grip that would have crushed the man’s bones should it connect, but the shock had quickly escaped. Fight, fight him’ break his nose, Nightingale. He’s trouble. A little voice suffered it’s way forward, stale and far to familiar. Arthur who died many years ago, still had his hold, and he would have hated this man. From his bouncing curls to his leather clad body he screamed of needing attention. His bow, his perfectly rounded face, and thick lips were all a show—like a cobra this one, whose colors distracted while his venom heated your blood.

Yest still Gale flushed deeply, and pulled his hand from the man’s grasp to cradle it to his chest as if burned. “I…No. I changed my mind.” His little fingers rubbed his wrist as he finally met the man’s eyes. The quick intake of cold air made his chest burn, as if offended to even be sharing the same air with such a scoundrel.

“Forgive me. I didn’t realize I had made the offer of…” Oh how did he put this. Shuffling on his feet he bit his bottom lip nervously, wishing his hair was down so he could feel it between his fingers, and not seem like a total idiot for just turning to run, “I’m sorry. I don’t really know how to do this, but my interest didn’t mean I wished to purchase you. And do have a little faith in yourself to not be so willing to subject yourself as part,” With a glance he looked down the alley, “Of the trash.”

Nightingale pulled out his wallet, to extend a good bit towards the man, “Here. Go buy yourself a coat. You look…” Oh dare he take another glance down, “Cold.” Waiting for the young man to take the money, Gale forced his good eye to dart around the empty street searching even the shadows for prying eyes.

There was no sign of his epiphany, no mouthing in puzzlement or wonder, "Purchase me...?" followed by the expected shriek of laughter. He was the consummate salesman, that is to say, a shark, and Gale's fumbled confession piqued his interest like blood in the water. What a delightful new game! Wouldn't it be wonderful after he drove him away - out of anger, or embarrassment, or possibly pricked pride; who knew, who cared, he was only a stranger - if one day they passed again on the street? Or if the man saw him in a magazine, on a poster, lazing about in finery at the door of his shop? Oh, Darian'd get a real kick out of that. He'd made his contribution now and reap the benefits later, an easy enough investment to make for that future moment of brief entertainment.

He always looked unflappable and extremely self-assured; bright, untouchable, even when he wasn't. Tonight he was dimmer, subdued to languor by the alcohol and dancing, his movements honey-slow. The only change he needed to fit the part was to hide his relentless curiosity, which was unbecoming for a whore. Well, that was easy enough.

Darian's voice lowered to a purr, deliberate, unmistakable, typically over-the-top. "You made no offer, but I could feel your interest like a warm breeze. Does it matter that you didn't act on it?" He chuckled, a throaty sound. "Or that I'd reciprocate? I had better climes in mind than an alley full of trash. But I understand your reservations. I see now that all you desire is a quiet night at home." His tone was all coaxing sympathy, tempered with resigned amusement - yes, all some men want is really to go home alone, and, if that is what you prefer, one hundred different shades of acceptance from this backalley rentboy who'd doubtless seen scores of customers walk away. Friday nights were not for everyone. This Darian in every guise knew.

Although the stranger had recoiled at his previous touch, he moved again. He swayed forward to place his hand lightly on Gale's hand, and folded Gale's fingers back over his money. He withdrew before the other man could flinch away.  "Save it," he said with a lingering smile. "I'm plenty warm." Yes, he supposed he might look rather cold, tight trousers, open shirt, bare arms, and all. But the sweat had only just dried on his skin from the club, and any goosebumps raised the longer he stayed were more pleasure than discomfort.

He rocked back on his heels and raised his cigarette to his lips again, nursing its little flame. Then: "It's just, you know," he sighed, smoke spilling from his lips, "Everyone's inside."

I’m plenty warm.

“Are you? You are hardly dressed, and the air is cold and damp. The night clings to your skin like an illness, and I won’t be surprised to find the sickness already settled in your chest just from your habit of smoking alone.’’Gale touched the man’s arm, feeling the cool fabric beneath his palm as if it were the other’s skin, and a deep crimson filled his face.

“You shiver, do you not realize?” He spoke again, looking up at the other man through his good eye, but still seeing him with both. “Maybe it’s just of anticipation alone, eagerness or the same ache of loneliness I feel, but I know a liar when I see one. I am choosing not to act.” His hands came together again as he took a step back, feeling drawn to this beautiful creature like a siren to the sea. Maker, he must have many clients who think just the same, who follow him into that black void where bodies danced, and music thumped to drown out their acts of pleasure.

Once upon a time he knew how to dance, would have been right in the midst of them all, but now he could hardly fathom the thought of being in such a dark place with such a crowd. So many faces it was easy to feel lost, and dancing like that it made him think of the sea—drowning as he went down. But perhaps if he followed this man in, like Alice did her White Rabbit he’d find Wonderland again, and just as the thought crossed his mind a chill of his own made his body convulse.

The walls were closing in, the air was growing too thin to breathe, and just as Darian’s voice sank in once more, Gale shook his head.

“I don’t know what I want,” He spoke in a quiet sound in reply to the other man’s question of his ideas for the night. Gale stepped closer just once more, to brush a curl from Darian’s brow, “I just know that I want something warm, and to never go where everyone is again.”

"There are potions for that," Darian said, amused by this man's concern for his well-being. He smirked as he took another draw, then pointedly stubbed it out on the brick behind him. Now both of his hands were free. He might need them. "Don't worry on my account; it's more a hobby than a habit. I wouldn't do anything that would make me taste bad."

The stranger touched his arm and blushed, the fetching pink creeping over his features visible even in the little light that spilled into the alley. How he must curse that fair complexion! Darian caught his hand for the third time, this time slower, deliberate, telecasting his intentions so that Gale might move away if he didn't like it. He rubbed his thumb slowly against Gale's palm and smiled, dark eyes flickering from their hands to Gale's face. "Believe me," he said, "I'm warm."

It was a promise, not a lie, and the hot press of his thumb against Gale's lifeline spoke to that. But he would be cold soon unless they hurried this along, his heartbeat back to normal, all his drinks eventually burning off. He needed to get back inside to the warmth and the light, or else cast a spell to make him impervious to the chilly breeze lifting the hair off his neck. For now the wet mist was still pretty, putting a nimbus 'round the streetlights and Gale's spider-silk hair. It was not uncomfortable. Not yet.

"I am choosing not to act." How elegantly stated, and what a terrible shame. Darian hummed in the back of his throat as he kept up his light touches to the other man's hand, fingernails scraping softly over Gale's luminous skin. "I already told you I was lonely."

His last hook had worked better than planned, that winsome sigh drawing out the sweetness in his new companion instead of prompting him to leave. He tangled their fingers together until Gale needed them back, touching Darian's hair with surprising care. Poor darling. Such a noble sufferer of the basic human condition.

“I don’t know what I want.”

"On the contrary. It sounds like you do."

Darian's head was heavy and his limbs were weighted, the downside to the bright energy coursing through him before he'd stopped moving. But this was a common affliction for his Friday nights, frequently paired with lazy satisfaction and someplace to sprawl. There was nowhere here with red cushions, more drinks, more drugs; his only company was a man as flighty as a bird. That could change, depending on - if not what he wanted - what Gale acted upon. If he acted upon anything. Or if he fled. It was all the same to Darian. Such was the eternal blessing of Darian Morgan's life - if this man left now, there'd be another face to follow.

"Don't worry on my account; it's more a hobby than a habit. I wouldn't do anything that would make me taste bad." Gale arched a perfectly sculpted silver brow as he cast his judgement. Like the moon that waxed and wane, so did his sanity; though listening to this man he had to wonder what it was that kept him from flying away.

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t aware that tasting was more important than health. Mr….Oh, I haven’t asked your name.” He looked Darian over, not about to give away his surprise at how tailored he thought the rentboy to be, nor how cold he truly looked.

It was when the man touched him again did his spine straighten, his stance harden, and at the touch to his lifeline he turned the other man’s wrist over to better view his palm. Like a book he read of Darian, and like a drunk he drank him in.

“Forgive me. I see now I was mistaken in thinking that I wanted you.” He let go of Darian’s hand and took a step back, “I rather like my men with hearts on their sleeves, and a little self reserve. I’m afraid you’ve taken away the surprise of what is beneath, and that if you were to shed your skin there wouldn’t be much beneath that would keep me very warm for long.”

Despite his heated words, though spoken just as Arthur would, his voice was cold and callous. His tongue like a whip that he wanted to sting the man with, and the true heartache of it all was Gale was nothing like this. Had this been ten years ago he would have giggled at the flirt and just passed him off with a few jests about his own modesty. The thing was he liked men with dirty hands, and dirty faces. He liked the ones that tracked mud on the carpets that he could clean. He liked to cook, but without the use of a wand. He wanted to know that their meal came from hands that worked hard to please, and Gale would be damned if he fell into a relationship (or the bed) of someone who didn’t appreciate that there were rules and boundaries in a relationship that should never be crossed.

“Find me when you hit rock bottom. I’ll pick you up then, but you have to fall first. It would do you some good.”

Darian looked at him with some amusement. "My, you're terrible at this. Taste is everything. Names aren't important." Possibly the man wasn't well-versed in wizard medicine and drugs. A halfblood or a muggleborn, maybe, Darian didn't know and didn't judge. These little sticks wouldn't hurt him. Not when he had potions to swallow, and they manufacturer's standards to uphold. At the most, they'd only make him a little out of breath.

Gale turned his hand over and Darian peered down too. It was just his palm. It looked quite inoffensive to him, but apparently the stranger found something wrong with it for he went all sneer-y and stepped away. Oooh, he wanted a man with his heart on his sleeve - how boring, Darian couldn't be that, no no no no no. They weren't linking pinkies as life partners, here.

What was the man even doing gadding about this backalley business? Even without the rebuff, it was obvious by now he wasn't really looking for a whore.

Darian grinned like the Cheshire cat, light glinting from his teeth. He straightened from his lazy slouch, shook off the damp, rolled one shoulder, curled his toes in his boots. He was preparing to return to the street and the clubs as it seemed their midnight meeting was at its inevitable end - not dismissive, but unconcerned, with Gale's flinty words. He teased Gale, laughing, "What a terrible thing to wish on a person! Let's hope it doesn't come to that." What was it - sweet Death, sister Death - no, something else. Gale was more a fine little lord of judgement, nothing so sweet or merciful about him except his disarmingly lovely appearance. Darian found it rather funny, but then, he found most things to be so and most especially after 8 or 9 at night.

"Goodbye, I say, goodbye; I would not presume to keep you with your cruel eyes and crueler words."

Gale took the moment to take a few steps back, his hands going to his pockets. No, he wasn’t looking for a whore, but was in fact looking for a pinky holding partner. He’d had his share of strangers in his life, though none of them ventured to his bed, and this time it was to be different. He wasn’t going to hang on just anything with a cigarette smile, nor a man with nothing to hide. Darian flaunted his sexuality like he did the rings on his fingers, and perhaps this was what attracted the men in the dark. However, Gale wasn’t easily moved. He was as backward as the arctic wind when it chased away the summer months. He was as wild as they came, but reserved that for those closest and privileged to see such a side.

Shadows tall and sinister, stretched out in the distant alley waiting—watching, and as Gale turned to give Darian one more look he spoke with a little disappointment.

“Eye. You meant to say eye. I’ve only got one.” He admitted a fact though the ghost of it was still there. The white orb beneath the black would have reflected the light of the alley, and that of Darian’s smile. However, much like his heart he kept it hidden, and kept it safe.

With that the alley swallowed him whole, pulling Nightingale back into the world from which he was born. The secrets whispered over the stone of an underground life that had once been was what made him take this path. It always would. He felt more alive when he walked the familiar paths of destruction and decay. However, just as he reached the end a shadow passed, one that wasn’t familiar—one far too sinister, and one not alone.

---

’You couldn’t keep him.’ They taunted, ’Couldn’t keep anything.’ From the alley to which Gale left there came a series of men, but only one at first. His tall dark sinister face turned up with a smug grin, and he clicked his  tongue against his teeth to taunt the designer.

“Lookie lookie what the cat dragged in.” Or out. Really, Darian didn’t seem to be the sort of person who believed in the word—in.

“Mr. Morgan. Such a fine night for a walk isn’t it?” In his chubby hands he held a club, the baton banging against his fat palm that smelled of stale blood and chicken grease. “Won’t you come away with us?” And suddenly there were four, one at the mouth of the alley, the other at the corner to block Darian’s exit while the third moved in to keep him just where the leader wished.

Hate filled eyes, searched the other man for a weapon, but at this time of night? With all the drugs and alcohol? What sort of condition would the designer be in to say no.

"How 'bout you empty your pockets first, and come this way." He can't his head towards the mouth of the alley where it seemed all the men tried to herd the man down.

Alone now in the alley, Darian stretched like a cat; lazy, indulgent, just to feel the tired burn. There were hours and hours 'til dawn, and he had nothing better to do than go waste them. Idly he touched a hand to his chest, then after a recognizable pause - where did I put it? - half-reached to his belt. In the end he left the lighter right where it was, snug against the jut of his sharp hungry hip. It was too chilly now for another cigarette. Yes, bereft of his momentary entertainment, even he felt the faint bite of cold.

Figures closed in, moving with purpose. It took a moment to twig, Darian's brain drink-muddled and therefore not quite as quick on the uptake. But there was nothing quite like adrenaline for jumpstarting the mind, and suddenly his was quicksilver clear. This was the downside of fame, looks, and money. This was the cost of drink and excess. His eyes slid to the mouth of the alley, then back to the brute with club in hand. Oh no. Oh no. Darian hated violence.

Funny enough, they approached without their wands. Darian wasn't used to seeing that in the wizarding world. Perhaps they didn't think they'd need them: one slender swaying designer, four large smirking men. One taunted him, clicking sinister his tongue against his teeth like calling a disobedient dog. Darian did not care to be that dog. Particularly when he - what - empty his pockets and follow him farther along this terribly dark alley? They wanted more than his money, then. That was a very bad sign. Darian was often reckless with his body and careless with his mind, an upper-class thrill-seeker, a degenerate libertine, but he'd not go sweetly with these men and expect anything but pain.

He stepped away from the wall as if from his own will, not the herding, turning natural drunken swagger into smooth, almost-controlled sway. "Gentlemen, please," he smiled, spreading his hands, "I can only take one at a time."

But he reached for his pockets with exaggerated motions, pulling them inside out with all the dramatic gravitas of a stage magician.  One galleon, two knuts, and a purple pill fell out. "Wait, I think I have - " He shimmied a hand into a particularly tight pocket. He withdrew a shiny sickle, hummed in satisfaction, and promptly hurled the coin at the leader's face. The man instinctively flinched from the projectile and Darian dropped, grabbing his wand from one of his high boots.

His real talents lay in illusions and charms. As the other men leapt his wand suddenly exploded with light, a veritable ricochet of sparks which expanded and enveloped and grew to a white-hot blaze behind Darian's closed eyes. Sound exploded, half-singing, half sharp little wails, and organic shapes flickered and danced disorientingly fast. The alley became nearly the color of day as Darian began to cast, speaking the first offensive spells which rose easily to his lips. Given his mind at this time in the evening, the results were effective but decidingly... scattered. The coins on the ground grew wings like little metal snitches and pelted the men; one thug twitched and jerked, swearing as his pants tightened and in for a whole evening of  inexhaustible, uncomfortable fun; another shot suddenly into the air, scrabbling at his collar as it followed the tailor's command and twisted, strangled, choked. The leader's seams and buttons all spontaneously popped. The air filled with the scent of elderberries. He was actually having a jolly good time until one of the men, groping blindly through the storm of light and sound and whirling shapes, closed a huge hand over his arm.

Oh. Right. Maybe he should have tried some... stunning spells or suchlike. Darian bitterly regretted his lack of sewing needles, tape measure, or shears, or even just wished he'd gotten muggers with better taste. He could have hanged a man with a Libertine shirt. Instead he heard the rip of cheap fabric as the third thug's boots once more hit the ground.

There was a wand shoved under his chin, jabbing into the flesh as he rose to the balls of his feet. The holder snarled a spell just as Darian grabbed the tip and pushed it away. It only grazed his ear but instantly he was reeling, deaf and blind, weakness sucking at his limbs. He fell to the ground, kicked out to one of the men's kneecaps, and missed. The lead man's club fell across his ribs and he shouted, expecting magic, not the sudden bloom of pain. One foolish fellow tried to grab him by the hair. Darian hissed in outrage; seizing upwards, he kicked and twisted wildly. What was honor here? He aimed for the crotch, and this time he didn't miss.

Gale felt instantly guilty when the bitter wind blew again, and though he pulled his coat around himself further he couldn’t chase away this cold feeling. He knew it was to be blamed on his words, and knew that his bitterness turned him into a monster. But it still didn’t make the way he acted ok. Who was he to judge another so horridly? What reason did he have to distrust the man on the wall, just because he had a wolf like grin that didn’t mean he was beneath him. And in this, Nightingale, found the very reason he should have never trusted Arthur. This was what he had become. This is what they made him.

On the edge of the street now, Gale ran a hand through the ends of his hair, and tucked a few strands behind his ears as he worried now that he might have gone too far. He worried that he might have hurt the man, or worse helped push him over the edge. Gale wondered where it was that laughing smile had gone, the one face he stared at in the puddle now was vacant of any sort of feeling. He looked weathered and old, even though so much of him hadn’t aged in years. Underneath this mask he wore there was once upon a time someone who would have simply taken Darian’s hand and lead him out into the night. Would have danced in circles and in rows, danced his way over those lips, and made him keep laughing as if his silence would have caused the night to end. Gale looked back in the darkness to which he came, and wondered if Darian was still there.

’Go,’ A voice spoke in his mind, but this time it didn’t belong to the calloused lover he had once called his own. This voice was warm, encouraging, and kind. His mother. ’Go on Nightingale. Go apologize. She was right, that wayward woman who sheltered more men between her legs than an oak tree during a storm. Yet still his hesitation made his heart race. If he went back, what would he say? What reason did he have to make anything other than the excuse of ‘I’m shy, strange, and very lonely’, but at least it would be the truth.

The alley seemed to shift on his return, his steps didn’t seem as empty nor had he thought that the walk had been that long. Yet, now ever time his feet hit the stone they felt as though they were made of led. The overwhelming since of dread grounded him more than he ever thought possible, and instinctively his hand brushed over the handle of his wand. Something wasn’t right. They had him, the alley cat who just a few moments ago turned his hungry hips in appreciation of his beauty, and before Gale could stop himself he moved closer. One by one they took their turns kicking and clawing at the designer until Gale was certain they were meant to kill him.

The darkness came, with a few quick flick of is wrists, and small throwing knives became airborn. One by one they shattered the glass of the lanterns and shrouded the already dark dirty alley with nothing but the haunting feeling of blackness. The men scrambled a moment, releasing Darian only long enough to watch the little figure move closer. Sputtered into silence the thought of illuminating spells seemed forgotten the moment the little black ribbons of Gale’s eye patch swept over his face and vacated his blind eye. The wind played tricks, and ran her fingers through the ends of his spider silk hair, and gave life to a man who swore he had died all those years back.

An eternity passed, or so it felt like with each passing second that they shared. One moment for the next, the heart beats between them quickened, but in half a second there came a shift. A blink of an eye, Nightingale touched the tip of his wand to the dead orb that set in his skull, a ghost of what he once took for granted, and a light filled like a moon in all it’s phases. A knife pure and heavy came to quick rid the man that held Darian of his wand, the flesh of his palm split by the silver as it pinned him to the stone.

Darian had been ruthlessly beat, and Gale used this as his fuel as the fight moved onto him. Each strike was quick, direct, and connecting to a mugger as if they were made of fire. Two be came one, as another left out of the fight like a bat from hell, and then there was nothing left but the man pinned above Darian. A flash of wands, a whisper of words the battle seemed as clear as day, but it was when Gale came to face to face with the man did the other start to laugh.

“Little Princess, have a knight in rags come save you, Darian?” The fool spit in the direction of Nightingale, who stood like a stone to take it. “Don’t think this will be the last of—“ He stopped watching Gale’s hand as it came to collect the hilt of the blade that still held his palm. A glint of silver from Darian’s illumination spell cast a knowing look over the mugger’s face.

“That rin-”

A right hook from the very hand that wore the little silver dragon put the man to rest, and though death would not accompany him on this night. Gale wondered if he wished it had by the time he came round.  In the dark it was hard to tell where Darian’s blood began, and the other’s ended. But he could make out his face, his hair, those pretty curls matted to his skin.
“Darian?” Was that his name? Gale rolled him to his back, listening as the alley gave way to more voices, and quickly pulled him to his chest.  There were more figures coming out of the club, ones that Gale didn’t’ give a chance for them to see. Fear caught him, and clouded his thoughts as he worried of his reputation. If news got out that he beat men in back alleys, he’d lose his job at Hogwarts, and right now those students were the only thing keeping his sanity together.

Without thinking he bundled the man who seemed much lighter than he should have been to his chest and ran from the city. He ran until he could feel no longer, and the woods around them welcomed him home. As fast as he could he swept through the forest floor with every creature watching in curious nature as what it was the winter prince was doing with such a man.

“Almost there,” He whispered to the man in his arms as he came around a clearing of the brush, and a part of the woods where the trees were so old they could rival the castle for their hold on the night sky. The bases were mostly hallow, and one in particular Gale knew to house a few supplies. A gypsy never fled without refuge, and an old patch work quilt bundled up a few survival tools while sheltering a few logs from the miserable rains. This was his tree, and from the branches a long time ago he had hung little bits of glass to chime in t

The mist had stopped for now, and by the time Gale got the fire going he had stretched Darian out on the quilt and threw his coat over him to shelter him from the rain further. The canopy of the trees kept what little bit of water remained, but Gale found a few places in the break of the trees to wet a rag so he could start cleaning away the blood from Darian’s face.

The woods were dark, even with the moon high in the sky. The Forbidden Forest was always dark, but this deep in, the trees seemed closer together, their branches interwoven, and the air itself seemed pitch black. His lumos charm seemed pathetically small against the dark, which seemed alive - it followed him, gathering behind him to make odd sounds, to muffle any cry he might make, to hush footsteps following him. He'd swear it had eyes.

It was therefore hard to not jump at every little sound. He didn't like being out here alone, away from Hogwarts, and not just because the last time he'd been here...he'd exited as a small flying horse. That was an experience he had no desire to have occur again. Ever.

Still, duty and the Tournament called - and so here he was, checking on the Centaurs. The creatures would only meet under the correct stars - which was silly, in a way. True, he knew that the stars had an effect. But it was frankly difficult for him to rationalize exactly how one could predict these things accurately based on burning balls of gas billions and trillions of miles away. And...well, their divination was so general. Who cared if Mars was bright?

Rubbing his forehead and his wand at the ready, he stumbled back through the woods towards the embrace of the castle, lip bitten. It was far too quiet here; it was so quiet the silence rang in his ears until his heartbeat seemed the loudest sound in the world.

Therefore, when he stumbled into a clearing and found a figure hunched over a fallen man, his grip on his wand was so tight he could feel the tough wood bending. He walked forward, quietly, his footsteps muffed by the thick layers of pine needles. His breath caught in his throat, heart hammering.

As he got closer, he suddenly recognizing one of them - Darian. The man's brilliant copper hair was a bright swath of color in the dark night, and was almost assuring - until he saw the blood. There was a lot of it, the hits on Darian's face vivid. The fact he was unconscious changed Tappy's mood to panic so abruptly he almost wasn't aware of it, with the world slowing down around him.

It was only in the heady moments as he pointed his wand at the other man that he realized he knew the man knelt over Darian, too, though far more vaguely. Kesali was new to the school, young, and strange. Just what the hell was going on -

Tapendra's mind snapped back to the last time he'd seen things like this; to when the prone figure had been Ava Grosvenor, ripped to shreds. He shook for a moment before striding forward, voice an authoritative bark, his wand aimed not at Darian, but at Kesali.

"Kesali - what are you doing? What happened?" If Darian was bleeding that badly, he needed Tulojow, and fast.

Nightingale had been through his fare share of hard times. The good always came with the bad, and though the cold irony scent of the blood made the scents of the fire seem inviting, the death and decay of the autumn air almost welcomed it. Dark shadows danced, flickered in the light, and masked the way the man walked through the woods. But even if Gale hadn’t lit the fire he would have missed the man as he moved, all of his concentration was on Darian.

By the time the clearing was invaded Gale had removed his coat, pressed Darian back on it, and used the tie from his hair keep the scarf around the other man’s head to act as a bandage. Truly, the blood was more of the mugger who thought it wise to open his palm long enough to allow the ex-assassin’s knife to pierce. It was easy enough to clean away, though the darkening of the rentboy’s skin worried Gale, and as he tried to sooth away the ache he ran his fingers back through the other’s hair.

“Darian? Is that your name?” Pretty thing that he was, he’d have to give him that. “I’m sure you’ve woken up feeling worse, but tomorrow m’friend this is go—“

Kesali

The man’s voice brought a chill to his spine, and a wicked and wild wind swept through the clearing carrying it like a threat that would have the Charms professor armed in a matter of seconds.

With the fire between them, the draft pushed the lapping flames to work in Gale’s favor as he slowly stood to face his accuser. Three blades as black as night were held poised and ready between his fingers. Their hilts heavy and poised for release while his other held his wand.

The night went silent, as if the entire world took a moment to stop in it’s rotation to watch the battle, and even the wind turned the trees to watch. Kesali[1] , the Romani born muggle mutt whose name alone held as much power as his wand, stood like a stone statue poised and ready to kill this man should he make another step forward. It was as if he even stopped breathing in anticipation for the next move, and the only thing that gave him away as being alive was how his hair seemed like silk in the wind and how the fire reflected in his eye.

“He was attacked, Trishna.” The man’s name on his tongue seemed to be filled with venom, and the distaste for the Astronomy professor clear. “Are you blind? You have two good eyes don’t you?” Gale tightened his hold on his own wand, though the throwing daggers remained light and their blades set between his fingers. He couldn’t trust the other professor to not be in on the attach. For what happened to Darian wasn’t random, he was sure of it. And he had made a pact a long time ago to never trust redheads. They were unnatural.

 

1.	the Romany word for Forest Spirit.

Darian did not like pain when it outweighed pleasure. Darian did not like thugs. Darian did not like the senseless violence of these short-sighted meaty folk, their thick hands, their wet lips, their bloody stupid desire to beat him 'til he couldn't stand. There was no cunning to them, no class. At least drag him back to his flat for money. At least think of the potential ransom. At least think of the clothes they were ruining, by Merlin, this shirt could still fetch a tidy sum if they cleaned it of all the blood. There was nothing to gain from beating a man this harshly, unless - oh - they were teaching him a lesson because he had nothing to mug.

His body was too heavy for all this kicking and writhing, this desperate self-defense. He knew as well as anybody that the worst place to be was on the ground, but they were flying at him too thick for him to get up and even if he'd managed he hadn't the balance to stay on his feet. His skin tightened unpleasantly in the wake of another curse. A stunner glanced his shoulder. The next kick hit him in the head and, well, that was the end of it as far as Darian was concerned. He was a frail, wilting flower. He was a liar. He was not meant to be pummeled. He was put to more pleasant pummeling all the time. The drink in him dulled the pain and deadened the force; the drink in him made him bleed like blood was going out of business.

Even once he couldn't much move he kept a tight hold on his wand, a pureblood's fiercest instinct, dreading its snap far more than he dreaded that of his own bones. The men tried to stamp his hand and crush his wrist, but he didn't see why they bothered. After the second smart blow to the head with that one man's wicked club he couldn't quite muster the energy to raise it. That was why they had it, he thought, not like - not like muggles at all. Without their creator singing them to life the fairy lights and dizzying colors faltered from blazing sun to fading glow, pulsing at every word that leaked past Darian's lips, but dying, dying.

A few words were spells. Some were names. Most were rather stupid things, rambling, poetical snips, beat out of him with the gasps, the curses, the laughter. Useless, senseless, but his head was spinning, his stomach was revolting. Darian twisted and turned; he went with the flow, and when things got too bad wrapped an arm 'round his head and tucked up his face to his knees to protect the stomach, the throat, all his soft vulnerable bits. He drew in his wand to his chest for fear of it breaking and stopped trying to cast. It would end eventually.

Instead he lost consciousness, which was mostly a relief. His butterfly lashes fluttered open every once and a while, slow stuttering blinks in the darkness, fingers twitching at the man crouching above him, we are not on a first-name basis...

When he woke again it was not to his usual circumstances; namely a bed, a floor, concrete, the city. Even his worst mornings had been less surreal than this. He smelled smoke and wet leaf rot. His face was wet. His body throbbed. He stayed very still, because his stomach was currently trying to claw its way up his throat and any deep breath was sort of... stabby. Someone was stroking careful fingers through his hair. Darian closed his eyes again.

Yea gods and little fishes, it'd been a while since he'd been jumped like this.

He dragged them open at the sound of conversation, lips parting in silence. He couldn't see straight, his vision hot and blurry. He lolled his head, cast his gaze, and there was that pale hair and he just... oh, the dark, it ran up all over. Oh, the stranger! A good Samaritan... no, wait. Was that Tapendra's voice? Every nerve of his body leapt painfully to attention.

He rolled over from his back to his side and immediately froze, mouth a tight grimace, muscles locked up tight. He hissed out a breath and lowered his forehead to the ground, bracing a hand against the dirt. Darian remembered now the stink of blood and vomit, the cold grind of cobblestones on heated skin, and he did not want to get sick again. This was going to be humiliating enough already without adding his retching to the night.

Darian sucked in a breath. Another. One more. His vision swam, and he felt like shite. Just another Friday night. "Is this..." He coughed, voice too thick in his throat to speak. "Am I, hah, where is this?"