East London. Private manor of Ira Almasy, white marble and carefully kept gardens. M for implied violence and mild language.


Raine woke up with a start, immediately sitting up in bed with red curls sticking out wildly in all directions. Late afternoon light streamed through the french windows that led out to the garden, where the winter sun had somehow managed to paint an idyllic stage amongst elegant trees and neat rose bushes. She stared out at this for a moment, dazed and missing sunny Greece, before climbing out of bed.

As soon as her feet touched the sheepskin rug, the bedroom doors flung open with a BANG. Three dark-haired girls, none of them yet eight, came running in, shrieking as they leapt on to the bed. A group of boys with similar colouring entered with as much haste. They came skidding to a halt as soon as they saw their older cousin.

“Not fair!” The eldest boy, a ten year old, exclaimed as his sisters pointed their tongues at him. Raine rubbed her eyes sleepily and squinted at them. Right. The clan had come to visit for Christmas. Alexis, the youngest girl, grinned.

”This is our fort!” she declared with such savage Russian prasing that her companions pulled faces. ”Attack at your own risk, you French bastards!”

Raine padded past the bed, tousling the heads of her cousins as she made her way out of the room. “Don’t set anything on fire, mind...” she reminded them in a tired voice and left to find out who else had arrived while she’d been napping.


---

The grand gallery downstairs was laid out as a dining area, marble white tables set for Afternoon Tea. Only one or two were occupied and Raine walked along the upper corridor overlooking them, barely tall enough to look down over the pristine balustrade.

Her father was here, sat with Uncle Kaz and Feliks. His red beard set him apart from the other two but their similarity in body language and mannerisms united them somehow. She continued to watch as she strolled - wondering at their subject of conversation. Never had she felt so much a part of this family.

“Raine Almasy." A fond voice called and the witch looked away just in time to see Jebediah Layton closing a set of doors behind him on the other side of the passageway. His genial eyes took in her appearance. “You look positively winsome,” he raised his brow, teasing. Raine affected a proper curtsy before spinning around with flourish: the soft, flowing skirts of her ivory frock twirled gracefully, lost in the air of bygone traditions. Witches curtsy to wizards, wizards bowing to their women.

He caught her hand as she steadied, and softly kissed her pink knuckles. It was an old gesture from when she had first met her aunt’s assistant, as a child. Layton was practically an uncle. An elusive one, at that.

“It’s been months!” Raine fixed a curl behind her ear as they both ignored the two youths running down the corridor,, playing some inadvisably dangerous version of tag. “Has Aunt Ira kept  you busy? I need a word with her before I leave for Covent Garden.”

She had all Christmas and New Year to spend with the Almasys. Tonight she was dining with Alex and Gracie.

Layton glanced over the bannister and, as if though on cue,  saw Ira descending the stairway to the gallery below. Uncle Kaz and father looked up. She wore her hair long today and one of the younger cousins held her lithe hand. Raine couldn’t repress the admiration and affection she felt for her aunt. Layton saw it on her face. ”Impeccable timing, your aunt.”

“Yes,” Raine agreed before glancing at his speculative expression. “What’s the matter Layton?”

He smiled dryly. “Hm. You’re nothing like her. Shall we join them?” An arm was offered, and she took it with a little confusion. ”Before it is dark. You have a dinner appointment, young lady.”

The cell  was long and extensive, that it might have fit a small assembly of students. It resembled a classroom in no other sense: every surface was polished black granite, save for the one wall on the far side that held a great mirror. White light lit the space from no apparent source.

Slumped in the centre was the unconscious body of Zel Trumble.

On the other side of the mirror - not a mirror here, but a framed window - Ira stood in what appeared to be the manor portrait room. Dark red damask wallpaper was interrupted only by vast portraits of Russian aristocrats and the odd mural of larger-than-life mythical figures. The painted figures seemed to ignore the witch as she stared patiently  into the cell.

The sound of a door creaking open caused her to glance around, only to find that Jebediah Layton was crossing the rococo carpets in weathered leather loafers and creased robes. His sleeves were rolled up to reveal arms besmirched by unsightly scars, including the most recent bite mark from their captive werewolf. He drew up next to her, smiling grimly. He’d sent their niece off in a muggle carriage.

“Your flair for the dramatic...” Layton trailed off disagreeably, offhand. ”We could have done this elsewhere.” He glowered, though his eyes remained on the fair-haired  boy in the cell, teeth clenched determinedly.  Ira glanced down at her assistant’s churlish expression, as if to say that is why I have you but she  smiled instead.

 “No.  It would have been exceptionally unsatisfying to do this elsewhere. Now, wake the Wolf Boy. This is rather dull.”

The ground was cold and hard against his cheek, the exposed skin on his arms covered in gooseflesh. His head and limbs felt heavy with sleep-- unnatural sleep. A forced slumber. The magical effects were beginning to wear off and his mind was beginning to wake up along with his body. He hadn’t dreamt.

Zel let out a soft groaning noise and sat up, dazed. He rubbed his eyes, the room was dark-- no.

It was well lit. But the floors, the wall, the ceiling-- were all smooth and black. In the air hung the mild smell of peach oil. His gut tensed as he recalled the smell of spices, a wand to his throat, and a Raine that wasn’t Raine. He had been captured. By whom? He didn’t know. Why?

The werewolf rings? He had read about them in the papers ages ago.. So he had been captured… To kill someone? A  muggle? To fulfill some sort of purist anti-muggle and anti-werewolf agenda? The culprits behind the werewolf rings had not been caught. Aurors had been focused on the Dementors.  How many more people would this cost?

No. This couldn’t be right. It didn’t feel right. Zel couldn’t help but notice how much the blackness of this room contrasted with his albino skin, his snowy hair. He was somebody’s spectacle. And the full moon was near. He inhaled sharply, wanting to scream-- to cry out, to fight, but-- he searched his pockets. His wand had been taken.

Fuck.

Snapshot

---

A warm, maternal voice enters the dark space. It does not echo. “Good evening, wolf boy. Are we awake already?”

At the sound of her voice, he could feel a chill go down his spine, and into an icy knot in the pit of his stomach. Muscles tense, Zel looked around, trying to detect the source of the voice.

"Where's my wand?!" He practically snarled, any residual grogginess evaporated. "What do you want?!"

A smile behind her tease, avoiding questions. “Do relax. We mustn’t exhaust ourselves this close to the full moon. You’re a growing boy.”

She was mocking him. He could feel the condescension in her voice-- the knot in his stomach began to burn. The wolf clenched his fists, fingernails digging into his palms. The full moon.

He was going to be used, like a pawn. No. A toy, manipulated by a child who wanted to play at being God.

"What do you want?" He repeated, voice lowering into a silent rumble, "And why me?"

A long pause, behind the mirror, as if though an answer were being carefully deliberated. “I want to watch, of course. Have you ever killed someone, wolf boy?” And then, with more pleasure. “Have you ever wanted?”

He could feel heat rising up his face, ears taking on a ghastly purple-red hue.

"Of course not!" Zel snapped, he wasn't some kind of monster. Not when he had wolfsbane. Not when he made a point to go to the ministry cells every month to ensure the protection of others. Surely, they’d notice that he didn’t show up today.

The claw marks and bruises he left on himself each moon were nothing compared to the value of their lives.

"Never." He paused, "And you're planning on changing that." The words caught in his throat, suffocating and stifling.

“Boring. Beautiful things are, sometimes...” she trailed off thoughtfully, as if though she hardly heard him. “And so trusting. But you are going to enjoy this. I am almost certain of it.”

In the black cell, the outline of a door appeared against one of the walls. It slid open silently and for a second there was nothing but shadow past the threshold.

“This is who you are, after all.” The voice fell quiet abruptly.

At the door, then, she came through stumbling with none of her usual grace. Raine Almasy blinked bewilderedly into the brightness of the chamber and raised a hand to her eyes. She wore her Hogwarts uniform.

He froze, relaxing his hands and feeling the slow throbbing of blood rushing back-- and smelling, all too clearly, the scent of earth mingled with the spicy smell of one of his captors.

The captor whose arm would forever hold the marks of Zel's teeth was near. Werewolf bites never healed properly, and Zel hoped that was true for his human form as well.

The Raine-who-was-not-Raine was here, tormenting him. He didn't want to associate her with.. This.
And it wasn't Raine's smell, either... How did he not pick up on this before..? He had been so happy to see her that he had allowed himself to be oblivious to the signs that were painfully clear now.

"Why are you doing this to her?" Using her face, her identity. This was someone who knew Raine well enough to impersonate her.

The girl stared at Zel, eyes wide with confusion and fear, backing into the smooth wall that had closed up behind her. Who was he speaking to? And where was she?

“Doing this to whom?” she managed. “What is this? Who are you?”

Behind the mirror, Ira Almasy checked the time. They were very nearly there.

And it wasn't her. Not the same one.

How many false-Raines were out there?! How many would he be... Forced to kill. He had no wand. He couldn't simply magic his way out, and he couldn't run. There was nowhere else to go.

"I-- I'm so sorry." He whispered, "I... My name is Zel." He stood up, hesitated-- and took a wary step backwards. "Who are you?" Did he want to know?

She opened her mouth to speak but stopped herself, remembering something. “He... they told me not to tell you. Do you know what’s happening?” The girl was shivering - it was growing colder in the room. And darker, somehow. “I was somewhere else. I’m not supposed to be here. Help me, please, I’m not supposed to be here.”

"I'm not supposed to be here either!" Zel snapped. Or maybe he was. Was this another test that God was throwing at him? Why? What sort of loving, kind deity would do this?

Homicide. That was one of the sins that cried to heaven for vengeance. By whom? For whom? For him? For God? He was being used as a weapon to kill, but he knew better.

He should have protected others by...

He should have been more careful. This wasn't God's test, it was his captor's. This wasn't willful murder on his part; it was willful murder on someone else's. Willful murder that he would bear the responsibility for.

"Please," Zel pleaded, "Just tell me. It's. We're not going to leave this place alive." He was certain of that, "But in case-- in case one of us makes it, we need to know each other's names. I'm Zel Trumble. And you are?" He tried, he tried hopelessly to keep his voice steady.

It was impossible.

“What do you mean?!” her voice was shrill, panicky as she backed away from him along the wall. “What do you mean we’re not leaving here alive? How can you know that? Who put us here?”

"I don't know!" He exclaimed, "Do you really think they'd capture us if they were going to keep us alive?!" Zel could feel water welling up, and he tried to blink it away. "Use your instincts, you know it too! We're--" He rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands.

His bones began to ache, his heart beat erratically, pounding in his head. His extremities began to shift, his skin felt too tight, stretched.  Zel wished. he wished he could run away from his body.

It was beginning.

If he lived through this, when he remembered-- he would not be the same. Nothing would be the same.

But nothing had been the same since the day he was bitten.

"I'm so sorry." He choked out, "I'm so sorry."



End