Weathering Death - yuuki_Illene - Katekyou Hitman Reborn! [Archive of Our Own] (2024)

Chapter 1

Chapter Text

⬶ I ⤅

“Mate, you can’t keep doing this to yourself.” Ron Weasley starts, breaking the silence in the room.

Green eyes, hidden behind thick frames and dishevelled hair, shift to acknowledge his words briefly before it turns back to the fireplace again, seemingly mesmerised by the flickering flames.

12 Grimmauld Place is as quiet as its owner by Right of Inheritance, is as silent as a grave.

Life appears to have fled The-Woman-Who-Conquered as she remains slumped in an overly large chair, her knees drawn to her chest, as though she wanted to curl into herself, shrink and disappear.

Oh, they see the shadows hidden in those jaded depths, the purple bruises underlying her eyes. Her chapped lips parted ever-so-slightly as if she was caught mid-scream, yet unable to utter nary a word.

She’s still bone-thin, ravaged by childhood malnutrition and being the prey of a long hunt, having to ration and starve, having to feed on bark wood and insects, if only it means she can stave off the inevitable hunger and thirst that eats into her body.

Her knitted cardigan slips off her skeletal shoulders and shows a slip of her collarbones. Against the low lighting, the shadows sinking into the gaunt frame darkens further, highlighting her pale complexion to contour her sharp, jutting bones, at her neck, at her elbows, at her wrists, at the ankles peeking out of the loose fabric.

Calluses have formed all over her hands. Her body is a canvas of scars, pain, and loss.

And the War.

How the toll had dug into her bones like claws, like the roots of Elder Wood, sinking its jagged edges into her marrows and hollowing her out. It feels like the dirt had wormed under her skin.

Heather James Potter feels like a barren wasteland of upturned soil and marked graves, of endless death and destruction and crumbling stone, of buried bodies with familiar faces, of untold and forgotten sacrifices that is etched but broken and damaged because of the betrayals, because—

“ I was never supposed to walk out of the Forbidden Forest alive,” the words ghosts past her lips, too soft, but her best friends catch her turn of phrase anyway.

She was moulded as an unknowing martyr, just a sheep raised for slaughter, a sepulchre reborn as the tenth month dies.

Hermione and Ron’s eyes redden. Hands that once trembled after she was tortured into near insensibility, hands that gripped onto metal bars and begged for the ones he loved to be spared, reach out to her and catch hold.

Heather flinches away from their grip, but not completely. She lets the tactile sensation anchor her, and for a moment, it almost feels like she can breathe. With them by her side, she felt like she could do anything.

“Out of everyone else, after everything you’ve been put through, you deserve to live.” Hermione tells her, conviction strengthening her trembling voice. “And if the world thinks otherwise, then it’s wrong.”

That startles a laugh out of the dark-haired witch, the sound of it brittle.

“You’ve done enough,” Ron continues, “More than, in fact.”

Is it though? Her jade green eyes ask as it meets brown and pale blue.

She thinks about the broken towers and crumbling walls of Hogwarts. The mad scramble as the Ministry struggled to differentiate between friend and foe while attempting to right itself and plug the holes. The long list of funeral venues that she had shuffled in and out of, the wish for peaceful silence like death to mourn, except she was blinded and deafened by the flashing colours, questions, and sobs.

The long-standing biases stemming from blood, the misconceptions that had been perpetuated for centuries, all laid bare at their feet, to criticise, to mock, but with helplessness and without change.

Most of all, she thinks about the orphans, the parentless children born out of the recent war, whose haggard and fearful faces remind her, painfully, of herself.

Wetly, Hermione says, “I’ve always thought that it was ridiculous that children had to be ones to make the final stand in the war.” The brightest witch of their generation still sounded smart as ever, but there was something distinctively broken in the acknowledgement. “That we had to be ones to clean up the messes of those who have always insisted to us that they knew better.

“But they didn’t, did they? They ignored your warnings and made you a liar; you were cursed like Cassandra to never have your true prophecies believed, even though you were in the centre of one.”

“I thought you hated divination, Mione,” Ron mutters.

“I do,” Hermione ripostes, tilting her chin up slightly. “Usually when Professor Trelawney teaches it. She has a sickle of Sight, but she was quite mad. The history, though, is fascinating.”

“If I can go about the rest of my life without hearing the words ‘fate’ and ‘destiny’ or whatever bloody synonyms there are, I’d take it gratefully.” Heather said, “Either that, or I hex everyone’s noggin off.”

The Chosen One thought she deserved that much at least.

“Ah, and so she finally speaks.”

“Don’t hold your breath, Ron,” Heather snips back.

Ron squeezes her hand, whether in warning or assurance, she didn’t know. “You were never one to stay quiet. Too much sarcasm and sass bottled up in your tiny frame.”

“It must be worth something, given that you’ve hardly won an argument when it comes to a battle of wits.”

The Weasley sighed in exasperation while his better half giggled. “Because Merlin forbids you from getting the last word.”

“You’re talking to the girl who told the worst Dark Lord to try some remorse for himself after they fought to the death,” Hermione retorts. “It’s practically her modus operandi.”

Heather shrugs, digging her bony shoulders back into the couch. “He should’ve,” she remarks quietly, “Perhaps it would have done the world some good.”

The other witch huffs, her bushy hair almost bristling with her annoyance. “Your endless capacity for forgiveness, whilst astounding, can be incredibly frustrating at times, Ather.”

She blinked owlishly in response.

“This.” Hermione gestures at her oblivious best friend to punctuate her point. “The fact that you’re clueless, the fact that you don’t understand what I’m talking about, makes me loathe all the adult influences in your life.”

Their heads lean on her frail shoulders, letting the fire crackle fill the sombre silence for a moment.

“You owe the world nothing, do you hear me, Ather?” Hermione says, fiercely. “You deserve to live for yourself, not by anyone’s rules or games.”

“But who am I, besides the player and the played?” She asks rhetorically, if a little sad.

Because who was Heather James Potter outside of the narratives made by other people, who was she when undefined by the rule of another?

The Freak didn’t know anything when she was younger and was battered under the Dursleys’ iron fist, the-girl-who-lived was confused as she fought to live and learn in the mad world twisted by prejudice, The-Woman-Who-Conquered is the survivor that death refused to claim, simply left in the odd limbo of existence without direction.

“Hey, don’t go all philosophical on me, that’s Mione’s job,” Ron teases halfheartedly. “Maybe… Maybe you should take some time and find yourself. Without anyone tying you down or saying otherwise.”

“It doesn’t matter how long it takes,” Hermione adds, “A day, months, a year… Take all the time you need. We just desperately wish that someday, you will look back at this conversation and comprehend what we’ve been trying to convey.”

⬶ II ⤅

“You should leave.”

Heather remembers Luna Lovegood telling her, the soft dreamlike quality of her voice, bespoken like an inevitable truth.

They were on top of 12 Grimmauld Place’s roof then, staring at the moving constellations on that dim night, the moon a waning crescent that barely outshone the other celestial bodies.

Luna had always known things, usually the first to reach the uncanny truths like she had already parsed out the meanings of the world and merely gravitated towards them, then imparting them whenever she deemed it necessary.

It was wild and unfettered, seemingly nonsensical without preamble, nothing and yet everything at once.

The crepuscular witch never needed the stories, justifications, or context. She knew what she Saw; her Sight unique, she believed in what she Knew; unfaltering in her faith.

When Luna Lovegood told Heather James Potter to go, to leave this gilded cage that compounded her in hyphenated names and tried to wrangle her into what she never truly was, it made Heather feel as though the invisible chains were slipping off her small body, thus freeing her.

It felt like she finally had the room to unfurl and rustle her once-bound wings, letting the breeze card through the mess of feathers and thorny bones. It was akin to a key fitting into the lock of her shackles, or one that cut into the imaginary noose winding around her neck.

She was never meant to be chained, oh no, Heather was a Cloud in the Sky, drifting along in white and greyish tints, undeniable with her looming presence and widely casted shadows, sometimes akin to a warning of a gathering storm.

She could be electric and dazzling, she could be devastating and poised, she could be described with many adjectives and be among the elements, but she was always bereft of choice.

So when she heard those three words, that’s all it took, before she fled into the night with the dawn chasing after her back.

For once she was directionless, but that was fine.

She wasn’t needed anywhere, not urgently anyway.

The world was her oyster and she could go everywhere.

⬶ III ⤅

Magical enclaves would never not be weird.

Heather chalked their eccentrics to ‘Wizarding Logic’ — yes, the subject matter deserved the capitalisation — because nothing could better explain the odd sensibilities that the enclaves had, besides the existence of magic totally skewing their perception of what was normal and possible.

The enclaves were so ridiculously insular in culture that Heather felt like it should be an elective to elucidate half of the things that puzzled her when she first stepped into the Wizarding World. It probably would have saved her from the many faux pas she committed over the years, but was now too above the traditions and laws to care.

Non-magicals may have moved onto easier fittings of jeans and sweaters, but Wizarding Britain was firmly stuck in the Middle Ages with robes and pointed hats . It was like they ceased to progress after they hid themselves under the Statute of Secrecy was established, and never saw the need to.

Hence, it didn’t even surprise her to find that Japan’s magical enclave was clad in kimonos and yukatas with flowing sleeves (since their kind always had the flair for sweeping dramatics), though the painted faces and rainbow-coloured hair made her pause for a minute.

By which Heather meant that she sat on an unoccupied bench in one of the busiest streets of the Mahouka district and stared into the middle distance like she was observing some kind of exotic creature.

Without her best friends to be her voice of reason, Heather ducked into the first cosmetic store she stumbled upon and proceeded to make more questionable life choices.

Don’t ask her why she chose a dark purple that looked almost violet underneath the sunlight, because all that ran through her mind during the colour selection was ‘no house colours’ and ‘something that wasn’t too bright’.

Except being the practical learner she was, she completely missed the fine print which stated that the colour she saw on the label and in the bottle might not be a direct reflection of what it would be once it was applied, and that it was best to get their own colour customisation and/or specification from the counter.

When the dark purple shade settled into her rat nest hair and green irises, the shock of colour she saw in the mirror in contrast to her pasty skin made her double over and laugh until the store owner peeked out from her station and stared at her like she had gone insane.

Alas, the verdict wasn’t out on that last bit yet.

After getting over her hyena laughter, the store owner came over and took in the array of scars dotting her features, before kindly introduced her to the wonders of different paints — like eyeshadows, blushes, foundation, and concealers — which Heather graciously hoarded after she was taught how to correctly apply them.

“習うより慣れろ,” the store owner advised in soothing Japanese. (Practice makes perfect.)

Makeup was, quite literally, magic of its own form, with the way it smoothed over lifelong and/or new scars.

Also, did she mention that the coloured contacts magically corrected her vision impairment as well?

Sure, she could easily fix her glasses with a simple reparo, but it would have been nice to have an alternative.

The British witch had never felt more disappointed by the fact that she hadn’t thought to visit the Asian enclaves earlier, or that Mahoutokoro hadn’t been invited to the Triwizard Tournament. She would have killed to know about these fantastic inventions sooner.

When she faced the mirror again after an hour of makeup lessons, the person in the reflection looked like a different person.

Her untameable and now purple hair was artfully tousled to the side and away from her eyes, leaving a part of her forehead consciously bare. Instead of scarred skin, her complexion was smooth and slightly paler, reinvigorated by soft blush on her cheeks and the darker contours that rounded her facial features.

What used to be signs of her insomnia were turned into an underline of dark purple that made her purplish-brown eyes bigger, the edges of the eyeshadow blurred out to give it a smoky and heavy effect. Her lips were poutier too, like it had been dashed with mulberry and wine.

The store owner clicked her tongue in approval and called her uniquely beautiful.

She then added a purple teardrop under her left eye.

When Heather asked her why, the store owner’s crimson lips curled into a gentle smile, “Pretty smile, beautiful laughter, yet wise and sad eyes. But what differentiates a cry from a laugh? It’s always good to have a reminder that you can express your emotions, child.”

“It’s a statement piece too,” the store owner added as an afterthought, hiding her smile behind a long sleeve.

Heather turned back to the mirror, eyebrows raised, to greet the familiar stranger again.

Statement piece indeed.

⬶ IV ⤅

It made sense to linger around Japan after that.

The country’s capital is a metropolis like London, and its countryside filled with rolling green hills, rice fields, and water bodies, but that’s roughly where the similarities end.

Unlike the smog bleakness and sameness that was developed from the golden age of the Victorian era, stretches of brick-and-mortar buildings with arched bay windows and carved balustrades, Tokyo was a vision in technicolour and large billboard signs, exteriors split between glass and decorative slitted wood.

She would occasionally find Torii gates and hung-up lanterns under and between rectangular buildings, electric lines along roads, interconnected railways systems digging underground that shake her boots when trains passed. Bright arcades and rows of gachapon machines were tucked in the strangest places, brimming with cheers and artificial noise, oftentimes so loud and blinding she preferred the refuge quiet cafes and strong black teas to calm her nerves.

It doesn’t taste like how they make it back at home, but the Briton makes up for quality with quantity.

There were whole new genres of books and moving animation too, made in broad strokes of pen and splashes of pale colours, brought to life on screen with voiceovers and drawn pages.

Despite being a strange duckling with her dyed hair, stuttering words, and foreign accent, it’s easier for Heather Potter to find herself amongst the crowd in this prettily packaged place. No expectations for the odd one out, no death threats pressing on her head, no titles and responsibilities to bog her down.

Funnily enough, it’s her questionable fashion choices — the random commitment to purple, dramatic makeup, oversized sweaters, ripped jeans, buckled boots, plus the motorcycle — that give people the impression that she’s part of the Bōsōzoku (biker culture).

She will forever insist that it was her Potter luck acting up when she gets adopted by a smaller biker gang, who had taken one look at her lost expression and her diminutive frame before they decided to claim her as their own.

It was fun though.

Heather learns that the motorbike that Sirius gave her was a literal antique and had it not been running on and kept together by magic, many parts would have failed on itself a long time ago.

(Which really begs the question: do magic and technology really contradict each other, or was it the way the energy sources were put together that caused the malfunctioning? The witch shelved the question for later to ask Hermione.)

Of course, it gives her all the reason to splurge on a new and modernised bike, a Suzuki DR650 to be exact, fully kitted out with a modified exhaust, adjustable suspensions, and custom tires. She ditched the oversized fairings suggestion that her leader insisted upon, more inclined towards a streamlined shape to help the sheer speed that the beast of modern machinery could reach instead.

It couldn’t accelerate as fast as her Firebolt because of how it simply wasn’t built for such speeds and it would burn out her engine quickly if she tried, but it was still pretty damn impressive.

Her new motorbike was a thing of beauty after the paint job, and she stuck with the colour scheme of white, purple and black. There were fading flames along the gas and oil tank, with a scattering of Latin rimming the edges, perhaps she could add runic sequences someday when she finally had them figured out.

If Heather Potter picked up some books about automotives and ancient runes, and traded in some time at the carshop for lessons on how to fix up vehicles and engines, well, that was only for her to know.

It was then where she met her second love too.

Stunt biking.

Chapter 2

Chapter Text

⬶ V ⤅

There was something to be said about Heather Potter and her self-preservation instincts, or there lack of.

Although it hasn’t been long since she started travelling (she doesn’t bother to keep count of the days), she comes to the quick realisation that what she constituted as ‘fun’ or an ‘adrenaline rush’ was terribly skewed.

She blamed Mouldy Shorts for 75% of it; the other 20% belonged to Dumbledore and every other influence in her life, while the last 5% was purely her.

During her first year, she had to steer a wobbling broomstick as she tried and succeeded in catching her first snitch. In her second year she drove a flying car into a tree and battled a Basilisk. Third year was arguably the calmest, but she also faced Merlin-damned dementors. Fourth year was when she outflew a dragon, lost Cedric Diggory, and was forced to participate in a f*cked-up ritual that probably shaved off ten years of her life. Fifth year saw a lot of detention with Umber-bitch and a trip to the Department of Mysteries she’d rather forget. Sixth year was a mess of revelations, both emotional and horrifying, before she had to run for her life.

The seventh… There were eight months of her life the-girl-who-lived badly wished she could forget. She wished she could forsake the entire year, all the needless pain and deaths, the constant fear of being hunted down and tortured, the agony when something inside her broke—

Anyway, when Heather caught sight of someone flipping 360 degrees on their motorcycle and landing, her first reaction wasn’t a gut twist of nerves, but fervent anticipation, as in I want to be able to do that.

Her biker gang looked at her incredulously when she cried out her praises and couldn’t stop her fast enough when she scrambled up the ramps.

The adrenaline junkie immediately asked for tips and tricks, swiftly working her way through the various stunts.

A motorbike was heavier than a broom and less flexible in its turns and swerves, but her mind and nerves of steel easily compensated for that. There’s mysterious strength lining her grip which she assumes is the work of the adrenaline pumping in her veins, and it helps her manoeuvre her automotive the way she desires.

She rode hard and fast, unafraid to fall, shrieking excitedly as she hung in the air before the inevitable drop of gravity pulled her down.

At the age of eighteen, Heather James Potter meets Death for the second time.

The 360-degree turn ends horribly as the front wheel slants and misses the landing, causing her to tilt with the weight of the motorbike. She crashes to the ground, side first, her helmet and head hitting the pavement with a sick crack. Her motorbike skids across the floor, the wheels still turning rapidly from the speed, with the faint hint of burning rubber and gasoline in the air.

There’s no serenity in this death.

She doesn’t see King’s Crossing ever again, nor is there anyone to greet her.

The death simply doesn’t stick.

To the horror of everyone who witnesses the accident, Heather Potter pushes herself off the ground after lying on her side motionlessly for ten seconds. She tilts her head like she’s popping a crink in her neck before she shucks off the damaged helmet to reveal her messy purple hair that was dripping blood and the bruise forming on her exposed neck.

Only the Master of Death knows that for those ten seconds, she was actually dead.

Her neck had snapped on impact and her brain was still haemorrhaging from the brunt trauma. Her skull aches due to the minute fractures and splintered bone that dug into tissue. Her breathing had stopped. Her heart was on its way to its last beat.

Yet everything in her body jolts back into order with a burning sensation, indescribable heat scouring through her nerves and injuries to “reset” and push everything into its rightful place, akin to extra cotton padding that soaks up the damage.

The magic (and flames) beneath her wounded skin holds her together like glue, anchoring her to the here and now. It’s too stubborn to be snuffed out, sparking with resolve even if there were only mere embers and charred parts left.

(Her Will is fated to raze everything that life is before she ever burns out.)

The-girl-who-lived would have screamed from the agony, but she’s been through worse; it’s pure reflex that she bites down on her lip and swallows back the shrill noise once she comes back to her senses.

She shoves herself up and takes a fortifying breath. Then without even counting down, she cracked her neck back from the side to face forward, before removing the constricting helmet with shaky hands. She thanks the lucky stars for her make-up which hides the pale sheen of death, though an ugly contusion still forms on her exposed neck, and blood trickles down her temple.

Her entire left side was sore and aching; she can’t be sure if she didn’t break anything else from the fall.

Nonetheless, the descendent of Ignotus Peverell clambers to her feet and pulls her motorbike up into standing position, whilst ignoring the pain shooting through her whole body from the strain.

Heather Potter may be limping, but she walks it off.

Everyone at the side-lines watches.

⬶ VI ⤅

A wiser man would have stopped.

But Heather Potter is young and reckless with little left to lose and she has stopped caring about whether she lived or died after she walked towards her death willingly the first time.

She had been reconciled then, as she turned the resurrection stone her palm three times, greeting her family for the first and final time. The blasted green light of the Killing Curse had struck her swiftly, but Death only wrenched out the piece that was never hers.

Death was beautiful mercy. It was a floaty sensation, blissfully free from the pain and discomfort that came with life.

Heather Potter knows she could have taken another train.

The only reason she returned to the living was because she had a War to end.

The second time…

She learns, with choking grief, that the sweet release would forever be out of her grasp.

(She treated Death like an old friend at the age of seventeen and they parted as equals.

But she held the three artefacts and owned them, once upon a time: the Elder Wand, the Resurrection Stone, the Invisibility Cloak. The Deathly Hallows were hers, accidentally mastered or not. She accomplished everything her predecessors didn’t.

Oh, it scares her that she isn’t dead, it terrifies her that she has become everything that Tom Riddle wanted, albeit unwittingly. For a hysterical moment, she wonders if Rita-f*cking-Skeeter was right when she pronounced her the next making of the Dark Lord in one of her senseless diatribes.)

She takes to stunt biking with a single-minded focus, trying and falling, trying and falling again. She ruins more motorbikes and landscapes, learns how to fix the former and gets the hell out of the dodge whenever she survives something she shouldn’t.

There was the Statute of Secrecy and then there was being an undying thing, a fact that she was increasingly certain of every time she came back to consciousness with broken bones and bruises that healed in less than a week.

Heather stops counting when the number exceeds seven.

She puts on more make-up to hide how she hadn’t aged a day since the Battle of Hogwarts (even Ron and Mione looked slightly differently now in their pictures), consistently dons fingerless gloves, leather jackets, long pants and boots to cover the growing collection of pale scars on her body, the only evidence of her freak accidents.

While in Russia, she firecalls Charlie and asks him where the best magical tattoo parlours in Eastern Europe were.

She proceeds to walk out of Romania with a phoenix tattoo that covers her right back, whose tail feathers curl all the way her front lower ribs.

The older Weasley nearly had an epileptic fit when he saw her new colouration for the first time, which was apparently doing a splendid job at hiding her in plain sight, because no one expects the Chosen One to wander the globe in purple hair and eyes.

“Thanks for the compliment,” Heather tells her brother figure dryly as she watches him roll all over the grass of the Dragon Sanctuary.

His colleagues were shooting them suspicious glances from the distance, but it was mostly directed at her since she didn’t have the Weasley red hair and their closest interaction with the missing wixen celebrity was probably an image of her in The Prophet.

“Pictures,” Charlie insists with a wheeze, looking drunk on his laughter as he digs around his expanded bag for the polaroid camera.

She rolls her eyes and obliges, posing with a large Chinese Fireball roaring in the background. They looked wild and wicked, if she said so herself.

Against her better judgement, she lets herself be cajoled into getting piercings as well, but that might just be the alcohol talking at that point because they had been going through bottles of Firewhisky like it was free as they waited for the tattoo artist to finish the fine detailing.

(She doesn’t even flinch once.)

It eventually turns into a debate of “how many” instead of a simple “yes or no” question, which is really all the evidence anyone needs to know that you should never put Heather Potter and Charlie Weasley in the same room.

Because they were both terrible enablers.

The dragon tamer bet that she wouldn’t have the guts to get an industrial piercing, even as multiple needles were prickling ink into her skin, and the fellow Gryffindor promptly doubles down and gets another two in her left lobe.

Both of them leave the tattoo parlour with additional eyebrow and lip piercings, simply because they thought that the other customer who walked in looked awesome with them.

(They had also been twelve Firewhiskey bottles in, courtesy of the tattoo artist whom she paid handsomely for his services, so more bad decisions were abound.)

Heather would like to argue that she still had some sense because she managed to extract a vow out of Charlie to not tell the other Weasleys. Well, not about her having piercings and tattoos, but that it had been a decision of impulse.

Molly and Andromeda Tonks were close friends, and the last thing she wanted to be seen as was a negative influence on her dear godson.

(Frankly speaking, she didn’t think Edward Lupin needed any corrupting; he had the blood of Marauders flowing in his veins but she was determined to ensure that it wasn’t her fault at least.)

She would be lying if she didn’t squeal when a picture of Teddy in bright violet arrived by owl though, and she carefully stores it in her treasured album, right underneath the group picture of her biker gang.

~

Dear Ather,

Purple hair and eyes, really? You’re absolutely mad.

Ron’s too busy laughing to give his two galleons, but I think I managed to make out the words ‘Pygmy Puff’?

Please stay safe. Charlie told us that you got a phoenix tattoo on your back. You’ll show us when we meet again, right? It must be beautiful.

Love,

Mione and Ron

P.S. Mate, you couldn’t have gone with red instead? You’re already one of us anyway, you should’ve made it official by adopting our colours.

⬶ VII ⤅

When an agent looks for her after a local stunt biking competition that she participated and won for the heck of it, to recruit her for a circus act , the actual witch was rendered speechless.

“Only you Ather,” she can hear Hermione saying at the back of her head, all exasperated and fond at the same time.

Honestly speaking, Heather Potter was also waiting for the punchline of the joke that was her life.

It was one thing to be called an animal for her shenanigans, but it was quite another to be a part of a literal circus.

It’s utterly ridiculous, but Heather has nothing better to do so she agrees anyway after mulling over it. For about three seconds.

“I’ll think about it,” she tells the agent, when really, it’s just an excuse to get her muggle paperwork in order.

It was easy to apparate past the border checkpoints like a rebel, but if she was going into show business, her paperwork needed to be ironclad.

She’d watch enough telly by now to know this, thank you very much.

Thankfully, the Wizarding World had been in the business of forgery ever since they established the Statute of Secrecy, although hers needed a firmer touch as a defeater of a Dark Lord, so she fell under the International Confederation of Wizards’ purview instead.

Complete offence meant; she didn’t exactly trust her own Wizarding government anymore after it had failed her generation numerous times.

Gringotts was involved in the process, of course, and they were still pissed about their stolen dragon.

It’s been more than a year and the goblins seriously needed to get over it. She paid the fines in full, twice over, damn it all, and it’s not like she complained when the dragon they blinded tried to turn her into chowder.

However grumpy, the Heir of Houses Potter and Black still pays a hefty sum for her alternate identity of Atheer Lilien Black. Who is still very much British, never graduated formally from high school, and would never be found in the yearbooks of the institutions she allegedly attended.

Her medical records state that she was allergic to snakes, jellyfish, and turkey, plus a whole string of extracurricular accidents. It was so oddly specific that the Gryffindor almost suspected that Madam Pomfrey had a hand in this.

Alas, the accidental bank robber is pretty sure it was just the goblins who were trying to screw with her because she was listed as male on her fake birth certificate.

She was the-girl-who-lived and The-Woman-Who-Conquered; one does not simply make such a rookie mistake unless it was on purpose.

Or well, if you were jinxed with a Confundo, turned ten times and tilted your head, maybe the photo she submitted of herself would look androgynous, somewhat.

Heather rolled with it anyway, since it would provide her additional security for her real identity for one. Secondly, it wasn’t like she particularly cared about her appearance, and she was too lazy to argue over her supposed gender.

However, it did make her feel a little bad when she had to cast compulsion charms on her agent Kaspar Zimmermann, who was shaping up to be a decent bloke the more she talked to him.

But if it meant that he wouldn’t look too closely into her feminine traits and accidents, she figured she could live with the guilt.

She will fully admit to embracing her morbid sense of humour though, because her stage name was nothing short of a middle finger to her greatest nemesis.

You-Know-Who was too dead to protest, but she felt that personal insults were fair game when the madman decided to smother babies in their cribs before they had a fighting chance.

Very childishly, Heather Potter settles on Skull de Mort—

Because why the f*ck not?

Tom Riddle was bald, practically burned his nose off, and had sunken red eyes.

He was basically a walking skull in black robes.

The only thing she regretted right now was not sending a huge dust cloud in his direction while she had the chance. It might have worked as a distraction too.

Sneeze on that, No-Nose Marvolo.

⬶ VIII ⤅

Skull de Mort slowly gains a personality of his own, the longer she stays in the persona.

Heather Potter loves him all the more for it.

The stuntman is everything she never got to be.

He’s childish and larger than life; loud in his dramatics, cheery and helpful like a fountain of sunshine that will genuinely ask for world peace and the end to world hunger at the qualifiers of a beauty pageant.

He indulges in anime, refers to himself in third person, and tacks on suffixes simply because he could.

Skull de Mort is an act that transforms from a side piece into one of the main attractions. He has an adoring fan base that chases after his feats, stunts that he performed on the regular, which he seeks to outdo at every chance he gets because he knows he has practised, he is skilled, he is confident in the execution of every turn and flip.

He’s an unabashed adrenaline junkie who always craves more speed.

He sneaks out to join illegal races when the circus breaks for the week.

It’s another kind of challenge to operate race cars instead of motorcycles, having to coordinate the gear shifts and pedals and clutch to predict the amount of traction loss and when the inertia is about to hit to gun down the gas pedal and go fast. It becomes muscle memory the more he plays, throttling the engine hard and burning tires as he internalises the importance of friction and grip.

His heart beats thunderously in his ears whenever he clutch-kicks into a drift round the dirt corner, pounds harder when he makes a risky pass on the right of his competitors, because all it takes is for one person to disrespect the rules before he’s pushed off the course.

But dangling between life and death is what he does, unrepentantly because he knows no Gods or Kings. He grins widely and madly with purple-tinted lips as if he’s never contemplated the possibility of dying.

Skull plays like every day will be his last, so wilfully irresponsible with his life that the trait counts as one of his greatest flaws. Yet he’s also a man of action who will complete whatever he promises—so take care of the dares you make for it is the devil you face—and he’s somehow a walking contradiction of obvious weaknesses.

He slings out his own painful history in casual passing remarks, makes light of the past as though it is the present that is truly the most important. He lets himself laugh until his sides ache at the silliest jokes, he gets carried away by crowds and the surrounding white noise, capable of tricking himself into thinking that the void inside her can be filled.

Skull de Mort is everything that Heather James Potter will never let herself be.

It’s strange to find comfort in a persona, but at the same time it’s not.

Skull de Mort is untouchable because he technically doesn’t exist.

Doesn’t have anything to protect, doesn’t have anything to lose apart from himself.

He’s a fluffy purple cloud that drifts in the sky and changes shapes whenever he pleases, too far for the sun, moon, and earth to reach.

He doesn’t really connect or attach himself to anyone, at least never in a meaningful way that leaves strings and broken hearts.

Is it lonely?

Skull isn’t sure.

But when the spotlights shine on him, the kickstand goes up. His motorbike revs loudly and the exhaust pops from the surge of unburnt fuel. The crowd cheers on signal, drowning out any concerns he might have had.

Visor snapping down to shield his eyes, he raises a clenched fist and the percussive boom of shouts shakes the whole tent. He feels the vibration through the soles of his thick boots, it’s muffled under his helmet but it’s all the encouragement he needs.

The showman is as real as people believe.

“Introducing the Great Skull de Mort, the immortal stuntman hated by death itself!”

Skull lets out a small snort and drives.

⬶ IX ⤅

While Heather Potter is powerful in her own right (because you don’t go head-to-head with a Dark Lord in a duel by being weak and helpless), she admits that she doesn’t have finesse or the right mystical beast to pull off an area-of-effect Obliviate like Newt Scamander.

Frankly, Heather was still crap at mind arts in general, be it her unwillingness to touch the subject because of the bad memories she had, or because she’s intimately aware of what it’s capable of and there are some masteries she never wants in her hands.

It was one thing to know and another to be able to use for her own means.

She wasn’t a saint, after all.

Granted, the witch still tried to practice Occlumency on her own, since there’s no reason to leave her mind undefended for someone to rip it apart easily.

(“Brace yourself now… Legilimens!” )

—But the-girl-who-lived knows herself.

Perhaps Professor Severus Snape was right when he said she wore her emotions on her sleeve. That her temper often overruns her rationality. She is aware she is incapable of shutting out her love, compassion, despair or grief. It was a people-saving thing.

Since she can’t stop herself from feeling, which was honestly the greatest hurdle to achieving the ‘blank and empty slate’ which was necessary for becoming an accomplished Occlumens…

She decides she would be every Legilimen’s worst nightmare instead.

If they liked casually violating the sanctity of a person’s mind, well, she’d let them read until they have a headache.

It started small at first, really.

Keeping a constant train of thought. It eventually evolved into a jumble of nonsensical details that she would pluck out from her surroundings, kind of like radio static running in the background.

Superficial and shallow thoughts run across the surface of her mind like an ever-changing barrier, which in turn, keeps her innermost thoughts safe in deeper wavelengths. Her precious memories (and horrible trauma) were trapped behind the steel walls of her self-made fortress.

She imagined the entire structure was as complex and puzzling as Hogwarts stairs and halls; no true rhythm to navigate the madhouse, too many secret entrances and pathways behind portraits, stone walls, and tapestry, some that led to deepest crevices and others to nowhere.

(There is a Chamber of Secrets where her worst nightmares and memories live, in a dark and gloomy pit surrounded by water. The place is zealously guarded by her ghosts, not Myrtle who died in the bathroom, no, it is the familiar faces who haunt the lower halls instead.

They’re not real, just fragments she cuts herself upon when she dreams of them, their spectres cold and intangible, but she takes their phantom presence in any way she can get.)

Heather didn’t have a physical place to protect anymore.

Hogwarts would always be her first home, but it has been sieged and it nearly collapsed from its own sins and mistakes.

She remembers Fred Weasley being laid to rest at the front table of the Great Hall, beneath the mixed tapestries of house colours and animal symbols. How Lavender Brown had succumbed to her injuries near the Forbidden Forest after being savaged by Fenrir Greyback. Colin Creevey and his ever-present camera, except so tiny in death when Neville Longbottom carried him into the Great Hall to lay him to rest next to other DA members.

(Something had been fracturing in her for a long time, but it was that fateful night where it shattered. The broken pieces were subsequently engulfed by grey and purples, a weak attempt to fix and propagate what No-Longer-Was, and that had been a cloudy day.)

Unable to stand the constant reminders, the Gryffindor had chosen to run instead.

She has given everything and more until she had nothing left to give.

All she has left are dregs of imperfect memories, stained in blood and spell light.

But Heather Potter still cradles those fragile shards and keeps them close to her beaten heart.

Chapter 3

Chapter Text

⬶ X ⤅

Skull de Mort

You are formally invited to

I PRESCELTI SETTE

Gathering of The Seven Strongest Flame Users

~*~+~*~+~*~

When Skull de Mort flips open the flimsy cover that is her tent entrance after a late-night show, the first thing she spots is the very conspicuous white letter on her table.

Well, it is as conspicuous as it can get for a pristinely white envelope in an otherwise red and yellow tinted tent that’s barely furnished save for the collapsible table, chair, and bed frame.

The circus people practically lived out of their luggage, of no fixed address, which was also partly why half of the personal space she was allotted as the main attraction was taken up by a spare motorcycle that was in the middle of being stripped down and rebuilt anew.

Motor oil didn’t smell nice and got on clothes too easily, but it was nothing spells couldn’t fix out of muggle view.

There were no owls perched on her bed frame, nor have her wards been tripped to tell her that someone had intruded upon her space. All of the possessions she didn’t really care for—her treasured belongings were tucked in the moleskin pouch that was perpetually worn around her neck—were still in the place where she left it earlier this afternoon.

Therefore, the letter was highly suspect.

Narrowing her purple eyes thoughtfully, Heather pads forward and picks up the letter between her fingers to inspect it carefully.

There was some kind of magic lingering on the parchment, but it was unfamiliar to her and shaded inburning indigo.

Not much remains out of her purview these days; for better or for worse, her sensitivity to magic has only increased as the days went by, and wandless magic comes easier to her, almost like breathing.

(The Heir to the Two Noble Houses tries not to think about the implications, about what might have brought about the change, and shoves into a neat box of lies that was her magical majority coming late.)

To be confronted with something foreign and new that escaped her senses makes her immediately wary.

There’s a recipient, Skull de Mort, it reads, not Heather James Potter or her muggle alias Atheer Lilien Black.

It’s not fan mail, because she explicitly told Kaspar Zimmermann to politely dispose of them since she isn’t really interested in building a huge reputation for herself when what she enjoys is the liberty to try out crazy stunts to satisfy her own need for adrenaline while doing it on someone else’s payroll.

She has had enough gushing and reverence-filled monologues to last her a lifetime, thanks. The same can be said for diatribes and offensive opinion pieces.

There’s no sender.

But the intricate wax seal at the back speaks of a certain class and age.

Sighing heavily, the teenager breaks the seal and pulls out the invitation card, blinking twice after she reads the contents.

She wasn’t good at Italian, but she knows that I Prescelti Sette translates to The Chosen Seven at least.

… And seven was a very magical number.

Moreover, what were flame users? Was that the source of the mysterious magic she sensed on the parchment?

She flaps the card to test it. It behaves as paper should, but she still gets the distinct feeling that it was a construction, something between transfiguration and conjuration, but somehow more stable and made to last.

After poking at the card for a few more moments, the witch eventually gives up and studies the contents of the letter instead.

The stated location was somewhere in Western Italy, except her circus had only travelled through the area without setting up shop in the lower southern reaches due to the Mafia activity happening there.

Carnies were an interesting lot with specific skill sets that might appeal to the underworld, apparently.

Her ringmaster had been rather vague on the details and Heather wasn’t all that interested in the inner workings of the criminal underbelly, so she didn’t bother asking more.

Her oversight might have been a mistake, and she gets the premonition that it will come back to bite her in the arse very soon.

The gathering date was set for the first day of the next month, which put three weeks in between now and meeting time—

But for whose benefit?

Whoever the Hel sent her the letter must have researched them if they were their Chosen Seven out of nearly six billion people on Earth, and she had a feeling the “Strongest Flame Users” was referring to some sort of power, even though she didn’t know what kind yet.

There were all kinds of magic in this world; Light Grey, and Dark being the most commonly used classifications in Wizarding Britain, but if you got into the nitty gritty details, then every magical being with self-awareness had their own brand of magic, there were Family-specific magics, tribal magic, green or nature magic, so on and so forth.

But if this person only knew her as Skull de Mort rather than Heather James Potter… Now that had interesting implications.

It meant that whoever was measuring people by their predetermined rubric had only noticed her very recently, but did not care about who she was before, just what she currently possessed.

Something that wasn’t apparent before.

Most damning of all?

The fine print written in cursive at the back: Come and you will find the Information you seek.

Not an offering of wealth or fame. Nor a promise of untold riches.

The sender was trying to lure her in by piquing her curiosity, that nigging part of her that told her she was different, of which she had been wilfully ignoring.

If the-girl-who-lived was still eleven and reckless, she would have wasted no time devising plans over summer break to get an international portkey and attend the meeting in Italy to see what the fuss was all about.

Anything was better than the hellhole that was the Dursleys anyway.

But The-Woman-Who-Conquered is eighteen and jaded, all too wary of words like ‘chosen’ and ‘fate’.

She knew the burdens and responsibilities attached.

She carried it once and died for it.

Staring at the parchment in her hand for a moment longer, she sets the entire paper ablaze with conjured fire, the heat caressing her palm and fingers without scorching her.

Once there’s nothing left of the letter, not even its ashes, Heather shunts the invitation to the back of her mind.

She had another stunt to plan and practice.

⬶ XI ⤅

Skull de Mort glares up at the bright afternoon sky.

For a second, she contemplates whether she should continue sitting on the gravel path that she’s been dumped on until the sun sets out of sheer spite for the nebulous sender that decided to dump her on a gravel path in the middle-of-nowhere Western Italy.

Well, it technically isn’t the middle of nowhere, she corrects herself after she turns and scans the landscape critically.

She had been apparated to the midpoint of a small hill, on a narrow road that splits the greenery apart, leading towards a small building at the top. The bell tower jutting out of the mainframe and the cross sitting on the ridge clues her in that it’s a church, presumably of Catholic faith since it was Italy, the home country of the Pope.

At the foot of the hill was a quaint village, bricked houses built and spiralling outwards from the heart of community buildings and shops, idyllic patches of cultivated flowers and produce enclosed by picket fences, while eastwards led to a thinly forested area where cows and sheep roamed.

Heather reckons she would have gotten lost trying to find this place without a little help from magic.

Not that it really matters now, seeing as to how she had been forcefully brought to the location.

It irks Heather Potter that she’s being made to do something she doesn’t want to do.

She had been expecting a rain of spam mail; cascades of letters falling from above to remind her of the appointment she hadn’t agreed to. Or maybe an army of screeching howlers, sent to attain her compliance through annoyance.

But there had been nothing after the first letter.

In fact, she had almost forgotten that she was supposed to be in Italy today, had it not been for the gut-twisting feeling that plagued her ever since she woke up this morning.

(Her danger senses were impeccable as per usual.)

Still disgruntled, Heather climbs onto her feet and brushes the dust of her ripped black jeans and leather jacket.

Thankfully, she had been returning to the circus from an evening stroll through the streets of Bangkok, so she was still dressed for company.

Scuffing her combat boots against the gravel, Skull makes a slow and steady ascent up the hill as she tests the air.

A formless pressure thickens the closer she approaches the church, radiating power and heat, like nothing the witch has felt before. She can sense six other individuals — it appears that she’s the last to arrive — who are so distinct that she could almost taste the colours of their magical signature.

She hums softly with the undertones, fiddling with the bespelled ring to ensure that the voice-changing charm is still intact before she pushes open the main wooden door and shuts it behind her.

The interiors were as underwhelming as the exteriors: cool and greying cobblestones made up the walls of the narthex, the distance to the front doors of the main building easily covered by a few wide strides.

Fixing a smile upon her face, Skull shoves open the front door, only to be momentarily taken aback by the main room of the church.

Instead of aisles of prayer benches, the large octagonal room was emptied out, with one lonesome circular table in the middle.

Afternoon light trickles in through the rows of the high glass windows, subtly illuminating its seated occupants.

They turn towards the source of the noise, their eyes scrutinising him as he stalks towards the only empty marble throne that is edged in purple, in betwixt red and indigo.

Colours of the rainbow, the stuntman realises as he sinks into his chair with much aplomb, scanning the others in interest and meeting their gazes fearlessly.

At the head of the table, a woman in white dress and orange trimmings was arranged delicately on her throne; she was lovely in her femininity, elbows braced on armrests and fingers interlaced and perched atop her abdomen, proud with life; her blue eyes are bright and clear and it contrasts the small orange mark beneath her left eyeline.

Beside her was a sinuous man dressed pristinely in a suit and a yellow-rimmed fedora, co*cksure confidence pervading his elegant posture as he reclines on his throne. The brim of his hat shades his dark eyes dangerously, the tailored cut of his clothes hugging his toned physique, vaguely revealing what appears to be gun holsters strapped on his straight and broad shoulders.

Skull tries not to let that revelation make him twitch for the wand that’s tucked in his sleeve, ready to be summoned at a moment’s notice, as he shifts his attention to the next person.

The next man in a green dress shirt is equally self-assured; his white lab coat sprawls across his throne and fills the space completely; a five o’ clock shadow shapes his angular jaw, and his spiked hair sticks out from all directions as if it was styled by electricity. He’s nascent as his fountain pen flies across the page and writes in cryptic code, not even bothering to hide the quick turns of his mind or the fact that he’s observing them.

The last woman in the room is considerably more guarded. Tension lines her shoulders and the hard set of her facial features, a perfect match to her ironed brown uniform and the rigour with which she holds her spine erect to ensure that it doesn’t touch the back of her throne. Her sienna eyes are sharp and fierce; evidence that she’s a soldier and fighter, but her steadfast loyalties only make her stand out more in a room full of pariahs.

The individual seated on Skull’s right is a genuine mystery; they are of indiscernible gender under their long black cloak, clasped together by a silver chain that falls loosely on their chest. The frayed hems sway despite the lack of wind, as if they were levitating and unhinged from their throne. What separates them from the others is the long triangular facial markings that run down their cheeks, like trails of blood under the right lighting, a few shades deeper than their indigo hair.

Last but not the least, the man of obvious eastern descent is clad in crimson reds, the billowing sleeves and the stretch of silk that makes up his changshan folded neatly across his throne. He smiles serenely, but it feels like a promise of a coming tempest with the mixed messages he’s made up of; his loose outfit cannot hide the explosive strength lining his muscles, nor the condensed violence he reeks in his titanium black eyes, as though he has forged himself in a fountain of blood.

In Skull’s head, he can hear his instincts screaming, telling him to run, to flee, that even the thrill of adrenaline should not be satiated like this.

“It appears that everyone is finally accounted for,” the lady at the head of the table says in English, “Welcome to the gathering of I Prescelti Sette, I am Luce of the Gilgo Nero Famiglia, the Sky.”

Skull lowers his head to hide the surprise flitting past his expression. Merlin help him, Hermione was going to hex him to kingdom come once she catches wind of the fact that he had gotten involved with the actual Mafia.

“Reborn, the World’s Greatest Hitman. Sun.”

The hysteria-fuelled urge to head desk grows stronger.

“Verde, a scientist. Lightning.”

Would you look at that, a normal profession.

“Lal Mirch. COMSUBIN military officer. Rain.”

“Viper, information broker, Mist. Any more information will cost you.”

Skull raps his fingers on the table, wondering what he should say. He clearly isn’t the only one who’s utilising an alias so…

He rolls his tongue over his lip piercing before flashing a wide grin. “The Great and Glorious Skull de Mort, the immortal stuntman hated by death itself. Haven’t had the foggiest why weather patterns are being named but assume I’m whatever you’re not.”

“A civilian?” The hitman mutters lowly, stressing on the word like an insult.

Alright then. Definitely not the wizarding sort, or else he would be ‘muggle’ instead of ‘civilian’.

“Entertainer by trade,” Skull retorts flippantly, then glances to his left to hint at the last individual to introduce himself.

The Asian maintains his placid smile, executing a formal bow before he utters, “Fon, martial artist and Triad enforcer. The Eye of the Storm.”

Despite the serenity he hears from Fon, Skull gets the odd sense that he’s bragging. Don’t ask him why; it has everything to do with a ferret face, just less haughty and more phlegmatic.

Based on the way a few people turn towards the martial artist warily, his guess is probably correct.

“Is anyone going to explain what ‘Flame Users’ mean?” Skull asks plainly, since he really wants to get this over and done with and hopefully never see these people again.

Verde looks at him sceptically. “You’re really unaware.”

That was phrased as a statement, not a question.

“Yeah, why would Skull-sama lie about this?” Skull responds, confused. “Look, a weird and vague letter arrived a few weeks back, had no idea what the invitation was talking about, so it got thrown away. Skull-sama was in Thailand minutes ago — just finished a show yesterday as a matter of fact— and someone teleported me here. Don’t know what’s going on, don’t want to be here, but Skull-sama is being forced to. A horizontal flat surface to lie down on would be nice, but clearly, we don’t always get what we want. Now, answers please, if you would be so kind?”

The showman is well-aware that he’s throwing out more information than necessary, but the other six are in as much trouble as he is.

Whoever arranged this meeting needs the seven of them specifically, and rejection was not a viable option. Trying to put distance between him and the problem clearly doesn’t work. Their only choice is to participate, and he’d rather be damned than go into this blind.

(Maybe the-girl-who-lived was a dunderhead who is slow to learn, whose six years of education is completely wasted on her, like Professor Snape had said. But she learns. Learns better than to trust goodwill at face value, to never go into a situation wholly blind.)

Luce smiles graciously, “Flame Users refers to a select group of people that are capable of manifesting Dying Will Flames. Yellow is the colour of Sun flames that hold the property of Activation, green for Lightning flames and Hardening, blue for Rain and Tranquillity, indigo for Mist and Construction, red for Storm and Disintegration, orange for Sky and Harmony. Skull, you possess the strongest Cloud flames in the world, which is known for Propagation.”

Skull scratches his bandaged cheek, “Propagation, as in the multiplication or breeding of things, or the transmission of motion, light, and sound?”

“It varies from user to user, and it’s more often than not that a user manifests more than one element, though the most dominant and most accessible will be their Primary while the rest are considered as Secondary.” The scientist cuts in smoothly as he caps his pen. “Every Flame User manifests their own unique ability based on their flame’s property, which is typically suited to the life-or-death situation that triggered it in the first place, hence why it’s called ‘Dying Will Flames’; a tangible expression of one’s resolve, albeit with more destructive elements. Besides the initial manifest, flame-based abilities can be learned or expanded upon. The only limits are one’s comprehension, reserves and flame purity; the greater the resolve, the higher the reserves and density of the flames.”

Verde was more forthcoming than he initially expected, but the wix assumes that this might be rudimentary and generalised knowledge for new Flame Users.

Nonchalantly, the stuntman tilts his head and says, “So you’re saying some crackhead decided that gathering the seven most strong-willed people in the world was a good idea?”

The subtle insult isn’t lost on the rest of them as they shift slightly in their thrones.

Aforesaid crackhead, who is clad mostly in black that bleeds into checkered pattern with gunmetal silver accents, takes that as his cue to join the party.

His cane with an engraved hilt taps on the floor loudly and his serrated white mask gleams with the uptilt of his head.

The room’s atmosphere changes instantaneously: Reborn and Lal Mirch whip out their pistols and open fire in his direction, Fon is out of his seat before anyone can blink, and eldritch tentacles claw out from the ground under the new attendee. Skull screeches theatrically and chucks his spare ring.

The bullets go straight through the figure standing at the altar, as do the tentacles and ring. The newcomer is totally incorporeal, that much is certain when Fon’s flying kick meets nothing, and he clears over the altar and lands in the apse chancel.

“My, my, it seems that this batch is full of hotheads.” The mysterious man muses.

As quick as Fon assumes a battle stance, he eases out of it swiftly too. He flicks his braid back before folding his hands under his sleeves again, calmly striding back to his throne like nothing has occurred.

“Batch?” Viper echoes eerily, “Mou, so we aren’t the first?”

“I Prescelti Sette, otherwise known as the Arcobaleno, are gathered once every few centuries. Hired for being the crème de la crop, to run all kinds of missions for the betterment of mankind.”

“You have a knack for picking people,” Fon asserts calmly as he settles in his tinged-red throne.

“Don’t I? We do have quite the menagerie of talents…” He replies gleefully, the tap of his cane interspacing every profession he lists, “A Sky Donna, Sun hitman, Lightning scientist, Rain soldier, Mist information broker, Cloud stuntman, and Storm martial artist.”

He stops a few feet away, in the middle of the nave before he covers his mouth with a gloved hand. “Pardon, where are my manners? Checkerface the Administrator, at your service. The deliverer of missions and the unbiased guide for all things Arcobaleno. It is your honour to be selected.”

The Vanquisher of Voldemort resists the urge to bare his teeth when he hears the phrase ‘for the betterment of mankind’ because it cuts too close to ‘For The Greater Good’. He digs his nails into his thighs and reminds himself to keep a lid on his temper.

The soldier ejects the loaded bullet from the chamber as she murmurs, “And what a dubious honour that is, when three individuals on the roster are seasoned murderers, and another two are non-combatants.”

“Signorina, you flatter me.” Reborn smirks, “I would find offence in your words, but you hold that gun in your hand so well.”

Checkerface ignores the Sun’s pointed comment, “A combatant has their uses; the same applies to those who are not. Not everyone is meant to serve in the frontline, Lal Mirch.”

That visibly strikes a nerve within the COMBUSIN instructor as her gaze freezes over and she knives him with a scowl.

“What mission do you intend on giving us, Checkerface?” Luce inquires politely before another fight can break out.

“How nice of you to ask, Gilgo Nero Ottava,” says Checkerface, snapping his fingers.

Instantaneously, folders appear in front of the seven.

None of them touched it, merely eyeing the thin folder with due suspicion.

“Your first mission is nothing complicated in truth, just a simple assassination. You may think of it as an ice-breaker before we move onto greater things.” He pauses. “You will be paid handsomely for every completed mission, be it in the currency you favour or something you deem of equal value. The last page is just a taster of what you may come to obtain. Of course, should there be any spoils from the mission, they are yours to handle and to keep unless otherwise stated.”

In a dramatic manner, Checkerface bows, taking off the hat on his blonde head before he sweeps his arm in a wide arc, while his left leg crosses behind his right.

“Live up to your greatest potential, Arcobaleno. May you find the treasures you seek at the end.”

His smirk screams of artificiality and unnerving vainness, so much so that it wrinkles the scars that decorates half of his visage, while distorting his mask into a crumpled sheet of metal.

None of them trusts a single thing that is coming out of his mouth, but no one gets a word in edgewise.

Checkerface fades out of the room like thinning mist, completely erasing his presence from the room. Were it not for the new bullet holes in the stone wall and the folders on the round table, it would have been as though he had never been there.

The room plunges into uncomfortable silence again.

Deep inside, Heather scorns him with a click of her tongue. Nebulous prat.

Chapter 4

Chapter Text

⬶ XII ⤅

The first mission goes as well as one might expect when you put six obstinate and highly specialised people together:

It was a Hecate-damned disaster of the highest order.

(For once, Heather Potter could confidently say that it’s not her fault that everything went to sh*t.)

Putting aside how the Prescelti Sette decided that an assassination mission would be a good opportunity to “blood” the only “civilian” in their midst, Reborn, Lal and Fon had not stopped arguing about who would take the lead even as they rolled up a mile away from the military base that was supposedly abandoned.

Well, Fon wasn’t arguing as much as he was throwing in passive-aggressive comments to fuel the fire, probably in hopes that the other two would rip each other’s throats out and save him the hassle of cleaning the blood out of his clothes.

(His changshan was made out of gorgeous silk and dark embroidered patterns, so it would be a shame if it got dirty. If Heather wasn’t having a pounding headache from their bickering in an enclosed vehicle, she might have asked who his tailor was.)

But in short, three mixed instructions, six individual wills, and one out-of-the-situation stuntman later, it led to the current clusterf*ck.

In the spirit of acting like a scared civvie and not being in the crossfire, Skull dodges into an empty storage room the moment he finds one and scoots into a dark corner so he can rethink all his life decisions that might have led up to this.

He was already a part of the circus, why did his Potter Luck have to throw him into a shady organisation too?

His breath stills when he hears the cautious patter of footsteps.

He doesn’t even bother to flip a coin to see if it’s an ally or foe, because he just knows .

Unsurprisingly, the henchman shoots him on sight.

It doesn’t even earn a flinch from Skull, but he does gift the henchman his best deadpan expression.

The henchman is understandably alarmed because his victim isn’t even cowering from the bleeding wound in his stomach.

He shoots again. Skull dodges this time.

Deciding enough was enough — and that nothing can really top the magical bullsh*t that was red flames flying out of punches and a single glowing bullet splitting into seven — the wixen sends a wandless stunner from the henchman’s blind spot, then flings the gun out of his grasp with a simple Expelliarmus.

“Skull-sama is so done with this madhouse,” he mutters, not twenty minutes into the first mission.

Admittedly, Heather Potter has had her fair share of botched-up missions, but at least she could claim that her break-ins were typically stealthy and well thought out.

It’s usually when she has to break out again that Murphy’s Law kicks in with a vengeance.

(Read Exhibits Department of Mysteries and Gringotts Bank for further explanation.)

Skull takes a peek at the hallway.

There are holes of varying sizes in the walls, screams coming down from the turn of the corridor, corpses and bullet casings littering the ground and splashes of blood everywhere.

What was supposed to be the assassination of five higher-ranking members of a neo-Nazi organisation has turned into a massacre.

The only saving grace to the lack of subtlety is that the other Six Strongest Flame Users have the competence to clean up after themselves, by which he means they just kill all their problems and call it a day.

It isn’t ineffective, but it definitely leaves a huge mess.

Skull steps around the bodies carefully to keep his combat boots clean, strolling in the direction of where he can still hear gunshots and groaning.

No one has explained to him how these flame things actually work yet.

The red flames are still eating into the stone foundations like acid, the green fire—Lightning—was related to electricity, but the scientist managed to turn it into a Protego somehow. Mist was capable of Constructing tangible illusions, although Viper seems to be an ardent worshipper of Cthulhu.

If Cloud flames propagate, could I technically propagate magic? Skull muses as he steps into a large room that’s decked out with bulky computers and screens showing static or surveillance.

Verde is already hunched over one of the computers while Viper hovers over his shoulder. Lal Mirch evidently has no f*cks left to give as her legs are thrown across a random tabletop, while one of the assassination targets cools a few feet away.

It’s the work of her shotgun, that much Skull can tell from the bloody hole in his chest, since Reborn prefers clean, burning shots through the head with his 9-millimetre pistol.

“Where is—” Another boom sounds from the next room, causing the bricks to collapse and reveal a half-naked Fon smiling maniacally at Reborn.

“Nevermind.” Skull resolutely turns around and ignores the scene. He wants plausible deniability. “Skull-sama didn’t see or hear anything.”

The COMSUBIN instructor sighs in resignation, “Ignore them, let them have their dick-waving contest. Better here than the middle of a city.”

“Mou, I’m not paying for any of the damages they incur,” Viper sniffs.

“This military base was decommissioned in 1950, shortly after the Second World War. Considering it’s been all but abandoned, no one will charge for damages unless they bother to launch an official investigation first,” says Verde. His fingers fly across the mechanical keyboard, “But there will be nothing left for them to find once the surveillance footage is wiped.”

“And after those two burn this place to the ground,” Lal adds dryly before shooting the stuntman a glance. “You seem to be coping well.”

After witnessing her schoolmates lying on the ground in the aftermath of the War, the-girl-who-lived reckons there’s no scene of carnage that can faze her anymore. It’s a callous way of thinking but she doesn’t know these people and her heart only has space for so many.

Neo Nazis, entities who come close to Death Eaters in terms of ideology, make it much harder for her to sympathise.

Instead of voicing those thoughts out loud, Skull settles for a shrug.

“Seen worse,” he says honestly, but doesn’t elaborate.

Lal’s expression distorts, which makes him wonder how she would react if he told her that he saw an already dead man with a parasite on his head burning alive when he was eleven.

Then, Skull grimaces as the urge to vomit rises up his throat.

He leans to the side—

And spits out a bullet, as well as some blood and mangled flesh.

“Why the f*ck did you swallow a bullet?” Lal asks incredulously.

“Skull-sama certainly didn’t swallow the bullet,” he replies defensively, “It doesn’t even taste that good.”

He was unarmed, not stupid.

“You got shot?!” Lal exclaims, her military boots landing on the floor in two consecutive thuds before she strides forward to check on him.

Even Verde and Viper are giving him concerned looks now.

“It’s already healed,” Skull protests as he backs away, unzipping his leather jacket to show the lighter-coloured and noticeably bloodstained shirt underneath.

If they want to judge him for the ‘f*ck The Police’ printed across the fabric (a spontaneous purchase he made at a thrift shop in America), then they should have at least allowed him to change before choosing to pile into the car for the long drive.

Lal observes the closed skin underneath the tear closely. The scientist was also out of his chair, leaning even closer to study the pinkish gunshot wound.

“So you just… spat out the bullet after getting shot in the stomach?”

“Well, it’s not like it could stay in the body, it had to be expelled somehow. The shot didn’t go through cleanly, you see, so spitting it out was the better option.”

Because why would he open up the wound again just to extract the bullet? It was unnecessary pain.

“That wasn’t the point of my question.”

“Impressive,” Verde interrupts as he pushes his glasses up his nose bridge. “How did you accomplish that?”

“Uh, my body just does?” He takes another step back as a precautionary measure, alarmed by the sharp gleam he perceives; it feels like he’s going to end up dissected.

“Don’t try that ‘it’s better to ask for forgiveness than permission’ crap. Skull-sama does not want to find himself on an operating table.” Skull warns.

Verdes tsks, straightening out his back to reach his full height. The man was bloody tall. “May I test a hypothesis then?” He fetches a scalpel from one of his coat pockets and offers it to him. “Make an incision on yourself please.”

Erstwhile, destruction still reigns in the background, and it’s anyone’s bet at this point if the other half of the military base has collapsed or not.

Although Skull accepts the blade the warily, he can roughly guess where this was going. His healing factor has been unnaturally fast ever since… That Checkerfaced weirdo had hinted it in the last page of his folder too, alongside a short summary of flame properties and possible abilities.

After taking off his left fingerless glove with his teeth, Skull pressed the sharp edge against his palm and dragged it along his skin until it bleeds.

Mere seconds later, it closed up, leaving behind the same pinkish scar and a familiar tingling sensation.

Skull blinked owlishly. “Huh.”

Verde grabs his hand and pokes it a few times, murmuring, “Fascinating. This confirms my hypothesis. You passively propagate on a cellular level. It’s similar to a Sun’s Activation, but it’s more limited and less organic.”

“English please?” Skull pleads politely as he snatches his hand back.

Verde saunters back to his stolen computer. “A Sun’s Activation induces and improves the efficiency of any type of activity. Reborn, for instance, subconsciously uses his Sun flames to stimulate his muscles and joints which heightens his bodily functions drastically, allowing him to move faster and I suspect, to process things at higher speeds. He applies his Sun flames to his bullets as well, activating the gunpowder quicker while imbuing more kinetic and heat energy, which makes the bullet travel further and faster without compromising the integrity of the bullet.

“Sun flames can also heal by triggering the platelets and plasma in blood cells to speed up the clotting process or activating the antibodies in our immune system to fight off common ailments or rare diseases. It provides the energy — acting like an external mitochondrion — to catalyse the reactions.

“Your Cloud flames, on the other hand, likely propagates or multiplies the fibrinogen found in plasma, as well as thrombin, which is the enzyme responsible for clotting. Your passive healing might even go as far as generating collagen — tough, white fibres that form the foundation of new tissue — and start filling in the tissue at a quicker rate so that new skin can form over it. The fact that your flames are reacting automatically and so rapidly is rather fascinating. I did not anticipate that Cloud flames could be utilised at a cellular level.”

The stuntman covers his face with both hands. In muffled tones, he says, “Skull-sama might need to propagate more blood to the head. Or brain cells.”

Because that long speech makes him feel like he got bludgeoned with a biology textbook.

“This is high school science,” scoffs Verde.

“School dropout,” Skull counters weakly. Also, I’m a wixen.

After all, who needed empirical science, when you could just point your wand at the wound and cast Episkey or Brackium Emendo?

With the amount of time the Gryffindor has spent in the Hospital Wing and listened to Madam Pomfrey’s medical lectures since he had nothing better to do, he could almost qualify for a career in St Mungo’s.

But his medical history sure as Hel didn’t prepare him for the muggle world and their advanced sciences.

⬶ XIII ⤅

Magic is a great life hack.

The problem with life hacks though, is that they skip multiple steps in between A to Z. You get the desired end product, sure, but it doesn’t necessarily mean you understand why and how it was achieved.

For example, why did baking soda help remove burn stains on pots? How does a generous amount of toothpaste salvage a scorched pan?

Skull still doesn’t know, and all that really mattered to Freak back then was that it worked.

In retrospect, it made sense now why Wizarding Logic was so Ridiculous with a capital ‘R’.

Because magic was based on intent and belief.

If you had the appropriate intent and the right belief, anything would theoretically work.

For example, the translation spell.

The wixen is aware that the translation spell works because it interprets meaning and intent (or so the Aurors’ Handbook said), while the mind pairs the information together with tonal and social cues to get the fuller context, but where did the ‘base diction’ come from?

How does one understand Mandarin in their native tongue after applying the translation spell, even when the former language is so ancient and convoluted, and could not be more different than English?

And that wasn’t even taking into account the double feedback yet.

As Skull de Mort sits on the couch next to Fon and Viper, watching Lal and Reborn argue in rapid-fire Italian, he learns that Romance languages are a whole different type of confusing to his brain.

See, European wixens are still fluent and conversant in Latin, a language that is well and dead in Muggle society since it has been relegated to the relic of time.

But most Romance languages developed from Latin, which means that his ears were picking up familiar sounding words and the translating spell feedback was telling him, yes, it originated from the root words he knows.

However, Latin didn’t have ‘the’ or ‘a’ article; its nouns weren’t engendered in masculine or feminine like Italian; word order was more regular and structured in Romance languages too.

It meant that picking up vocabulary for new Romance languages would be easy, but the nuances—like changed meanings in words, or idioms, wordplay and cultural context —would be completely lost on him.

Moreover, Skull de Mort, the civilian stuntman, isn’t supposed to be fluent in so many languages. Maybe he could pretend to be conversational in some, what with his attachment to a travelling circus that was practically a melting pot of cultures and ethnicities, but he had no claim to fluency.

Hence, Skull seats himself on the couch of the Arco Manse, wearing a bland smile which conveys ‘my body is physically present though my soul isn’t but please assume that I’m listening’. It is an expression he is quite proud of, perfected after years of being in Professor Cuthbert Binns’ history class.

At least this was more entertaining than the history of Goblin Wars.

He pops a biscuit into his mouth and chews on it slowly as he listens to Lal Mirch going into length about how much of an insufferable bastard Reborn was.

Profanities may as well be her first language, for she transitions from one language to another with enviable ease, but it also goes to show how excruciating Reborn’s presence can be, since she needs different dictionaries to make her point.

Ten points to Ravenclaw for descriptiveness and eloquence, the Gryffindor thinks in his best Snape impression.

Reborn is wearing his devil-may-care smirk as he responds, saying that he has never raised a hand against a woman, but he certainly has no qualms putting two bullets into the back of her skull and this is also largely dependent on whether she constitutes as part of the weaker gender.

“Wao,” Fon murmurs under his breath, appearing somewhat impressed by the slight widening of his obsidian eyes. The COMSUBIN instructor, on the other hand, was likely on the verge of exploding.

The martial artist is still bare chested, but Skull is starting to suspect it’s a choice rather than the lack of clothes. Fon has no need for inferiority complexes though, because he is made out of corded and well-defined muscles that are only being further emphasised by the dragon tattoo that coils around his arm and ends above his pectoral.

Wanly, Skull offers up his meagre packet of biscuits. Fon takes one and nibbles on it.

“Mou, where did you get that from?” Viper asks wryly.

Last they checked, the Arco Manse was only equipped with basic furniture. The fridge and pantry were not stocked at all.

“Stole it from the military base, s’not like anyone is going to miss the food,” mumbles Skull, digging around his leather jacket to look for the bar of chocolate he pilfered. “Want some?”

“…Where did you find the time to do so?”

“Somewhere between Fon and Reborn burning down the right wing of the base and accidentally setting off a second round of fireworks?” He guesses, unsure.

Verde snorts somewhere in the background. ‘Fireworks’ was a nice way to describe it, because they had drawn the attention of any living soul within a five-kilometre radius with the absolute spectacle they made.

“It was a magnificent display,” Fon states, as if he’s not half of the reason why they had to drive out of the area at full speed.

“A scene straight out of the fiery pits of Helheim,” Skull agrees, peeling back the foil so the illusionist could have easier access to the sweet confectionery.

Viper breaks off a chunk with their mist and floats it into their mouth. “Mou, they’ve switched to French now.”

They make it sound like they were channel surfing.

Purple eyes squint. “Did Lal just call The World’s Greatest Hitman a chameleon f*cker who should gouge his eyes out with a pistol bayonet and shove it up his arse?”

The wixen isn’t sure if he heard it right, to be honest, even with the translation spell assisting with the harder words. Fleur was a terrifyingly competent witch, but she was never this graphic with her promises of pain.

“And twist it 1800 degrees to turn his rectum into a screw sheath so his gaping hole is a testament to everything that is messed up about him?” The scientist translates without the slightest change in his expression. “Yes, yes she did. The logistics—”

“If you continue that sentence, I will charge you for psychological damages,” Viper cuts in firmly while the other two people in the couch slowly digest the words they just heard.

“That’s assuming you have any claim to sanity first, Mist.”

“Mou, would you like to test that? I could offer you a glimpse for free,” Viper retorts with a serrated edge to their monotonous voice.

The ground beneath the dining room table abruptly opens up to reveal an abyss. Shadowed tendrils creep up the scientist’s calves as though they are going to devour him whole.

Strangely enough, the darkness seems to twitch and slip off Verde’s form as if it was struggling to latch on.

The lights flicker with an ominous green.

“” Lal snarls, her Rain flames pouring out and drowning the entire mansion.

All of a sudden, it felt like they were trapped in a storm out at sea. Lal Mirch’s anger was a cold and chilling thing with its steely intensity, dousing and ceasing all ongoing hostilities.

“We already broke a f*cking military base,” Lal barks in English. “If you didn’t hear the instructions from Luce clearly, let me repeat it for you morons. We only have one goddamn house. Either take your stupid feuds outside to the forest or keep your arguments verbal, because you sure as sh*t aren’t going to fix what you broke. Capisci?”

“Capisco,” says the Italian mafioso, French scientist, and information broker of indiscernible everything.

The Briton nods his purple head jerkily. The Asian just smiles.

“We should have house rules,” Skull suggests thoughtfully after a moment of silence, completely disregarding the various flames that splutter and spark under the heavy Rain.

His own Cloud-inclined flames are wrapped around his magical core in a protective manner, he finds after some meditation. It is incredibly passive as it boosts what his magic intrinsically does, which kind of explains why he hadn’t noticed it in the first place.

Privately, he thought the way they flaunted and flared their Flames was odder than his own contained stillness, since witches and wizards were measured by self-control and precision as they built their reserves with age.

On the other hand, flame users seemed to content themselves in spilling their soulful aggression everywhere like psychic vandals, their fires constantly fanning out like parading peaco*cks.

If they want their flame signatures to be read so easily, that was their problem.

“Oh,” he adds because this was Extremely Important to his future security, “Dibs on the highest room or the one at the end of the corridor.”

To the surprise of no one, another argument breaks out.

(Skull de Mort gets the room he wants anyway by being a snake sneak.)

Chapter 5

Chapter Text

⬶ XIV ⤅

No matter how well-adjusted Skull de Mort appeared to be among a room full of murderers and people with questionable connections, it’s still quite jarring to be thrown into another secret society without prior warning.

It’s a good thing that the-girl-who-lived is used to being dumped into the deep end of the pool, head completely shoved under water and left choking for air, until she has nothing but her instincts to tell her how she might survive.

Heather James Potter is a girl turned woman through the baptism of blood and death; she was driven and very nearly drowned in those murky depths but the depraved stubbornness in her lion’s heart burns until it spread to the rest of her chest. It fuels her leaden limbs to wade and thrash until she has found pockets of air, to offer the tiniest reprieve to her oxygen-starved lungs, to taste something else besides the salt and iron on her tongue.

She has suffered worse odds; as bitter as the revelation is, it is comfort as well.

In her heavily warded sanctuary in the Arco Manse, she rests her head against the bed frame, her fingers idly scratching one propped up knee.

Opened books and information sheets were strewn all over the floor like a Hurricane Hermione had swept through a week prior to their OWLs.

Lazily, Heather waves her hand to float the Mist-drenched book, which introduces the seven elements of the Dying Will flames in finer detail, a few metres away from her face.

The book cover is clearly printed in Italian, but through some genius flame work, Viper managed to alter and translate the contents into English.

Her green eyes linger on the page about Clouds.

A drifting Cloud, who cannot be bound, Protecting the Family from an independent standpoint.

Violet Cloud flames are the second rarest flame type after Skies.

Clouds are known to be antisocial, territorial and bloodthirsty.

Capable of incredible loyalty but have the proclivity to baulk when demanded to do something they are not wont to.

Scoffing at the description, the Gryffindor tosses the book back onto her bed, to stare at the painted constellation night sky on her ceiling instead.

If there’s anything she’s learned in her six formative years in Hogwarts, it is that Houses and Classifications do not make a whole person.

She only needs to look at the collection of misfits occupying the Arco Manse — the strongest of the strongest — to know that people cannot be simplified down to adjectives or characteristics.

They are complicated moving pieces and walking contradictions; they merely value some traits more, or are inclined towards certain types of behaviour, and it is a human flaw that they prefer to put people in neatly scripted boxes and treat them as a one size fits all.

(It makes her think of her battered brigade of defiant survivors from the DA.

How she taught them the value of Teamwork and Loyalty because numbers and looking out for each other might be the deciding factor against a more experienced spellcaster. Told them that it plays to be underestimated, that Cunning is just another word for Strategy, that Self-Preservation is never wrong because she wants them to come out alive. Reminds them that there is a fine line between courage and recklessness — for she has dearly paid for her mistakes and came out worse for it — that Intellect is held in esteem, but it should never make them hesitate as they ponder over their options.

Simple spells can accomplish great effects. Fair play only serves those in power who can afford to change the rules. Be merciless because kindness to the prejudiced enemy is cruelty to oneself.

Please, just please don’t die.

The-Woman-Who-Conquered had placed wands in the hands of those with smaller statures and braced their spines with her palm. Whispered their fears into their ears, told them to keep their head straight and feet shoulder width apart as she taught eleven-year-olds how to permanently disarm.)

It is incredibly ironic, Heather thinks with a hint of hysteria, that she would rather give her back to two individuals with obvious machinations than trust a field-trained soldier, supposedly duty-bound to protecting ‘civilians’.

For there are cracks and holes in her mind fortress caused by rats, toads and benevolent but negligent figures, damages she refuses to acknowledge even on a good day, but she can't make herself ignore the painful lessons learnt about pretty lies and ugly truths.

After everything, she takes the latter willingly, every single time, even when it hurts her.

(At least she died with eyes wide open, ready to confront what lies afore.)

Maybe it’s because the Mist and Lightning are the easiest to understand out of everyone she’s met this past week.

If every element is prone to their own ‘Fixations’, a symptom of their overwhelming resolve which ignited their flames, then the former is wrapped up in money and information, while the latter is fanatical about research and sciences.

The miserly Mist will never allow themselves to be placed in debt and let someone else have the upper hand, they will always keep everything transactional in the contractual black and white.

It must be a hard way to live, always remaining on the other side of clearly set boundaries, but Viper, who lives up to their cunning namesake, seems content to fiddle with the constructed lines and strings.

They make themselves untouchable by possessing a wealth of information that no other Famiglia can hope to match, spinning themselves an elaborate web in the world’s underbelly, always tuned to the vibrations of incoming threats.

But their silence and loyalty can always be bought, and the Heir to two Noble Houses will have no trouble ensuring that she will be the highest bidder and an ever-faithful paying customer.She already has her full inheritance (and technically two more vaults by Right of Conquest). The reparations to Gringotts barely made a dent in her coffers, since the Ministry and wider public had seen fit to recompense her for the fines.

Her dubious status as the Strongest Cloud guarantees another layer of leverage against other bidders, or at least it will until Viper presumes that they have gathered enough information about the stuntman.

It helps that Viper’s information is well worth its price in premium too; the information she desired about Dying Will Flames is as detailed as it can get within a short period of time, with different perspectives from other continents and verified studies to back up the claims.

For a Mist, their reality is monochronic and pragmatically capitalist yet fantastical at the same time.

Flame psychology states that a Mist’s reality is often twisted and incomprehensible, their imaginations distorted to suit their own Construct and made to bewilder.

But the wix knows that the basis of every illusion is a firm anchor in the Real and Self; for without a deep comprehension of reality, logic and identity, they cannot weave believable phantasms.

(And the best lies are the ones with a modicum of truth in them.)

The self-named snake is dangerous with its watching eyes and toxic fangs, but at least Heather knows where they stand.

Verde, on the other hand, is best described as a scalpel; his knowledge is similarly used for the cutting.

It doesn’t surprise her when she sees Verde — or his pseudonym — in a few studies. His bona fide achievements make an impressive list, and he wears his genius intellect in every stitch of his lab coat.

The next coming of Leonardo Da Vinci, they call the Strongest Lightning, who’s widely known in the underworld for his breakthroughs in Flame Tech and thermodynamics.

But Verde is terrifying when his eyes gleam green (similar and yet so dissimilar from the Dark Lord’s reds) because his indifference is undisguised. He equates everything to a test subject that can be experimented upon. He dissects, pokes and injects to observe what reacts, then finds the answers to the how and why.

Through his glass frames, the world is simply a jumble of data that he must decrypt.

His Fixation on knowledge is obsessive to the point of callousness; boundaries can be bent like the laws of physics, what is broken can eventually be fixed or abandoned, and there no such thing is failed experiments, only progress until success.

(But he neglects the fact that humans can bend and will break.)

It is unnerving to be under his scrutinising gaze, to be judged as a thing rather than a human being with autonomy, but at least the general turns of his mind are easy to understand, and he never feels the need to hide his motivations.

The nonlethal pact that the Prescelti Sette collectively agreed to sign helps. It won’t exactly stop the scientist from trying to carry out invasive procedures but at least he will try to obtain their consent first.

Not that Heather trusts a vow that isn’t sworn on magic…

Regardless, the heavy magic saturation in her own room would safeguard her secrets and body from any harm. The witch has no troubles frying any surveillance equipment by releasing sharp bursts of magic to sweep the area.

Most importantly of all, Verde is fully cognizant that he has stepped into a den of predators.

Lone wolves dressed in human skin.

If he wishes to risk his limbs for experimentation, that was his prerogative.

⬶ XV ⤅

The rest of the Prescelti Sette are harder to decipher, but their hierarchy gradually falls into place.

Reborn is the undisputed leader because his ego rivals the Sun and god forbid anyone saying otherwise since they will only get a pistol shoved down their throat.

The rest of them couldn’t care less about where they were placed — what with different specialisations and apples and oranges — as long as they were not dead last (that went to Skull without debate, which made the ‘civilian’ sighed in relief).

The only person who tried to fight the pecking order was the soldier in their midst.

A soldier who had earned her ranks as a COMSUBIN commander.

Lal Mirch is the voice of their sanity, is their ultimate bottom line. She cannot possibly control Reborn’s chaos making — no one can, honestly — but she is necessary order in this whole madness.

It’s not because she functions like clockwork— heavy footsteps trudging down the stairs at 6AM sharp to start the slow but meditative process of grinding down coffee beans for her daily brew, then running around the mansion perimeters and finishing up her stretches at the front steps, or consistently decompressing in the evening by meticulously polishing her firearms—

No, it is something more fundamental than that.

She is fluid water that evaporates under the sun and condenses into clouds in the upper atmosphere before inevitably falling to the earth again in a heavy downpour.

There is an unquestionable and unyielding rigidity that she holds herself with, like an immovable mountain, one that they can lean upon when they need a second opinion, or for someone to set them straight.

To Skull de Mort, everyone is a senpai and Lal is Sir.

Hence, when she slaps his back and tells him that they’re going to test his marksmanship, Skull simply nods and says yes.

Lal drives the stolen jeep since none of the Arcobaleno are willing to let the stuntman drive unless it is a life-and-death situation. They may have activated their Dying Will flames, but they don’t need to see their lives flash before their eyes that many times over the course of a ride.

There’s no radio because Verde cannibalised the parts, so the three of them are left to stew in awkward silence.

Instead of engaging in an uncomfortable stare-off with Reborn, he takes the time to wonder why he is tagging along. After all, the day the hitman willingly teaches anyone gunmanship is probably the day the apocalypse befalls upon them, if their local Chaos God wasn’t the one who caused it in the first place.

He gets his answer as soon as they turn into a fenced outpost that has the words “COMANDO RAGGRUPPANMENTO SUBACQUEI E INCURSORI TESEO TESEI” printed on a steel plaque.

They need to shorten the name, is Skull’s first thought.

Reborn glances out of the window and whistles, “I’ve never been here through legal channels before.”

The COMSUBIN instructor’s brow twitches as she inhales deeply to calm herself. Whereas Skull slides further down his seat and wisely stays silent, getting the unshakable feeling that Lal may have been forced to bring the hitman.

Actually… Did they have permission to enter the government facility? As a British wix, he was a foreign national twice over, right?

In any case, the two people who aren’t in uniform share a healthy disregard for authoritative figures, so the notion of getting permission is just an afterthought.

Lal will protect them. Probably.

When the jeep pulls up at the security check, the soldier on duty takes one look at Lal Mirch before he immediately straightens his posture to give her a picture-perfect salute. Then he lets them in without even questioning why the f*ck there was a purple-haired clown and a classically dressed mafioso in the backseat.

Used to their compliance, Lal returns a sharp nod and steers deeper into the military compound.

Each and every flame user who was given a seat at the Arcobaleno table is dangerous.

Heather James Potter knows this.

A hitman like Reborn is dangerous because he has honed every inch of himself into a living weapon, his dagger-sharp smirks, lazy tilts of his fedora, and smooth baritone voice, are modulated and controlled to lure in his targets for the clean execution.

But it is much easier to use a gun to kill a person because there’s cold and steely detachment behind the curved trigger, the thought and action as simple as flicking off the safety and opening fire.

The ruthlessness and indifference attached though, that’s what makes people fear the World’s Greatest Hitman.

He takes little pleasure in the actual kill but loves the thrill that comes with a good challenge, in addition to the artistic horror of flaunting his own trademark on prolific victims; he is an apex predator that has clawed out a piece of his own territory in the underbelly of the beast.

He owns his callous cruelty and thrives in the world of decadent corruption, all too willing to take anyone out in this dangerous game, for the right price.

(He has come far from the shaken child who accidentally murdered a thug at age six in a dark and forgettable alley, from the young novice whose innocence and inexperience were exploited till he found himself among the worst company.

But a bastard who was born in the slums had so little to lose besides himself, and the only way for him to go was up. Wanting to become the best just came naturally as a goal when he realised that he wanted to be untouchable like his given element.)

Secretly, Skull thinks Lal Mirch is more terrifying than the hitman, because she inspires faith and genuine belief.

And he has witnessed what faith and belief can do to people.

When the strongest Rain marches through the courtyard, there’s a subtle shift among the uniformed men: their heads tilt towards her in acknowledgement, gazes lingering, rustling as though they wanted to approach but didn’t dare to, before opening up a path for her to cross while remaining respectfully silent.

(Then old memories, ones that do not belong to witch, come unbidden. False promises were once whispered into the ears of the antediluvians and their impressionable children in isolated enclaves, painting an image of old grandeur and traditions rising up again, whilst muddied blood pools beneath their feet as nourishment to their growing power. At the centre of the crafted image is a charismatic man; dark haired, powdered skin and ambrosia-red eyes, black robes hiding the bottled sin of a desperate woman and the deepening degeneracy of a fallen house. Except like his progenitors, he eventually disintegrates into amorality and paranoia as he willingly rips apart his own soul in a bid for foolish immortality.

Through the eyes of others, Heather could see why they might have chosen to join his cause, then why they had stayed as the mark of the skulled serpent burrowed into their skin.

In her last moments, the girl-who-died remembers the way the Dark Lord’s followers tried to hide their trembles behind the tight grip of their wands – as if vigilance would save them when they have already sworn themselves to his punishing crusade – while giving the monstrous-looking man a wide berth because they were afraid that they would catch his gaze.

But, oh, Voldemort revelled in their fear, seemed to carry himself on the high of their helplessness, the twist of his sallow lips all sad*stic—)

Skull de Mort snaps back to his reverie once he senses a blue and burning projectile hurtling towards them, or more specifically, Lal Mirch.

The instant the flash of blonde reaches the COMSUBIN officer, she wastes no time grabbing his outstretched hand and throwing his whole body over her shoulder and onto the ground.

Her heel immediately stomps down on his chest, her standard issue pistol easily fitting into her palm as she points it at him.

At the side-lines, Reborn steps back and watches on in amusem*nt while Skull winces. He’s wearing combat boots too, but Lal’s were heavy duty.

“Instructor, why!?” The soldier lets out a plaintive groan, but his wide grin betrays him. He’s used to this. What a masoch*st.

“You weren’t supposed to be here, idiota!” She snaps back, breathing out heavily as she holds herself back from giving him a further tongue lashing.

Regardless of her restraint, the implications in her words don’t go unnoticed by the Sun and Cloud as they focused their attentions on the newcomer.

Tilting his purple head curiously, Skull stares into middle distance— rather, where the hidden blue flames radiating off their forms seem to connect and swirl around each other.

Both of them are undoubtedly Rains, and they could not be more different in personalities, one stern and the other carefree, yet they complement each other in the strangest ways.

The answer to their dynamic hovers on the surface of Skull’s mind, just out of reach, as he observes the ensuing argument between the two soldiers. It’s achingly familiar.

“Why did you take a military leave from work, kora? You don’t ever take leaves.”

“That’s none of your f*cking business.”

“It totally is kora! The last time you took a leave was when you were convalescing and the doc had to—!” Before he can finish his argument, Lal shoves her pistol into his mouth.

Heedless of the obstruction or the heavy taste of metal on his tongue, the blonde-haired soldier blabbers on, incoherently.

Deeming him a lost cause, the female commander yanks her pistol back in disgust and wipes away his saliva on his cheek. He whines.

“A Labrador puppy,” Reborn muses in his steady cadence, drawing a chuckle out of Skull.

The Sun’s comment doesn’t go unheard as cerulean blue eyes snap towards them.

“Who the f*ck are you two, kora?!” He finally asks.

“Very protective and very jealous,” Skull affirms in an aside, grinning.

“” Lal pinches her nose and prays for patience that does not exist. Grabbing her errant student by the ear, she drags him towards the shooting range, ignoring his loud protests as she goes.

⬶ XVI ⤅

“Sergeant, you need to learn to keep your trap shut,” Lal berates the blonde soldier once she gets everyone else to clear out of the second floor.

The shooting range is less wide than what is available on the first floor, but there are firing lanes and the targets are positioned much closer.

Inwardly, Reborn wonders why Lal even bothers to hide the soldier’s name when the patronymic ‘GRILLO’ is emblazoned on his stitched name tag. If the hitman was feeling feistier today, he might have even tried for the dog tags that were clearly hidden under his military fatigues.

Sergeant Grillo, now released from his instructor’s punishing grip and right ear red to show for his struggles, crosses his legs from his position on the ground and pouts.

“But why? Because of them?” Grillo questions, shooting the Mafioso and stuntman an accusing look. He’s speaking in Arabic now, but the wix has no issues understanding him since his industrial piercing is spelled with a translation charm.

The spell has been seeing a lot of use, since the mansion is constantly filled with a baker’s dozen of languages.

If Reborn understands the middle eastern language, he gives no indication of it as he inspects the shooting range with an approving expression.

Lal’s scowl deepens in response.

“This isn’t the time and place to talk about this.”

“But you just up and disappeared last month! The Commodore said—”

“The Commodore knows nothing,” Lal bites back harshly. “And I hope to god you have better sense than to ask your superiors about sensitive information, idiot student, otherwise I will put you through the f*cking wringer.”

The COMSUBIN officer breathes out and rubs her temple in frustration, “Quit sticking your nose into places you shouldn’t be in, Grillo. You don’t have clearance for this.”

Before her blonde student gets another word in edgewise, she turns towards Skull, who was looking away politely, to signal the end of the conversation. He's a bad liar, but at least he has tact.

Handing him one of the older standard issue handguns she snagged on her way up, she switched to English and said, “This is a semi-automatic Beretta 92SB Compact that uses a 9mm Parabellum cartridge. It’s a double-action pistol, has a short recoil, fully ambidextrous with safeties on both sides, and it has an easier magazine release button than older pistols.”

Skull takes the gun warily, careful to keep his index finger off the trigger.

Honestly, he has no sodding clue what just came out of Lal Mirch’s mouth, and he hopes that his confusion isn’t obvious on his countenance.

While he’s thankful for her vote of confidence, he doesn't know the first thing about firearms, besides the fact that they are really loud, and that he should dodge bullets like he does spells. By Morrigan's name, the wix already struggles with wand lore and he never tried to deepen his understanding on the subject beyond the basics, because the construction of one’s wand is private and sacred information, best left for the ears of the maker and caster alone.

The notion that she is just… describing every detail of the gun to him is strange and disorienting.

Pleased by the caution she sees, Lal continues, “There are five basic rules to handling a firearm. One, treat all guns as if they are loaded. Always assume the gun is loaded even if you know it isn’t, and it is important to check if a gun is unloaded before you use it.

“Secondly, keep the gun pointed in the safest direction. Don’t swing it around like an idiot. Don’t posture with it.”

Immediately, Skull points his gun to the ground.

This is familiar. Almost like holding a wand.

“Keep your finger off the trigger until you are ready to shoot. Even if it’s more comfortable to rest your finger on the trigger, don’t do it; you could risk pulling the trigger on accident.

“Be certain of your target, the line of fire, and what lies beyond your target, because if your bullet goes through or misses the target, it could easily strike a person or an object.

“Last but not the least, know how to properly operate your gun— how to load and unload it, how to clear a malfunction, what kind of bullet it uses, since not all guns are mechanically the same.”

The COMSUBIN instructor sidles up to him. “Hold the gun with both of your hands, the heel of your non-dominant over the exposed portion of the grip while your thumb rests under your right thumb like so.” She demonstrates with her own pistol.

“Grip it firmly, but not too hard. The two-handed grip may feel odd, but it’ll lessen the recoil.” Then she shifts into the correct stance. “Keep your legs shoulder width apart and bend your knees slightly. Extend your arms right in front of you and aim with your dominant eye.”

Skull follows her instructions accordingly. He breathes in and out. His heartbeat slows.

“Make sure the rectangular notches at the top line up to your dominant eye, towards the middle of the target. That’s your line of sight.”

Then Lal holsters her own gun and makes the last adjustments to his posture. “When you’re ready, pull the trigger.”

There’s no hesitation when the wix opens fire. The recoil from the pistol takes him by slight surprise, and while the earbuds muffle the noise, the whole process is still awfully loud.

Subtlety is clearly lost upon modern weapons; this is much louder than firing an explosive spell.

Skull blinks and angles the gun slightly, his fingers gliding over the textured grip and the metal of the barrel. He hums as he weighs the gun in his hand, before glancing up at his target.

His first shot had landed between the eighth and ninth ring.

A pistol very different from the slim and sleek feel of holly wood, less intuitive, and less versatile in terms of general utility, but Heather can recognise it as the tool that it is meant to be.

It can be a murder weapon. Or used in self-defence.

Aim might be slightly off, but it’s nothing that can’t be fixed with practice.

Erstwhile, the other three sharpshooters are blatantly staring at the stuntman. They want to comment – Reborn with a scathing remark that he could have done better, Grillo with encouragement, and Lal Mirch with the simple command to keep firing – but they remain silent as they get the sense that Skull is assessing his own performance.

The Cloud is quiet and contemplative for once.

There is no fear present in his following actions.

As naturally as breathing, Skull brings up the weapon again and fires the remaining bullets in a quick and steady succession.

The blonde sergeant gawks slightly. Lal Mirch smirks with vicious amusem*nt.

In spite of himself, Reborn raises an eyebrow, somewhat impressed.

Nine clean shots through the bullseye definitely can’t count as ‘beginner’s luck’.

“Maybe there’s something worth salvaging about you after all,” Reborn drawls, his expression hidden under the brim of his fedora.

Alas, the moment is immediately ruined by the World’s Greatest Stuntman.

(The Leader of the Arcobaleno will come to learn that this is a bit of a trend.)

“Eh, sempai, did you just compliment me?” Skull gushes, purple eyes bright. For that extra theatrical effect, he even presses his hand to his heart.

And well, Reborn prefers to live his life by two very simple rules: always be honest to himself, and if all else fails, just shoot the person or thing that is annoying him.

He may lean heavily towards the latter, but he’s also of the belief that the target of his ire deserves the pain he bestows.

Thus, in complete disregard for the five basic rules of firearms that Lal had just explained to Skull, he begins firing a hail of bullets.

Skull lets out a screech and dodges.

Bullets did not register as quickly to his senses as fired spells, but the duellist reckons he can get the hang of it when he’s constantly confronted with the hitman’s barrage.

Chapter 6

Chapter Text

⬶ XVII ⤅

Ironically, the person who ends up being the biggest mystery to the information broker is the supposed civilian in their midst.

Or maybe it’s unironic, considering how Viper had never bothered extending their web of information too deeply into the entertainment circles because it was mostly senseless gossip, let alone up and rising circus acts.

Admittedly, they may have caught a glimpse of Skull de Mort the Immortal Stuntman’s posters once or twice, but that was just a brushing observation, alongside a brief calculation of how much money his stunts might be pulling in.

After spending a few weeks together – and by the blazes, has it been a few long weeks – it was clear that the stuntman was not an actor.

The Japanese suffixes, the bravado, the obnoxious shouting— All of it was an act, or at least a very good attempt to get on their collective nerves.

But the problem with acts were that they only told you what a person wasn’t or suggested that certain aspects were being exaggerated.

All of them were guilty of it to some extent.

Under normal circ*mstances, Reborn would clock a solid nine out of ten on the asshole scale, but since he is Reborn – both literally and figuratively – he had purposefully dialled it up to fifty in front of the Arcobaleno. Viper has (regrettably) known the Mafioso long enough to know that he is capable of common decency when it suits him, however rare that is, and that his repertoire is more than just his favourite pistols.

In direct contrast, Fon wears a perpetual unperturbed smile on his face which tempts the illusionist into committing Cheshire-style homicide at times, but then he would win so they refrain. Years have only made his polite veneer more impenetrable and solidified his standing as the only neutral enforcer in the Wo Hop To Triad.

Lal Mirch was the most straight-forward, having chosen to present herself as a dutiful soldier, an image that is further supported by her quick rise in the Italian Navy and the heavy redaction in her old mission files.

Verde simply doesn’t care enough for social niceties to put up an act, though he fits the mad scientist vibe like a glove with his single-minded pursuit of science.

Regardless of what the showman is trying to impress, Skull de Mort is by no means stupid.

His unerring choice to buy information from them about Flames and the general structure of the underworld from the get-go was proof of that. Paid handsomely for the information too; his lack of hesitation speaking volumes of his financial backing, adaptiveness, and resolution.

Perhaps his Cloud instincts were at work here as well, since he seemed to grasp that they were trapped in this situation faster than the rest of the Arcobaleno. He tried to fight against it but to avail, though his tenacity ought to be lauded.

Since information gathering on their resident Cloud was slow-going, Viper settles for observing them instead, something they find themselves doing more frequently as the stuntman has become one of their best-paying customers.

Out of the corner of their eye, the Mist can see Skull watching the interaction between Reborn and Luce with open fascination.

The pair in question make for an interesting sight: while the visibly pregnant Sky is making her slow descent down the stairs, the Sun hitman decides to scale up half the steps to offer her an arm to escort her down to the dining room.

The television in front of Skull is still playing an Italian kids’ show at his own request since he claimed that it was a good way to pick up the language, but he’s clearly more invested in the live action in front of him.

“David Attenborough should come and commentate this,” he whispers under his breath, so soft that only Viper catches his words because they are seated beside him.

The illusionist holds back a snort.

Upon hearing the noise they made, the stuntman shoots them a good-humoured grin, “The taxpayers’ money would be going to a good cause.”

That makes Viper take a fortifying gulp of their spiced tea.

After staring at the conversing donna and hitman for a moment longer, he suddenly asks, “What is Sky Charisma and Harmony, really?”

The question makes the miser glance down at the empty plate which previously held the breakfast Skull made, and then at the huge mug of spiced tea. They contemplate whether they should charge him for the question when they’ve already consumed the freely provided food.

Emphasis on free.

The information broker doesn’t do guilt or shame; those emotions are for other people.

Nevertheless, they suppose they could indulge him just once.

“A fatal attraction,” they say at last after some contemplation, Mist flames draping over them like a confession veil, “For all that is preached about it – a home, a place of belonging, safety, and warmth – it is but an insignificant probability, almost an impossibility to those of immense resolve.”

Clad in an ugly knitted sweater and loose sweatpants, Skull curls his legs up and wraps his arms around it. He looks young and innocent as he ensconces himself in the corner of the couch, but the knowing glint in his dark purple eyes betrays him.

“Like us, you mean,” he states.

Viper shrugs, taking another sip of the tea. “Some of the oldest sources say it begins with a Sky singing from the depths of their soul, seeking for kindred Elements. A yearning for companionship, a bid for protection… Mou, or it was just a terribly lonely person who cried out to the world, so desperate that they set themselves ablaze and became a beacon to call for others to come to their side.

“The Sky’s unique song will resonate the strongest with Elements of equal power, or the Elements it shares the greatest affinity with— either because the Element happened to be what they needed the most at that point in time or they were genuinely compatible. While the latter is incredibly rare, there have been recorded instances where a Flame bond formed almost immediately with a single touch. Vongola Primo is the most noteworthy example since all Six of his guardians were found that way, but he’s a misnomer with his famed Intuition.”

They pick at an imaginary thread on their cloak as they continue, “Mou, but this is the Mafia we are speaking of. Plenty of Skies have formed bonds with weaker Elements for political gain; after all, there is no greater tool of alliance than a Sky.”

“Resonance is the first step of flame courtship. True Harmonisation is typically achieved through time and effort, much like any other relationship; challenging each other’s resolve until they click into place within the Sky’s domain.” Their voice becomes quieter, somewhat eerie in quality as they cut out all the emotions from their voice.

“However, an Element whose Will is stronger than the Sky cannot be subdued. Like hot stones, the initial contact burns. The Sky tries to compress, can try to fit an overwhelming presence into their domain, but they will ultimately fail. The Element is left with the lingering impression of its warmth, ripped and small, of what it could be but simply isn’t enough. It is unsubstantial. Disappointing.”

Skull still senses the bitterness that clearly stems from personal experience.

He voices the question that has been nigging at his mind for the past month, “Then, can a stronger Sky subdue a weaker Element against their will?”

(Deep in her gut, Heather already knows the answer, but asks anyway.)

“Mou, a Sky can do more than that if they so pleased… That’s another reason why Skies are always found and immediately brought into the fold to be trained in control.”

This statement makes the wix wonder what the Mafia’s given definition of control is, if the Strongest Sky is leaking her influence all over the place, her maternal flames carefully threading through theirs, brushing up and insinuating itself by their side.

It borders on intrusive, but doesn’t give enough reason to lash out, the fragility and greatness of a small life growing inside her an excuse coating her warbled tongue.

(It is manipulative, it is wrong , but she can’t put her finger on exactly what the problem is. So she keeps her distance while keeping her old memories at bay, of beringed hands and white-grey robes of mourning, blue eyes peering over half-moon glasses to stare into her soul.)

“Luce has a full set of guardians, doesn’t she?” Skull recalls.

“Whilst painful, bonds can be broken.”

“But she doesn't intend to do so,” Skull points out in a low voice, fingers tightening around his own mug.

“She doesn’t,” they agree.

“Then why is Reborn-senpai…” Skull makes a small gesture towards the Sun who is revolving around the Sky, wishing there was an explanation for that.

By Morrigan, he was plating breakfast and pouring orange juice for Luce, which is something none of them thought they would ever see the Mafioso do, but he seemed content to wait upon the Donna, if only to earn her smiles and praise.

If Viper hadn’t been cognizant of the fact that the hitman scarcely took contracts from the Giglio Nero Famiglia, they might have suspected that he was the father of the foetus. Alas, he was too skilled of a casanova to leave behind such obvious stray ends.

“Ah, that. He thinks of himself as a gentleman.”

Skull levels them with a judgemental stare in response, giving the flamboyant Sun a pointed look before glancing back at the illusionist again.

The stuntman has only known Reborn for months and he has already lost count of the number of times he had witnessed the hitman put two holes into a woman’s skull without batting an eyelid.

“He also believes that chivalry is wasted on dead people,” the information broker amends.

“And anyone who becomes his target is automatically dead in his eyes, got it.”

“He’s not wrong for thinking that way.” Money and time were wasted on the dead anyway.

“He’s not right either,” Skull retorts, then pauses. “Wait. Both of you work on similar wavelengths. Why do you dislike each other so much?”

“Mou, it’s precisely because we’re similar that we hate each other. Familiarity breeds contempt after all.”

Viper rises to their feet before adding, “Also, you owe me three hundred euros for that comment.”

“Aw, Vipes, why?!”

“Four hundred.”

⬶ XVIII ⤅

Just play the ditzy tourist, they said. You’ll be a natural; think of it like an impromptu vacation, they said.

Skull de Mort doesn’t know what kind of f*cked-up vacations the other Arcobaleno have been on, but he swears he is never following them anywhere.

The travelling stuntman had thought that the week started well too, having landed in tropical Vietnam bright and early in the morning after a twelve-hour flight from freezing Italy. A bit turbulent, but it was nothing the seeker couldn’t handle after facing active sabotage on the broom.

(Despite schooling in Scotland, Heather scarcely tolerated the cold.)

Due to the time zone differences and jet lag, the group had promptly crashed at their booked hotel for the rest of the day, only meeting up because of the promise of free food and the need to go over their mission plan.

Somehow, in between some spicy pho and spring rolls, everyone else decides it would be a brilliant idea for him to get kidnapped on his “own volition”, after Viper had deduced that the people running the human trafficking ring were more interested in teens and he happened to be youngest among them.

That’s it. That’s the reasoning.

The wix was the youngest, and therefore the best choice to play bait.

The Arcobaleno are also liars because they seem to be conveniently overlooking the fact that they have a hitman who cross-dresses for fun and a Mist that is capable of Constructing real illusions and general mindf*ckery.

Skull doesn’t approve of mind arts, but that’s mostly when it’s applied to his person or his friends. He’s flexible like that.

One wardrobe change and Mist-altered hair later — and boy did Reborn have a lot of opinions about his violet dye which means he’s never washing it out — Skull found himself walking down a populated street in Hanoi alone, branded clothes and subtle but expensive accessories practically making him a prime target for kidnapping.

He doesn’t know how the mules set their eyes on him so quickly, but he suspects that the illusionist had a hand in this, whispering thoughtful suggestions that the dark-haired and pale tourist wandering aimlessly in the crowd would be a great target.

When he turns into a quieter street, the mules immediately descend upon him, a palmful of Rain flames and chloroform-infused cloth coming over his nose and mouth.

As he puts up a token struggle, Skull stops breathing in lieu of propagating the pre-existing air in his lungs. He slumps against his captor seconds later, eyelids fluttering shut.

The hemp bag goes over his head, he gets tossed into the back of a van, and they drive off to… somewhere.

Halfway through the ride, he almost wishes he had allowed his captors to knock him out because his bruises have bruises from all the jolting and rocking along the bumpy road.

Also, the hemp smells like bundimun’s droppings, arse, and it is probably drenched in sweat and tears. He hates it in here.

The captors continue to manhandle him once they arrive at wherever-the-Hel-this-is, slinging him over their shoulder as they walk deeper into the base. His captor's shoulder digs into his stomach but he tries his level best to ignore the sensation. They should be grateful that he had stayed off street food for dinner, otherwise he'd have thrown up all over their shirt.

When they toss him onto the ground and take off the bag, he almost yells “Hallelujah”, for it only seemed appropriate now that he can finally inhale and exhale fresh air.

Alas, his respite is cut short when he surveys the partitioned warehouse.

If the stuntman was a good, law-abiding citizen who genuinely cowers in the face of organised crime, he would have waited for back-up.

(Skull de Mort is just a mask, sometimes she forgets that when she gets too deep into the act.)

But then she sees the helpless teenagers, children, lying around her.

Their sobs and choked breathing reach her ears.

She hears their captors idly chatting about “sampling the goods” before selling them off to the highest bidder, revelling in the fear that their victims know what is about to come. Listens to their gross and blatant perversions on immature bodies, the comparisons made between past and future desires, the shape of their figures, their endowments rattled off like statistics, the colour of their skin as if anything less than white is a stain, the blood that runs through their veins—

And something within Heather—

snaps.

…

If there’s one thing that Reborn can never push Skull into, despite all his attempts and Mafia torture tutoring sessions, it is making the Cloud kill, not even in rage.

This is one battle that Heather Potter is determined to never let the smug prick win, and it is the battle of Wills when it comes to the sanctity of life; he can never outstubborn her or rise beyond her resolve because The-Woman-Who-Conquered has forged her own epithets by defying greater odds.

Still, her hands aren’t free of blood.

Hasn’t been since she was eleven, nearly stained it again when she was fifteen.

She has hurt.

(She has been harmed.)

To protect.

⬶ XIX ⤅

“What on earth…”

Verde adjusts his glasses before squinting at the computer screen.

Skull’s tracker, which had been functioning normally up until now, was flickering in an erratic manner. Although the red dot stays within the boundary of the marked building, it disappears and reappears at different spots, as if he was crossing the entire length in less than a second.

“Are they moving him?” Lal asks doubtfully after taking a quick look at the screen. The other flame users peer over the front seat to study his screen.

They might not be well-versed in the intricacies of communication devices, but they had used it often enough to know that this wasn’t normal.

“Jammers?” Reborn hazards.

“In this backwater country? The next coming of Da Vinci scoffs, offended that they were assuming that Vietnam has the technology to thwart his creations.

“I seem to recall that aforementioned ‘backwater’ country defeated the French, Japanese and American in succession,” Lal ripostes.

“That's rich coming from the national whose country changed sides in both world wars.”

"Better to have broken alliances than surrendering in six weeks," Reborn hums.

"Sure, if you think that consequent operations in countries that you have no stake in are worth anything."

“Foreigners, please stop intervening in the domestic issues of others and focus on the problem at hand,” Fon cuts in. “Skull has dropped off the radar.”

“…Which means his communicator and tracker went offline. Great. At least this lasted a few hours longer before he fried it.” Verde mutters to himself as his fingers fly across the keyboard.

From the driver’s seat next to him, the COMSUBIN officer turns her head to look at him, even though she should really be keeping her eyes on the desolate suburban road. The rest of the Arcobaleno raise their eyes to bore similar judgemental stares into his back.

Slowly, Lal says, “Did it not occur to you to tell us about this problem before we sent in our only point of contact?”

“Skull destroys the tech all the time.” He points out defensively, voice tinged with annoyance.

It’s true; the scientist doesn’t know how an amateur flame user manages to supersede his will to destroy the tech powered by his flames every time – he was the Strongest Lightning, damn it – but he swears he will make something that can withstand his blazing propagation.

‘Impossible’ is a lexicon that does not exist in Verde’s dictionary.

“Your tech specifically,” states Vipers drolly, since they know that Skull has a functioning phone to keep in touch with his agent.

Lal Mirch resists the urge to concuss herself on the steering wheel.

“How,” she demands, “is a renowned scientist like you in greater need of sensitivity training than a whole barrack of cadets? Seriously, have you never heard of privacy and personal boundaries? If you didn’t bug him all the time, maybe he won’t feel so inclined to destroy all your sh*t!”

“If he wasn’t so stubborn about the data collection, perhaps I wouldn’t be so inclined to resort to such extreme measures.”

“Skull isn’t the problem here, you neurotic f*ck!” Lal grits her teeth, half-tempted to bitch slap the man who traded in all his EQ for IQ. “Get better prescription glasses if you’re blind, I’ll even pay for them.”

With painstaking effort, she lays out the situation for him, “You are talking about a teenager who spent much of his life in the entertainment circus, who has spent so much time in or around the spotlight that he has come to value his privacy above all else, hence him choosing the furthest room away from all of us, why he slathers thick make-up on his face first thing in the morning or wears his helmet in the house . Who, by the by, is doing well by all considerations and hasn’t let his guard down in the slightest even though it has been months.

“And now he finds himself in the presence of a Mist who is powerful enough to undo his mind if their whims compel them,” Viper elongates their hood at that mention, “and an inconsiderate douchebag who is constantly trying to intrude on his personal space. He may have the intelligence of a neanderthal in your eyes, but he’s at least smart enough to avoid the likes of you.”

The ensuing silence speaks volumes.

“This is about pride, isn’t it?” Reborn finally speaks, voice unassuming but cutting all the same, “It vexes you that you can’t slip under his defences.”

Verde stiffens in response, lips pursing into a thin line. Thousands of thoughts cross his mind.

“You must be projecting,” he replies in a cool and sardonic manner, green eyes flickering up to meet dark and shadowed ones in the rear-view mirror.

There is no failure for him, only progress.

“You are deflecting. Lackey can be overwhelming at times, you’re allowed to admit to lapses in judgement.”

“Judgement is either an opinion or a sensible conclusion that comes after reviewing the evidence. There’s a systematic and scientific method to arrive at the latter, which you don’t seem to be overly fond of using, judging by all your senseless prodding. Unless, of course, you are merely doing this for amusem*nt like how one would train a dog, then I suppose it won’t matter.”

Reborn laughs, “But this is a chaotic dog-eat-dog world, I thought you would know this by now, after you’ve been bitten so many times.”

“Have I? Then all I’ve heard is just barking.”

“,” Fon murmurs before musing out loud, “Who exactly is the chew toy for amusem*nt though?”

The Sun and Lightning ignore his pointed comment. Despite all the calmness the martial artist exudes, he certainly lives up to his element with his penchant for stirring trouble and destruction.

“I don’t give a damn what kind of opinions you have about Lackey, or what happens if he ends up on your dissection table during downtime. Shove a chainsaw down his throat for all I care,” Reborn says in an indifferent manner, before throwing out his next words sharply, “But don’t let your judgements jeopardise the missions. It’s below your intelligence.”

Then their de facto leader turns towards the Mist, “Viper.”

“Fine,” they reply laconically, before sinking into the portal that opened under their feet.

In less than a minute, the Mist drops back into their seat, lips twisted into a visible grimace beneath their hood. The silence stretches briefly.

“Well?” Reborn asks with crossed arms.

“Mou, I didn’t go into the building, but I get the sense that it’ll be a bloodbath.”

“Why?” Verde inquires.

“What are the three things we are immediately taught to avoid among Flame actives? And in case you’re all trying to be smartasses, no, the first two choices don’t count.”

Vindice, Discord…

“Skull is in Cloud Rage? As in our Skull?” Lal stresses in disbelief.

Fon’s mouth purses into a contemplative line. “I don’t think I have ever seen Skull being truly angry.”

Which says a lot, coming from their resident zen master.

There was maybe one instance where Skull had a particularly bad morning and they had been making a relentless slew of demands, then all the cutlery and pans levitated and multiplied – –

Needless to say, the rest of the Prescelti Sette learnt to tread lightly and ask politely in the mornings after.

But apart from that incident?

Skull de Mort was a spineless pushover.

“There will be chaos,” the Mafioso remarks with an unholy amount of glee, dark eyes gleaming under his fedora. “Hm, what does Lackey look like when he’s in a rage?”

“Well, if you’re so curious…” Viper throws out a flippant gesture, Then be my guest. “I’m not helping you if you get caught by the Vindice.”

“Seconded,” the scientist adds.

“You can charge Lackey for the Mist blanket. He’s a rich kid and it’s his fault anyway.”

“Amenable.”

“Is it even possible to shroud half a province?” Fon questions, gaze distant as he recalls the ‘temper tantrums’ his younger sister has thrown. If an above average Cloud was capable of ruining landscapes, he can scarcely fathom the damage the strongest can wrought.

“You doubt me?” The illusionist sibilates, “That’s fifty euros.”

“Communist,” Fon says as a counterpoint.

(It isn’t a good argument, but it does drive home the fact that he is poor.)

“I will send the bill to your Mountain Master, don’t think I won’t.”

“Mountain Master will be pleased by that. He has always wanted to make your acquaintance,” the neutral enforcers states smilingly. As a matter of fact, he would also like to see his blood pressure climb when he receives the bill.

He has been badly deprived of entertainment at Wo Hop To Triad these days, now that being part of the Arcobaleno has garnered him more influence and respect.

“Children, settle your debts later,” Lal Mitch interjects with a sigh, squinting at the warehouse ahead. “We’re here.”

Chapter 7

Chapter Text

⬶ XX ⤅

The sheer power saturating the warehouse is the first thing that slams into the Arcobaleno the moment they step into the targeted warehouse.

Pressure from the intangible flames settle all over the property like a heavy blanket, almost suffocating in its intensity. They could taste the Cloud's barely leashed rage on their tongues, scraping across their skin and causing goosebumps to rise, almost domineering in the way it asserts its presence.

Involuntarily, the Lightning and Rain flare their flames to fight against the weight pressing down on them.

"Don't—"

Fon tries to warn them but it's too late as he senses a sudden displacement of air a few feet to his right.

The Sun and Mist in bright yellow and bewildering indigo come ablaze to divert the Cloud's attention, trying to use their supposed contrasting elements to achieve that end.

Like a revenant, the wix appears from the side and grabs hold of a wooden crate that is half his height and flings it at the new intruders. It multiplies once, twice, into eight then sixteen, but all of it was immediately destroyed by real illusions and gunfire.

In the midst of the rain of falling splinter, the next barrage of attacks arrive, innumerable crowbars of various lengths hurtling towards them with pin-point accuracy. The sharpshooters reflexively dodge the beams of purple lights going straight for their weapons. Electricity crackles even louder as Verde erects a shield around all of them, but that only serves to annoy the Cloud further as he amps up his attacks.

The Cloud snarls inaudibly, propagating spikes and flames on the metal.

The sound of cracking is barely audible in the chaos.

"Skull!" Fon raises his voice, hands visibly raised in a placating manner. He burns his way out of the shield before kicking away the wooden chunks and weapons that fly towards him, embedding the projectiles into the cement wall.

Glass from the shattered light bulbs crunch under his feet as he cautiously approaches the Cloud, though it is without fear. This is dangerous but familiar territory for him.

The aforementioned person pauses, remaining eerily quiet the whole time, hidden in the shadows.

His eyes are violently iridescent in the darkness; nuclear violet shrieking violence; akin to glowing lanterns that guide spectres of death.

The sight of the stuntman chills, because they expect him to be loud, to be obnoxiously larger than life and yet he is as silent as a grave. (They are starting to think that this is a mistake.)

He stands in a potter's field of broken machinery, torn down shelves and limp bodies, a dented crowbar half-raised in his hand as though he is preparing to wrench the last breaths out of these unfortunate dying men.

"Skull," Fon repeats, enunciating each syllable slowly, while gesturing for the rest to stand down. Their respective flames are snuffed out, leaving purple embers. "We are here to help you. Do you understand?"

Tilting his head in a rather curious manner, the wix blinks owlishly. Some semblance of life seems to return to him while the fight drains out of him. His body posture weakens as he stumbles one step back, trying to shake off the last of the flashbacks.

Reality tastes like iron and salt, feels like polished wood and small jags on spherical metal, looks like a forest with trodden soil and grave markers shrouded by fog, smells like wood and blood, which is black and red and spell light, is dark and grim with false walls and curved porcelain, is lonely in surreal white and dusted gold, is not the colour of the rainbow—

A part of Skull de Mort snags onto and desperately claws for that bit of reminder, about flames and a kaleidoscope of colours, trying to focus on the red changshan and yellow rim of a fedora and soul blue eyes instead.

"Ah, senpai," the showman finally says in a weak voice. "When did you get here?"

"After you lost your goddamn mind," Reborn replies, still holding the pistol in his hand. "Did you end up killing everyone?"

" What? Skull-sama would never." He denies, gaping unattractively.

Lal isn't sure who the showman is trying to convince— them or himself. Instead of puzzling over the question, she glances over his shoulder, where a few bodies lay prostrate.

Verde, who doesn't see the difference between a tack and tact, says, "The corpses behind you beg to differ."

Meanwhile, Viper floats towards the abandoned, sectioned-off office that is to their immediate right. They poke their head and tentacles through the cleaved door, before nudging the first body they see. The skinny mook's head lolls off the table as he is shoved to the ground, but the slight rise and falls of his chest is pretty telling of his actual state.

"Mou, Skull might be right. They're not dead yet, merely knocked unconscious."

Inaudibly, Skull exhales in relief, heartbeat slowing down.

(He does not fully remember what he has done.)

“Why did you lose it anyway?” Lal asks. Knowing your comrades’ triggers was Psychology 101.

He scowls and trudges back to the area where they were keeping the captives. “They were going to ‘sample the goods’.”

That statement needed no further explanation. Reborn raises his gun again and fires at the thugs' crotch as he passes them by, his flame-coated bullets going through their family jewels and cauterising at the same time.

They scream upon impact before fainting again.

The area that was keeping the captives could barely be considered a room, in truth. The so-called ‘partitions’ were just tall storage shelves repurposed, with long swathes of fabric and wood nailed to the front.

Absent-mindedly, the wix conjures a ball of purple-tinted light in his hand to illuminate up the room, thus revealing the row of sleeping captives.

“You knocked them out too?”

Skull glances at Viper, “It’s better that way, can’t let them know about flames.”

“And how did you accomplish that?” Verde inquires with deceptive mildness.

“Aerosol knock out,” he mutters, which isn’t a lie per se. Except the scientist will probably think he used muggle implements like chloroform or a general anaesthetic. Sleeping draught was simply more potent for muggles, that’s all.

“Is it possible to get them back to their homes?” Skull questions as he loosens their binding by propagating the rope.

“Mou, we’re not running a charity.”

“Skull-sama will pay you for the services rendered.”

Reborn chortles, “And what if it was their family who abandoned them in the first place?”

He stiffens momentarily, “Well, it’s a personal preference to not think the worst of people from the get-go. Assuming makes an ass out of you and me, y’know?”

“Hah! You poor, naive lackey,” Reborn mocks, almost pitying, “Anyone can make a child, but not all of them deserve to be parents. The ones who were kidnapped because they were alone aren’t on their own for no reason.”

“You don’t know that, senpai.”

“But I do,” says Reborn, voice filled with equal parts of haughtiness and acerbity, “That is just how it is out in the streets. Children can be used, beaten, and then abandoned, because if they’re not punching bags, they’re just burdens as extra mouths to feed for some families.”

Many faces flit past Heather’s mind in that instant. She tries for patience, oh, she tries to be nice, to be less wilful, to control her temper, but anger flashes hot in her veins and she remembers, she remembers—

“Even then, a child’s most lasting memory should never be trauma!” The-girl-who-lived lashes out. “They should not be left in this pig sty, raised and sold like livestock, they should be allowed to live without needing the mercy of their tormentors, and why would I deny them that right when I can?! I won’t contribute to it, and you can’t make me!”

She’s standing up now, postured protectively in front of the row of children who are in a sleep like death.

“Dio, I thought you would have killed those stupid morals of yours by now, after all you’ve seen. Morals don’t feed or sustain, Lackey, it gets ripped apart and devoured, and leaves you dead at the backend of an alleyway. This is the Mafia, not some kindergarten playground, open your f*cking eyes.”

“Skull-sama apologises for having morals and basic human decency then,” she snaps back sarcastically. “If it disgusts your cold dead heart so much, you can f*cking look away, lest it stains your eyes.”

The hitman shoots a bullet into her thigh for that verbal offence.

Both of them know she could have dodged.

But Heather continues to stare into Reborn’s amber-tinted eyes as she digs the bullet out of her flesh without a single sound escaping from between her bared teeth, before she reduces the metal and blood into nothingness in the palm of her hand.

While her wound knits itself together, the Cloud tells the Sun, “You can brandish your violence all you want, but this… This isn’t a fight you’ll win.” After all, why would an undying thing fear the World’s Greatest Hitman? He can’t do more damage to her than she has already done to herself.

She continues, “Unless you’re going to step over my dead body, Skull-sama is going to ensure that they get home, with or without you.”

His gun co*cks again and it is raised a little higher. “Is that a threat?”

Heather smiles, and it is an ugly thing. “It’s a promise.”

Before Reborn gets to fire another shot, let alone allow the other Arcobaleno to mediate, the satellite phone rings.

The ringtone promptly cuts the tension like a knife.

Lal Mirch has never been more glad to receive a phone call as she unhooks the device from her belt to accept the call. “Yes, Luce.”

“Tell Reborn not to shoot,” the Donna says urgently, with palpable worry filtering through the speaker. “And tell Skull that Giglio Nero will cooperate to help to get these children home.”

Blinking, the COMSUBIN officer removes the phone from her ear to examine the number again. Nope, it was definitely Luce’s number. In the end, she chalks it up to her creepy foresight and relays the message.

However begrudgingly, the Mafioso holsters his pistol.

Bitterness lingers on Heather’s expression. She has technically won the argument, but it tastes like ashes and defeat on her tongue.

Scratching her hair roughly, she takes the phone from the soldier so she can coordinate with Luce about the transfer of the captives. The number of people, their estimated ages, and the supplies that they need flow out of her mouth, sounding more certain with each sentence.

“Viper, how much would it cost for you to determine their identities?” She pauses, “And if they happen to have run away from home, how much more would it take for you to relocate them to a decent orphanage?”

“It depends on where they are from,” Viper answers. “As for the latter… Mou, I’ve heard of a few in the city. I will take a flat deposit for each person first and send you the final bill later.”

“That works.” She may as well use her fortune for a good cause. Then, she turns back to Luce and says a few more lines before hanging up the call.

“So…” Lal scuffs her boot on the floor in the ensuing silence. “What should we do about the kidnappers?”

“Kill them, unless Mr. Morality here has a second opinion,” the Leader of Arcobaleno says indifferently.

“Kill them?” Skull de Mort echoes as she touches her hidden sowilo scar. “But death is mercy, isn’t it?”

(They won’t say it, but the honest belief imbued in Skull’s voice when he imparts that line chills them to the bones.)

For the second time in the same day, the whole group pauses to look at their supposed weakest. Really look at him, beyond the painted charade of a clown and all the punk leather.

It is a dissonant and conflicting image; it’s hard to tell what is real or fake anymore.

Heedless of their scrutiny, she adds, “Doesn’t the Mafia have some code against human trafficking? Or is that just Vongola and its associates?”

“Just Vongola,” says Lal Mirch, before adding in disgruntlement,“And Omertà means we can’t approach the authorities.”

That prompts Heather to review her past interactions with the people in the human trafficking ring. Some of the were Flame users for sure, but their captives certainly weren’t.

The Gryffindor can’t proclaim that she knows the rules of Omertà by heart, but it shares enough similarities with the Statute of Secrecy to leave an impression.

“No… We can get the Vindice to handle this, can’t we?”

Reborn closes his eyes and whispers in fierce Italian, “God give me the strength to not throttle this moron.”

Viper was about to join him in swearing up a storm when they feel the surrounding temperature drop.

⬶ XXI ⤅

A black portal opens up in the centre, swallowing what little light was trickling into the warehouse.

The Vindice arrive in tattered top hats, cravats and cloaks over their bandaged forms, unbreakable chains winding and rattling due to an invisible force.

The Master of the Deathly Hallows almost chokes when she senses their approach, for she feels the Death’s touch shrouding them like a stole, pervading through their vessels as they cling onto the land before the veil with fervid vengeance.

Utterly devoid of life’s vitality, they are so cold it burns through the hollow of their souls.

“Witness judgement. Cloud Arcobaleno, present your case.”

Heather snaps back to her reverie upon being called. “Um… The use of disproportionate force and, and the risk of exposure?” She trips over her own words, feeling like she was eleven all over again and under Professor McGonagall’s daunting gaze.

“They were Flame users, uh, Flame actives kidnapping groups of civilians and keeping them under with the usage of Rain and Mist flames. Their human trafficking ring must have been huge—” she was really regretting not listening to the briefing now— “If the Arcobaleno are being hired to disrupt their operations. It would have led to mu- police attention, and that goes against Omertà? Which you blokes are tasked to upkeep?”

Heather fidgets while the Vindice have a whole conversation among themselves in the silence.

The rest of the Arcobaleno are split between amusem*nt and horror.

After what feels like an eternity, the verdict is announced:

"Judgement. Guilty as charged.”

Countless shackles sprout out from the chains to cuff the necks of the unconscious men sprawled all over the warehouse.

They depart almost as quickly as they arrive, though they leave with extra baggage; bodies dragged like unruly dogs into the hellish prison they guard.

The reckless courage that once filled the Gryffindor leaves with them too, and she would have sagged to the floor if it wasn’t for her own stubborn pride.

… Because the Vindice kind of reminds her of Merlin-damned Dementors too, except their corporeality and consciousness are a plus in her books.

"." Fon concludes succinctly for everyone. His perpetual smile does not shake.

“Absolutely bonkers,” Heather agrees with a rasp. She scrubs her face with her palm. “Do they… Do they always do that when they’re called?”

The witch can’t be sure, but she gets the sense that the Mafia’s bogeymen have placed their organisation’s name under a Taboo curse. Otherwise, how did they get alerted whenever someone calls their name? Or do they plant surveillance in hotspots and areas with suspicious activity?

She likes neither of those answers, in truth.

(But she can’t be the only wixen who has fallen into the grips of the Mafia because they have activated their soul flames. What if the Vindice had magic too, under the guise of flames?)

When Viper finally finds their voice again, they murmur, “Not always, never when they’re brought up in casual conversation. But they seem to know when and where they are needed…”

Then they break. “Jesus f*cking Christ, you’re a thrice-damned, two-bit idiot with zero sense, why did you call upon them with intent!?” Their conjured tentacles lift the stuntman off the ground and shake her hard.

“Skull-sama didn’t know that it was that easy to call upon them! No one said anything!”

“Although results need repeated experimentation to prove its reality, let us never do that again,” Verde mutters to himself. Internally, he makes a memo to lock any experiments that involve the Vindice in a vault so they will never see the light of the day.

There was curiosity which killed the cat, and then there was the stupidity which Skull embodied that would get him locked up in Vendicare.

The scientist theorises that he had lost most of his brain cells after falling on his head one too many times.

“Did it occur to you that, maybe, just maybe, we avoid saying their name for a reason?!”

“All the more reason why you should say it,” Heather persuades with the experience of a person who has been hunted by a nefarious entity for seven years of her life. Her next sentence is choked out of her lips as the Mist tightens their grip.

“Cus’ fear… fear offa name increases fear of the thin’.”

“Lackey is still talking,” Reborn comments in an offhanded manner. Viper complies with his unspoken order enthusiastically by squeezing harder.

Their victim wheezes.

It may have been the word ‘coward’, but no one cared enough to decipher his strangled gasps.

⬶ XXII ⤅

Right after the debacle in Vietnam, the wix throws all caution to the wind.

She just… couldn’t be arsed anymore.

She’s exhausted from keeping up with appearances and she misses her godson fiercely because she hasn’t seen him in months out of the fear that some unsavoury company will follow her to Andromeda Tonks’ house.

After reaching her hotel room, she slams her door shut and closes all the curtains before letting her backpack pack itself with a wave of a wand while she cloisters herself in the bathroom to freshen up and remove her make-up and coloured contacts.

A familiar stranger greets her in the reflection when she jams on her circle glasses to meet Avada Kedavra green eyes again; by Loki, she has never felt more foreign in her own skin after spending months upon months in a persona.

Her rat nest hair is still wild and purple, with piercings in her lip and ears as her marks of muggle rebellion. The teenager in the mirror is still pale as a ghost (still seventeen and unageing), but she looks healthier with more meat on her bones.

She stares at herself for a moment longer, lingering on the bruises underneath her eyes, the healing contusions around her throat, and the blood speckling her clothes.

She smooths her hand over the stains while casting a cleansing charm, while vainly hoping that Andromeda will assume that the small tear in her jeans is a fashion choice rather than a bullet hole.

Then she slings her backpack over her shoulder, pulls the correct portkey and invisibility cloak from her expandable pocket before throwing the concealing fabric over herself.

She holds the portkey – a polaroid image of her and Teddy – to her lips before muttering the password.

With a sharp yack alongside the nausea that comes with international travel by magical means, the Cloud disappears from the room, with only the messy bed sheets and half-drank tea to show for her presence there.

She reappears in front of a respectable house in Mock Tudor style with dashes of medieval elements: the two-and-a-half storey property stands atop a small hill and ways off from the Wizarding village below; it has brown pitched roofs, modest yellow walls with dentil trims and diamond-paned windows.

It is only when she makes landfall that she realises it’s night-time and winter in Britain. Shivering from the sudden cold, small puffs of white smoke escape her lips as she mumbles a quick warming spell.

After adjusting her invisibility cloak to imitate an embroidered shawl, she glances up at her designated bedroom on the second floor and ponders whether she should just levitate her way inside. The front door was locked, but the windows weren’t.

Or at the very least, Andromeda has never bounced her past the ward line on her head for climbing through the window to get in.

Just as the Gryffindor was about to summon her wand, the front door opens, revealing a brown-haired woman in a light shift and night robe on top.

Right, her wards must have warned her about a new presence.

“Heather dear, welcome back,” Andromeda greets from the dimly illuminated entrance, her soft silhouette warm and welcoming.

Heather smiles sheepishly as she trudges towards the door. “Sorry for crashing in so late, Andy. I forgot about the time difference between Vietnam and England.”

“Your work takes you to the strangest places,” the grandmother tuts as she casually waves her hand to ferry her backpack onto the living room sofa. “Nevertheless, you are always welcome here, no matter what time it is on the other side. Teddy will be chuffed to bits when he sees you in the morn.”

A pang of guilt shoots through Heather. “How has Teddy been?”

“Up to constant mischief,” Andromeda says in a fond manner, “That little tyke would climb up to the roofs he could. Definitely didn’t inherit that from my Dora, that’s for certain— Remus would have been proud.”

“Or looking exasperatedly towards the sky before getting his wayward son,” Heather says absentmindedly, recalling Remus’ patented constipated look in DADA after one of his students did something particularly stupid.

(“I wonder if having to teach is retribution for the grey hairs I’ve given Minnie in the past,” he whispered conspiratorially to her once, from a Marauder to Prong’s child.)

And maybe her acting skills haven’t improved at all, since Andromeda immediately notices her preoccupation when she lingers in the hallway to search the picture frames for old faces again.

Gentle hands reach out to her to cup her face, to make her face forward instead.

Regardless of how tender her actions were, Heather barely manages to repress the urge to flinch when a part of her palms rest on her wounded neck, thumbs curving around her spectacle frames and under the bruises of her eyes.

Once it finally registers who is touching her – that she is in safe hands, not that of her tormentors’ – the-girl-who-lived shudders, letting out a shaky exhale. Her eyelids flutter shut.

“The week has been bloody horrible,” she confesses at last. A stray tear falls down her cheek.

Without any judgement, Andromeda gathers her into her arms and pats her on the back. “Some days can be trying for the soul,” she sighs into dyed-purple hair, commiserating in the same pain that she feels every day.

It aches a mite bit lesser now, since nearly two years has passed, eased by the presence of her grandson and the passage of time, but she can still feel the phantom pains tugging at her heartstrings, especially when she is caught unaware, like tripping on the jutted edge of a pensieve.

Andromeda Tonks has been made to survive her husband and she had stayed for the sake of her daughter and her unborn child. Having to bury her dear Nymphadora, and having to survive her too, is the hardest thing she has ever been forced to do, and it feels like a Herculean task at times.

“I wish the world could disappear for a while,” Heather whispers into her neck, fingers clenched around the lapel of her robes as though it were a lifeline.

Why is living so hard? She wants to ask, but can’t.

There are some burdens that are too heavy to bear, and these are hers.

The countless new scars from all her stunt biking accidents, the bullet-sized pockmarks after failing to dodge, all the faded bruises, the broken bones, and a deadbeat heart.

(“You are the true master of death, because the true master does not seek to run away from Death. He accepts that he must die, and understands that there are far, far worse things in the living world than dying.”)

“Then stay here,” Andromeda offers sanctuary to the girl who has been struck by the Killing Curse twice, voice so low that Heather can also feel the vibrations in her chest.

It is a promise of temporary shelter to rest her tired wings; to pretend that the world does not exist beyond these four walls.

“Let’s get you a hot drink,” the matriarch suggests after a while, before leading the teen to the kitchen.

She hums a soft melody as she twirls around the kitchen, going through the meditative motions of preparing the hot chocolate.

Whisking the sugar and unsweetened cocoa powder in the saucepan first, she adds the milk and chocolate chunks alongside a dash of vanilla. For extra flavour, she puts an eighth of a teaspoon of cinnamon and nutmeg and then stirs.

Since it was winter out, she pours a generous amount of the hot chocolate into the mug without letting it cool, before tipping some calming draught in.

Apart from murmuring a word of thanks, Heather remains silent the whole time, body leant against the table and head resting on folded arms. With her glasses knocked slightly askew, she looks so young but battle-scarred.

The pair sit in companionable silence at the witching hour, enjoying the tranquillity and stillness for what it is.

Once the effects of the calming draught sink into her veins, Heather finally finds the determination to speak.

Sombrely, and to no one in particular, she wonders aloud, “Why do people revel in inflicting fear onto others?”

Whether it was muggle society, Wizarding Britain, or the Mafia, all of them seemed to run on fear as its universal currency.

The Dursleys, in their disdain and fear of the magical unknown, had punished her whenever she reacted differently and tried to reinforce the metaphorical door under the stairs – that dark and mouldy place that kept her small – to prevent her entry into the magic enclaves. Wizarding Britain did not even dare to utter Tom Riddle’s anagram in the years that he was dead, and they were so quick to switch sides out of the fear of persecution. She does not blame them, especially when she knows the terror of being hunted down so intimately, but sometimes she dreams that someone had spoken up earlier, instead of letting the infection from the blood wars fester.

The Mafia was the worst since it extolls fear. No matter how unlikeable Reborn tends to be, she views the hitman as the by-product of the culture he had grown up in, like how Dudley learned his bullying behaviour from his parents. Freak knows he wants to rile a reaction out of her, so she chooses to subvert his expectations instead, to deprive him of the satisfaction he derives from tormenting others.

Andromeda takes a long moment to mull over the question, “To feel a sense of superiority and have the power to lord over others, I suppose.”

In spite of herself, the Black recalls the sad*stic glee that had distorted Bellatrix’s visage when she tests her hexes and curses on the muggle-borns in their Hogwarts batch. Perhaps she should have realised the trajectory her sister would have taken then; a slow degeneration into a psychotic nutter, her worst impulses exacerbated by her time at Azkaban where her only constants were her crazed thoughts and the darkening mark of the serpent hissing its master’s eventual return.

Closing her silver eyes, she says, “Fear can be a tool used to corral and control, it can be a motivator to inspire courage. But those who use pain and suffering deliberately for the sake of doing so are an ilk of people that we can never understand, because the moment we do, we would be no different from them.”

Then, with a bit of scorn – remnants from whence she was cast out of the Ancient and Noble House for her choice of partner – the woman who broke the chains like the character in her name-myth states, “But fear can be incredibly irrational. One can fear the dark simply because they do not know what it holds, they can fear a perceived loss, they can magnify said fear until it becomes a belief .”

“Purebloods, in their fear of blood dilution, intermarried for generations until they became mad with defects and even lost their ability to wield magic, or lost their family line altogether. Purebloods, who had all the riches and power in the world, feared an uprising from those whom they deemed as their lesser. The rise of a half-blood saviour from the first Blood War, the squib rights march, election of the first Minister of Magic of mixed blood, the fact that they were having so few children with magical aptitude… They thought they were losing their power and privilege.

“But privilege is not the abundance of opportunities, but simply the lack of obstacles,” Andromeda half-whispers as she traces the edge of the mug, “They had their hereditary seats in the Wizengamot and controlled the High Court and Parliament, still had the vast and immense riches in their vaults of which no outsider could fathom, had access to the greatest magical artefacts, but still they feared.”

The Vanquisher of Voldemort knows the next part of this narrative well, “Then their fears were repeated back to them by charismatic men, until the perceived threat became real in their minds. Like fiendfyre, it burned and corroded their perceptions; like toxic, it accumulated and ate away at their marrows.”

Before you were Most Ancient and Noble, where did your forebears come from?

The once-aristocrat shakes her head. “Alas, the fear that the purebloods had was not completely unfounded. For all his acclaimed knowledge in magic, Professor Dumbledore neglected the fact that the light cannot survive without the dark, and in his growing senility and belief that Riddle was not dead, became more insistent that only Light magic was acceptable.

“Loose classifications – light, grey, dark – which merely indicated the inclination of the magic and its usability depending on the wix’s core type, suddenly became synonymous with adjectives like good, neutral, and bad. But magic is based on intent. Levitate someone high enough and you can shatter bone. A spell to make water combined with the bubble head charm can drown someone on dry land. Magic is a way of life, a means to an end.”

Wisps of magic curl around her fingers, “To condemn family magics which tend to be aligned with dark magic simply because he did not comprehend what he could not access, is rotten envy; a sore attempt to even the playing field by depriving a whole section of the wizarding community of their rightful foundations.”

They may have gone onto a tangent, but Heather finds herself distracted by this version of history which is rarely spoken of.

Was it pride that stopped them from speaking their concerns out loud?

The Gryffindor is intimately aware of the discrimination against dark creatures, now more than ever since her own godson is the descendant of one, but why hasn’t anyone talked about the issues present in the classifications? Especially when it was so entrenched in their education?

Her head spins with the long-term consequences and the implications it inculcates, suddenly feeling sick all over again.

Heather buries her face in her hands, then lets out a long-suffering groan.

Andromeda laughs ruefully, “Perhaps this topic is too heavy for the night.”

Pushing her glasses up to pinch her nose bridge, she replies, “No, Andy, it was… enlightening. Truly.” It is a better distraction than anything she could have conjured on her own. Her head hurts still, but it’s a different kind of pain.

“You should get some rest, go ahead and wash up.” Andromeda flicks her wrist to send the cups into the sink.

“Mmkay,” The Potter hums. “Night.”

“May you sleep dreamlessly.”

For the first time in a long while, she does.

…

She wakes up to a small hand patting her cheek.

“Hetha, Hetha!” Teddy chirps, “Wakie!”

Right… The godmother blinks drowsily, I fell asleep in Teddy’s bed.

If it had been under normal circ*mstances, Heather would have dragged herself out of bed to entertain her cute godson, but it has been a trying week and she just wants to luxuriate in bed.

Stretching out her hand, she feels around the bed for his waist before dragging him back down, snuggled to her chest.

“Shhh, Teddy bug, it’s still early. Hetha needs her sleep.”

“Noh!” The blue-haired boy giggles, wriggling in her arms. “Sun’s out! Up! Up! Lazybum!”

He pummels her neck with his small fists. It feels ticklish, so Heather retaliates by blowing air into his ear. His following squeal melts her heart, and she gives into the urge to embrace him tighter.

Upon realising that his godmother won’t be moving any time soon, Teddy pouts and changes his tactics instead. At nearly two years old, he is nothing if not determined. His chubby fingers reach for the strange small chain attached between her ear and lip and tugs on it.

Strangely enough, it keeps growing longer and longer, no matter how he pulls.

His eyebrows furrow, expression split between concentration and confusion.

When Andromeda enters the nursery, this is the heart-warming sight that greets her:

Sunlight trickles in from the thin drapes to cast a warm and unearthly glow on the two figures in the room. Heather is resting on her back while her grandson lays on her chest, his hair as wild and purple as his godmother’s. In his hands, he holds fistfuls of small chains like he’s in the middle of a tug-of-war, except there’s no end in sight for him.

The younger witch is clearly awake despite her stillness, since a smile threatens to rise at the corners of her mouth.

Unable to help herself, Andromeda summons a magical camera to take a photo.

“If you keep indulging him like that, he’s going to assume that all piercing chains react that way,” the matriarch teases.

One green eye cracks open. “Last I heard, he only has one godparent who wears piercings, he’ll be fine.”

Andromeda tilts her head up regally, “Alright, then I know who’s to blame if Teddy ever decides to get piercings during his rebellious phase.” Because his rebellion is not a question of if, but when.

That makes the Potter sit up in alarm while holding the toddler close to her chest. “Wait, what? Andy, what’s wrong with piercings?”

“Heather Potter, I love you dearly, but your muggle fashion sense is atrocious.”

The stuntman makes an offended noise: “Oi!”

Teddy echoes the sound, “Oi!”

Heather raises her godson like he’s Simba. “See, Teddy disagrees!”

“My grandson hasn’t formed an opinion yet, and I would like it to remain untainted.”

She scoffs, “Yeah, like the wizarding community is any better. Robes and pointed hats are so fourteenth century, Andy.”

“At least we are well-covered and don’t appear as though we had a fight with a cat whilst crawling out of an alleyway dumpster,” Andromeda retorts primly before drifting down the hallway, refusing to allow the punkster-wannabe have the final say.

Gobsmacked by her comment, Heather stares at the open doorway for a few seconds before she grumbles, “That’s just rude.”

So what if she was constantly picking her wardrobe out from thrift stores? They had eccentric band shirts that George and Charlie appreciated and the ripped jeans… were not originally ripped in the first place. It just went through tough times at the knees after she bought it.

Pursing her lips, the godmother plants her green-eyed and purple-haired godson on her lap and turns him around. He tries to imitate her by tilting his head, but the action nearly throws him off his balance.

After steadying him, she says in a strict tone, “Teddy bug, you can dress however you want, but piercings are off-limits, you hear? Your grandmother said so, and I don’t want trouble with her.”

The toddler mimics her serious expression as well, even though he doesn’t understand most of the words that’s coming out of her mouth besides ‘want’, ‘trouble’ and ‘grandma’.

“Do you promise?” She holds her pinky out.

Teddy opens his mouth and gums on her finger instead.

The second-generation Marauder assumes he promised anyway.

⬶ XXIII ⤅

To all Defence Association members:

Are there any programmes/organisations/businesses that you would like to run, or have an interest in, that requires funding?

I’ve got galleons sitting around, may as well put them to good use.

Send your requests through Andromeda Tonks, Lady of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black, will get back to you by the 20th of every month, latest.

Sincerely,

You-Know-Who-I-Am

…

Ather,

First Skull de Mort, and now that hyphenated name?

Blimey, are you trying to give Rita Skeeter some material on you becoming the next Dark Lord? She’s still running the ‘Spot The Potter’ section on The Daily Prophet and word has it that you’ve run off live among the centaurs.

… Yeah, not the most inspired choice, I know.

In all seriousness, I recognised your chicken scrawl faster than your sarcasm.

Love,

Ron & Mione

P.S. Don’t know why that woman felt the need to add her name when she’s writing her own letter.

P.P.S. The wedding is still happening this summer, don’t you dare miss it.

…

Ather,

Your sarcasm was bleeding off the page at the end of the letter.

The legislation for the Natural Rights of Dark Creatures, alongside the bill for subsidised Wolfbane is running afoul with obstructions in the Wizengamot, as one might come to expect from a prattish and pedantic group.

Their bigotry is so maddening!

If I had a sickle for every time they were obstinate, short-sighted, and chauvinistic, I would be swimming in riches. Do they function on hindbrain alone? Are they dead from the neck up?

I may soon lose my mind before progress is attained. Pray for me, for I shan’t rest till the legislation goes through.

I digress. The document has been drafted and Lady Andromeda already has a copy of it. Having your support — vocal or written — would be wonderful.

Oh, I caught one of your stunt shows too; I’d have screamed at you for your antics, but you looked so happy up there. [tear stain] It has been a long time since I’ve seen such a genuine smile from you.

Time away has been good for you.

Everyone misses you very much. Please come back and visit soon.

Affectionately,

(soon-to-be) Hermione Granger-Weasley

…

Dear Heather,

Would you kindly fund the upgrades for the herbology greenhouse at Hogwarts?

I have attached a list below.

Faithfully,

Neville Longbottom

…

Heather,

Although we are immensely grateful for the start-up capital and all, we are not changing the name for Potterwatch.

We started as an illegal radio programme for those who rebelled against Lord Voldermort (gee golly, I had the chills writing his name) and for those in support of THE Heather Potter.

It would be a crime to turn against our roots.

Well, we wouldn't get penalised for it, but you get what I mean.

Though we had to cut out a few segments, the programme still thrives on delivering news about the new Wizarding Order. The audience numbers have never been higher. Presumably. Hopefully.

Please continue to support the radio.

Hope you’re doing alright, we’ve missed you at the DA meet-ups.

Very sincerely,

Lee Jordan
Host of Potterwatch

Chapter 8

Chapter Text

I wonder if I will ever stop feeling like parts of me are missing.

Atherkins,

Here’s the dividend for the last year.

Please keep in touch, will you?

George
Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes

⬶ XXIV ⤅

The first sign they receive of Skull de Mort’s return is the unmistakable rev of his motorcycle engine and rubber tires rolling over the gravel path.

Like watchful sentinels, Lal Mirch and Fon glance out of their room windows simultaneously, eyes following his back figure as he rides to the forested area behind the Arco Manse.

He’s a day early to their monthly meeting for once, which is odd behaviour for their Cloud who has always made it a point to arrive last.

This isn’t an apology for his sudden departure after their Vietnam mission, but it almost feels like one.

(In truth, none of them were expecting any explanations or apologies for his actions since they have committed similar transgressions, and as the Strongest Seven Flame Users, they were too far removed from the common and powerful enough to bulldoze over any opposition.

The Arcobaleno possessed many negative traits on their lonesome, but they were rarely liars to each other.)

The serene Storm makes a move first, opting to open the window and jump down instead of using the main door.

The COMSUBIN instructor rolls her eyes but meets his gaze head-on and nods when he looks towards her window, questioning.

Without further ado, Fon follows after the stuntman, knowing that he was likely wearing a new track into the forest floor.

After spending months together with the Prescelti Sette, the wix is more than aware that soul flames could be more ridiculous than magic despite its limited applications.

The Eye of the Storm, for instance, is capable of disintegrating even internal friction and air resistance, which in turns makes him one of the fastest people in the world.

If he were a lesser man, he would be chasing after dust and exhaust fumes (—of a personified concept that he will meet fleetingly and experience wholly, but will never touch).

Instead of running on ground level, Fon takes to jumping and swinging from tree to tree, thus making his own training path.

The Storm and Cloud are similar in that sense, preferring to convert their aggression into adrenaline.

When the stuntman is finally done riding out his frustration, he swings off his motorcycle and starts pushing it back up the driveway. In a casual manner, the martial artist sidles up to him, his hair still neatly braided behind his back.

He keeps his voice carefully neutral as he asks: “Why do you keep running away?”

It’s unlike him to ask such personal questions, and maybe that’s why Heather chooses to entertain it at all.

(It is only much later that the wix will realise that she always had a fast affinity with Storms.)

Staring ahead at the Arco Manse, she says simply, “Because not everything can be solved with a head-on confrontation.”

After giving a pause, Fon says, “That… is oddly wise of you.”

She chortles sarcastically in response, “Skull-sama is reckless, not helplessly stupid. Have been in such situations, kind of. The sort where you don’t know what other people are playing at; being led around the nose, clueless to a fault, hardly knowing they wanted from you but able to feel that it isn’t anything good.”

Her words continue to pour out of her mouth like a leaking vent, “But life isn’t like… a duel or a refereed match. The rules are always set to the advantage of those who made them, and we can’t afford to keep playing by them because we’ll lose. The next best thing you can do, is simply… removing yourself from the situation.”

“But running away won’t make the problem disappear.”

Honestly, Fon’s reaction was expected. In spite of being a Triad Enforcer, his skills and unsurpassable will has forged a twisted kind of honour in him, where he believes that things can be put to rights through a fair fight.

But that is not the point of her argument.

(The Eye of Storm forgets that he has the backing of his Triad and the people he is ordered to execute are forced to play by his rules.)

“Staying in the thick of things only makes you blinder.”

“You should have phrased it as a tactical retreat then.”

Skull shakes her head, before she stops in front of the garage door to meet Fon’s gaze. Self-deprecating mirth glints in her eyes, although the emotion is too short-lived for him to catch.

“Not quite,” she says vaguely, but with an intractable sense of cognisance, “You don’t really get it, do you? Fon-senpai, they need us.”

That statement is like a pin-drop in the middle of the ocean, which will eventually cause a storm.

⬶ XXV ⤅

As a general rule, Heather Potter chooses not to hate anyone.

Hate is a powerful and frankly exhausting emotion to constantly harbour, so she avoids it when it can.

She has witnessed how it can twist minds— has seen it in Bellatrix Lestrange’s deranged and heavy-lidded gaze and how it had sucked out all of her essence and left her gaunt and frazzled when she loomed over them in the Malfoy Manor but the-girl-who-lived had reckoned that there was no one more desperate and craven than her then; she has lived through too many infested dreams of Voldemort’s making, his snakelike face framed into her worst nightmare and she could feel the uncontainable hatred that oozed out of his pores and stained everything he touched, of how his lust for power and immortality had engorged him until he cracked, revealing the recreant and mutilated self that had been abandoned and left to waste.

Perhaps Tom Marvolo Riddle had once been charismatic, but his hatred had grinded him down and made him a pathetic man. He was feared but feared everyone else in turn; constantly on edge around his followers like they might usurp him in spite of skulled serpents he coiled around their arterial vein. He had believed a baseless prophecy told by a mullered woman too, and from it, newborn children who would never have become his enemies so early in life, had he not struck first.

The-girl-who-lived used to loathe Lord Voldemort because he represented everything she had lost — parents, godfather, innocence, friends — but she had laid those afflictions to rest the same night they both died.

Her resolution to not hate, however, does not extend to petty spite.

To be completely honest, The-Woman-Who-Conquered reckons she could sustain herself on tea and spite alone.

There’s a reason why the Weasley twins leave her out of their pranks, and it’s not just because they were fellow pranksters at heart.

(The Gryffindor Tower never fully recovered from their month-long prank war, and Hogwarts will always remember.)

And everyone in the Arcobaleno knows that Reborn treasures four things the most, in the following order: his guns, coffee, chameleon, and suits.

The child of Prongs immediately rules out sabotaging his weapons because it would directly jeopardise the hitman’s life and chooses not to target Leon because familiars were strictly off-limits, plus the reptile was a very cute pet that would lick her finger at times.

His coffee, which often sits in the pantry unattended, was free game though.

The Gryffindor was immensely proud of herself for this prank too: it had taken a lot of effort and concentration to meld particles of powdered sugar together, remove its sweet scent without compromising the taste and transfigure the lump into a coffee bean lookalike. Then she had to swap the fake beans with some of the real ones while being in the same house as six paranoid and hypersensitive individuals.

The wix might have sworn off using magic in front of them, but rules were meant to be broken for a good cause.

Watching Reborn blow a gasket was bloody hilarious, especially when he knows she’s the one who did it, but didn’t have the evidence to pin it on her.

The most ingenious part?

The rest of the Prescelti Sette won’t get themselves involved, beyond puzzling over how she managed to pull it off.

See, Lal Mirch doesn’t really care about how she gets her caffeine after years in the military since good brews are luxuries and therefore unnecessary; Verde can make his coffee on a bunsen burner and will survive on distilled water alone if desperate enough; Fon consumes tea by the barrel; Luce can’t drink any coffee due to her pregnancy and will disembowel Reborn with a teaspoon if he so much as complains about his coffee not being up to his standards in her vicinity; and Viper would sacrifice their coffee supply for a crate of strawberry milk.

Therefore, Reborn is the only person who gets incensed when the coffee gets a dose of sugar, because his refined palate for bitter espresso can’t tolerate it.

Once Skull sees Reborn sauntering down the stairs in the morning, he immediately takes a large gulp of his tea, since it is likely the last mouthful he will getting for the rest of the morning.

Seriously, it takes more than just self-restraint to not stare at Reborn as he makes his cup of coffee.

It’s even harder to hold back a smirk as the World’s Greatest Hitman grinds his coffee beans with a distrusting expression. Instead, Skull stares at the bottom of her teacup, trying to divine something truly horrendous from the dregs to cope with her rising laughter.

(And then “The Chosen One” remembers that she had never paid attention to Professor Trelawney’s class after all the prophecies made about her, and that her passing divination grade for OWLs were earned by bullsh*tting her way through the exam. This realisation does not aid her in the slightest.)

Skull de Mort most certainly isn’t looking at the Sun when he tentatively sips on his tenebrous espresso.

Without waiting for the mafioso to pull out the gun, the stuntman throws himself off the chair and rolls towards the living room for cover.

“LACKEY!”

A roar follows in her wake, as well as a whole chain of bullets.

Shucks, the floorboards need to be fixed too, was a fleeting afterthought.

“Whatever got your knickers into a twist today isn’t my fault, Reborn-sempai!” She shrieks at the top of her lungs.

The hitman unloads another magazine of bullets, now aiming for the stuntman’s head.

In spite of her life hanging on the line, she taunts between quick gasps, “Did the coffee scald your tongue, sempai? Or was there sugar in it again? Oh gosh, who could have doNE THAT—”

Meanwhile, the other Arcobaleno calmly work through their breakfast as chaos is wreaked in the background. The sound of violence is almost soothing now, owing to how frequently it occurs.

“How many coffee bags does this make?” Lal Mirch questions as she reaches over to Reborn’s side of the table, grabbing hold of the abandoned coffee cup and downing its contents in one shot.

It’d be shame if the expensive coffee went down the drain simply because it was sabotaged by a pinch of sugar. Reborn was a goddamn prima donna (ugh), but at least they were getting good coffee out of it.

“Sixteen,” Verde and Viper state simultaneously.

Then, in clear agreement with the Rain’s unspoken sentiment, the Mist sprouts another hand on the stove counter to change the coffee filter and dump more grinded powder and hot water into the kettle before floating it over.

“Alas, no one has been caught in the act yet,” Fon adds in bemusem*nt, though a hint of regret laces his tone.

What he’s regretful about, no one cares enough to ask.

"It’s not from the lack of trying,” Luce hums knowingly, her sharp gaze flitting towards the hidden cameras before turning to the Mist and Storm respectively.

Verde mutters something nasty about her prescience under his breath.

Luce ignores him while maintaining a sweet smile.

Lal glances down at the sabotaged coffee, “It’s definitely him, right?”

“Without a shadow of a doubt.” The Cloud may be hidden from her Sight, but the Sky catches glimpses of him at times.

“He’s the only one who’s suicidal enough to do it.”

“And can consistently get away with his pranks.”

With an obscured scowl, Viper counters their observations with one phrase: “Non-lethal pact."

If there wasn’t a hefty fine for breaking the pact (i.e., excommunication and brutal execution), the information broker would have genuinely tried for Skull’s life once or twice.

“You can admit that you like him,” Fon replies in all seriousness.

“Mou, I tolerate him for his money.”

Verde snorts, "That is your metric system for deciding the given value of a potential friend, yes."

"Yet I've killed for less," says Viper, demure.

Skull's shrill voice cuts into the conversation as he rolls back into the kitchen.

"YOU MUST BE OUT OF YOUR MIND, SEMPAI!" Skull yells from behind the sliding partition that he closed in Reborn's face. "How could it be Skull-sama! You said Skull-sama has the grace of an elephant, brain of a sea anemone, clumsiness of a sloth, subtlety of a bitch in heat, agility of an orangutan – thank you for that, by the by – and the intelligence of a crab—"

He scampers behind Verde just as Reborn kicks the door down. The only reason why the Lightning makes a shield is because he's taller than everyone else while Skull is tiny in comparison.

As more bullet shells clatter to the floor, Skull continues to rattle off every animal-related insult Reborn has ever thrown at him, unimpeded.

Monotonously, the scientist commentates, "Sea anemones don't have brains."

Fon also gives his (worthless) two cents, “Sloths are clumsy but effective creatures.”

Lal sighs as she finishes another cup of wonderful coffee, "And we could only wish Skull was an elephant that could curb stomp Reborn."

Luce mutters a quiet "Amen" before giggling when she feels her baby kick.

⬶ XXVI ⤅

Heather James Potter may have grown up in a boarding school, may have shared her room with girls commiserating in the pains of puberty, and hardly ever known the concept of privacy, but it did not mean she did well with enforced proximity.

Neither was she good with enclosed spaces, now that she thinks about it.

And owing to the rules implemented by one theatrical git, having to stay in the Arco Manse with six other blokes is the terrible making of both.

Despite his dramatic announcement that he was the ‘Administrator’, Checkerface has only personally appeared before them once, at the church, like an unholy emissary of the devil.

Apart from that, he prefers to let the mission files found on their dining table speak for themselves or use Luce of Gilgo Nero Famiglia as his mouthpiece.

It was a wise arrangement; Skull knows a few choice weapons that the others have set aside for him, plus a whole list of questions compiled by the Mist and Lightning.

Nevertheless, there is a rhythm to Checkerface’s madness, and two hard and fast rules become apparent:

1. Until disbandment, the first two weeks of every month belonged to the Arcobaleno.
2. The Arcobaleno were expected to stay near the Arco Manse during aforesaid duration unless they were out on missions.

But as one might expect from the student who held the dubious honour of being the biggest rulebreaker in all of Hogwarts’ long history, Heather tries to break those rules as many times as she feasibly could.

She currently possesses international portkeys to every country and city that has a portkey anchor in her moleskin pouch (except the North and South poles because that would be too suspicious), and she has tried to get off the property with every vehicle they had stolen.

She tried to run on her skinny legs too, only to end up smashing into an invisible wall, so that spelled the end of that spirited attempt.

Albert Einstein may have defined insanity as doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results, but at the very least, the witch could say she got different results.

Every time Checkerface transported her to Arcobaleno grounds, she got a better measure of his abilities and flame signature.

With every escape attempt, which in turn forced Checkerface to deal with her delinquency, she could tell that he was getting annoyed because he would start dropping her off on the roofs, and one time, in the horse stables.

Fortunately for the Gryffindor, they didn’t own any horses, just a few exotic pets of the reptilian kind.

He tried dropping her from mid-air too, but the Seeker was very good at breaking falls, and broken bones were a small price to pay for his annoyance.

Heather was nothing if not stupidly persistent; she knew she was going to keep doing this, otherwise her triplicate portkeys and international passport – admittedly acquired by less than legal means – would be going to waste. It was not like she had anything else to do anyway, what with Skull de Mort’s world tour getting cut short.

A bored Potter was a creative Potter.

Let that be known.

Begrudgingly though, much like the rest of the chosen flame users, she slowly settles into the Arco Manse.

(Made it a little more like home, and less like a temporary safehouse.)

Verde claimed and converted the whole basem*nt into a laboratory. Half of the garage was occupied by remodelled cars and motorcycles with telling purple and white accents. The stables were remade into a shooting range.

The sharpshooters also turned one of the rooms on the first floor into a firearm storage, and the amount of heavy ordinance and ammunition in there was honestly concerning.

One day, they’re going to burn down their mansion on accident— she can see it happening. All it takes is one science experiment going wrong to ignite the gunpowder, and there will be a flaming crater instead of a mansion.

In other news, they had a sparring ring outside too, thanks to the group’s enthusiastic deforestation as they beat the snob out of each other.

Through the slow ownership of the mansion, strange friendships are formed.

To the surprise of everyone, perhaps even for the persons involved, Fon and Skull become fast friends, bonding over their love for tea in a house dominated by coffee drinkers.

After some bargaining with Viper, one of the first-floor room was expanded and its windows look out into a zen garden instead of rolling hills.

The Storm and Cloud spent a full weekend laying tatami on the floor, repainting the walls, and getting supplies for tea ceremonies. It doubles as a dojo for the martial artist too.

For people of two vastly different cultures and neither of whom fluently spoke the other’s native tongue, they find middle ground with fragmented English and Japanese and bits of Mandarin, in the lull of each other’s company as they sipped on tea, in Fon’s quiet patience as he teaches self-defence, in Skull’s bizarre book recommendations and retellings of the places he has visited.

The others are less likely to find the only ‘civilian’ to impart their lessons when the Cloud is in the presence of the Storm, for they are far more wary of a man of exacting violence than one of shouts and thickly painted masks.

(Oh, if only they knew that the wix could incapacitate with a single word, they would be more afraid.)

As more time goes by, Fon sees the marks of a fighter trapped in the body of a teenager, eyes sweeping past — but not never lingering on — the pale scars at his waist and under his neckline when his long-sleeved shirt stretches too far out, noting the way he tenses and how his defensive instincts act up, but more to soften the blow rather than to avoid it.

He perceives the survivor in the stretches of silence that Skull falls into, in the haunted look that overshadows his eyes, how his head droops down and he curls into himself, as though it will make him smaller and less noticeable.

In contrast to the loud and violet bravado, the mannerisms that Skull de Mort shows when he’s vulnerable and alone reeks of abuse.

Anger flares beneath the Asian's skin at that very thought, for he has been taught the importance of family and duty for all his life, but it does nothing more than harm if he lashes out at the victim.

With years of practice and meditation, he redirects the emotions to a better avenue instead.

He teaches the child who was forced to grow up too quickly how to better use his nimble body to his advantage, reminds him to guard his weaknesses closely, and tells him how to exploit the physical fault of others.

In turn, he learns how to better approach the showman so it doesn’t trigger his fight or flight responses, deliberately keeping his voice soft to show the wounded animal that he is not a threat.

(“How did you end up at circus? Who hurt you?” He wants to ask, these questions hanging on the tip of his tongue.

He doesn’t verbalise them, he never will, because his culture is steeped deeply in self-dignity, of frowns hidden behind wood-spine fans, smiles for every occasion, and the belief that is trauma is a thing best left unseen and unheard.)

Chapter 9

Chapter Text

⬶ XXVI ⤅

It is the red colouration that first catches Skull’s eye.

From its brownish and white pigmentation to blend in with the surrounding rocks, the octopus suddenly stretches out its tentacles and flares its true colours as he approaches the tank, flaunting a gorgeous, russet red that reminds him vividly of autumn.

For a second, Heather Potter is utterly mesmerised by the intelligent creature who reaches out by planting a row of suckers onto the glass pane, its slitted pupils behind claggy lids staring into her soul.

Then it feels like the first time all over again—

(Like when Freak laid her green eyes on the brown boa constrictor at the zoo and subconsciously set it free.)

Like when she stepped into the Eeylops Owl Emporium and was immediately drawn to the sight of the snowy owl perched in a golden cage. Hedwig’s round amber eyes had been fixed on her diminutive figure then, knowingly and instinctively, as if it had been predetermined that she was going to walk out of the store with her in hand.

Her first birthday gift was loyalty, wingspan wide and encased in white feathers; the soft, fluttering promise of belonging, of undeniable possession and erasure of loneliness in the quiet coos and nipping of her hair. Hedwig was beautiful — grace, innocence and purity packaged in one part of light bones and nine parts of attitude — once caged with her in a dark room for the unwanted then freed, a constant companion despite adversity, who had humbled her and reminded her that she was not beyond reproach for her learned mistreatment.

(But she had been stricken by the blasted Avada Kedavra green mid-flight, collapsing in her cage like a rag doll whose strings were cut. She was never given a proper burial as she went up in flames till naught of her feathers nor bones remained… she was dead, dead, dead .)

—There was an instant connection between the man and the saltwater creature, likened to kindred spirits who have surmounted distance and found each other, at the right time and place.

The wix freezes, air coming out faster from her lungs than what she is actually inhaling as her mind and magic tingles with the possibility of forming another familiar bond.

Involuntarily, Heather takes a step away from the aquarium, because it feels like betrayal.

No no no nonononononono

Freak doesn't deserve pretty or nice things.

That's what she genuinely believes at eighteen-going-nineteen.

All that is good and nice tends to get destroyed or ruined by her hands.

If she loves something, she has learnt that it’s better to appreciate from afar and let go, for both their sakes. She could watch from a distance, but the glimpses had to be brief, lest magpies and disaster descend on the centre of her gaze.

A whimper is strangled out of her dry throat.

She couldn't, she shouldn't—

But the mollusc continues to slap and curl its tentacles against the partition in a valiant manner, the sound almost audible in her ears, as if her dizzying world isn’t narrowing down to that magnificent and pitiful creature behind the looking glass, as if her entire vision isn’t wholly consumed by its precious singularity.

Take me with you, its insistent gestures read.

Don't leave me here alone, she can almost perceive, the flick of its tentacles akin to a callsign for help, to be removed from its enclosure where its only company are carnivorous starfishes.

Heather wishes she was a better person.

She shouldn't be confusing the azure blue of the sky with the artificial blue of the aquarium, shouldn't be replacing her beloved aviary with a cephalopod, but she's desperately lonely too, in this world's trap of life.

Opening her mouth, she tries to say something, but words fail her in the end.

She knows that captive octopus was hers (nonoitshouldknowbetterthanthatgodsno), but she can't stop remembering the phantom feeling of feathers caressing her skin, the grip of talons on her shoulder, the beak ruffling her hair; it's irreplaceable and indelible, an unbridgeable chasm that echoes and rattles in her heart, the sort that appendages of viscid strength and length cannot hope to repair.

Screwing her eyes shut, she eviscerates its image – the reddish hue with brown splotches, pleading slitted pupils, the beckoning curl of its tentacles – for what is out of sight is out of mind. At the very least, that’s what she tries to convince herself, when the fledgling bond is already etched into her soul.

Despite all the Gryffindor courage that the Golden Girl once personified, she walks away from those round eyes and floating appendages like a coward.

⬶XXVII ⤅

Upon feeling something wet splattering on his cheek, Ron jerks away. Tucked in his shared bedroom in 12 Grimmauld Place under a renewed Fidelius Charm, he is supposed to be safe from external threats.

Yet this new stimulus does not trigger his war-honed paranoia.

Nevertheless, he has been taught constant vigilance so his hand curls around his wand –fourteen inches of willow wood and core of unicorn hair – from under the pillow before he is fully cognizant, a wordless stunner shooting out from its end.

The hex glances past the intruder who ducks jerkily, before those Jack O’ Lantern eyes, now shaded in purple, register in his sleep-addled mind.

“Merlin, Ather.” Ron groans, throwing his head back onto the pillow as his wand hand falls over his eyes. “Give a man a warning, would you?” He casts a Tempus and swears— “At two in the bloody morning.”

His best mate remains oddly reticent while his slumbering fiancée grumbles due to his jostling. Hermione buries her head in his shoulder again, emitting a noise that was strangely reminiscent of Crookshanks.

After an extended moment of silence, Heather whispers in the dark, voice slurred and trembling. “I need help.”

“With?”

She goes quiet again, which prompts Ron to finally turn on the light.

The sight of tears streaming down her cheeks sobers him up completely. Alarmed, the redhead shoots out of bed, which jolts his partner into consciousness as well. With sharpened gazes, they search for potential harms and injuries before they finally notice the new interloper.

Namely, the red octopus cradled in Potter’s arms, whose head is ensnared in water-filled bubblehead charm, while its tentacles are left to dangle outside. It appears perfectly content with the arrangement though, as it gives the couple a jaunty wave.

Despite the odd creature in their midst, the heart and brain of the Golden Trio waste no time pulling their soul onto their bed and into their embrace to console her.

It is immediately apparent to them that their best friend had been drinking as the acrid smell of alcohol hangs on her clothes, alongside the dried scent of salt and chlorine.

Instead of mulling over the strange co*cktail of smells first, Hermione thoughtfully summons a small tub from the bathroom to allow Heather to put down the cephalopod. Meanwhile, Ron runs a soothing hand over the witch’s back, muttering senseless but constant nonsense into her ear.

(It is a strange skill he picked up during the war, after having to comfort so many people from their panic attacks, episodes, and nightmares. Ronald Weasley may have an emotional range of a teaspoon, but he has always been a solid presence when he was needed.)

Finally feeling safe, Heather’s drunk and jumbled thoughts spill out. “I don’t know how to take care of him—'' Apparently the mollusc has a designated gender now— “I don’t know what a saltwater octopus eats, let alone what it needs. I’m living out of my moleskin pouch—”

It is only by virtue of Ron’s improved manners that he refrains from listing all the properties that Head of two Noble Houses owned, which includes the Grimmauld Place that they were residing in.

“—and octopus probably aren’t easy animals to keep. But I want him, sweet Circe, this is a disaster, seriously, who allowed me to have another familiar?” Heather nearly wails, distraught, finding the burden of another life hard to bear.

Upon hearing her rant, the affianced pair immediately pick up on the core of the issue. The Weasley nearly couldn’t stop himself from picking up the slimy invertebrate and hugging it.

The Potter has been avoiding the topic for ages, but Ron knows she’s been badly scarred from her abrupt loss of Hedwig to the point where she’s adverse to receiving owl mail. Plus, it doesn’t escape them that she’s been making herself nigh unfindable through anti-tracking spells while receiving her correspondences through some other, but there’s nothing they can do to really remedy the situation.

They could get her another owl, but that would be callous and cold, thus rendering the new aviary into a cheap substitute.

Hedwig was her first friend and she could never be replaced.

Frankly, it doesn’t help that she refuses to talk about what she’s lost, or at least that’s what Ron and Hermione believe.

(But here’s the thing:

Even if Heather wants to, where should she begin?

With the haunting memory of her parents’ scream as they beg for her life, gifted by a Dementor’s cold leech, of melancholia and lingering love that was given memory and form?

Or should she start with Cedric Diggory whose assuring presence was as calming as spring rain; a young boy of dark hair and grey eyes and beautiful smiles, who will never grow up to graduate from his seventh year and marry a pretty girl like Cho Chang, of whom she wishes she had known better off the Quidditch Pitch but doesn’t?

And how could she speak about Fred Weasley, when his death is still akin to a gaping wound to those that loved him dearly?

Does the-girl-who-broke tell them she felt him die, viscerally, as though a piece of her was brutally ripped out? That had it not been for the ongoing war and the amalgamated panic overwhelming her veins, she would have collapsed in agonised screams right then and there, going catatonic with grief?

Hedwig’s death could be described as the cutting of heartstrings while in high flight; a severed connection that can never be tied back together or a muscle that can never be restored to full function. Losing Sirius could be likened to a small shard burying itself into her cardiovascular organ, the jutted handle making it easy to twist the sharp edges whenever a cruel reminder strikes.

It hurts like hell, but Fred…

Fred was a whole different spectrum of pain, whereby she starkly feels his absence every day, the ache of it unassailable. It’s the sort of anguish that shreds at her soul, yet it is untouchable; almost sacrosanct in memory and irrefragably hers.

Deep in her bones, Heather Potter knows that she will never love anyone as she did Hedwig and Fred (and George).

By blood and magic, from death to despair, these losses were hers.)

After everything she has been through, Heather Potter is absolutely sick of pity.

Pity accomplishes absolutely nothing.

She doesn’t f*cking want it.

People were always so quick to offer her condolences for her parents’ death on Halloween, before turning around and spitting on their graves behind her back or throwing a huge celebration right in her face, as if that dreadful night was not drenched in misplaced trust and tragedy.

The-girl-who-lived, who is defined by loss and deficiencies, makes for a slipshod symbol of (hollow) victory; hypothetically, The-Woman-Who-Conquered is shining example of a victor who vanquished her nemesis, but her starved and wretched image is a reflection wherein bystanders are able to see their own superiority superimposed on her flaws.

Either that, or they would weaponize the emotion to belittle her, for knowing too little and doing too less, even going as far as accusing her for using their deaths as a means to gather more clout.

... Which, the f*cking nerve of them, to accuse her of such a thing when they’re the ones who brought up the topic and sensationalised her loss in block letters, pasting what it had been beside their formal funeral portrait.

The-Woman-Who-Conquered wants to rage until the sky storms and flashes with her wrath, but her voice has been lost a long time ago, then left dormant after it was regained.

It was a waste of time and energy to put up a verbal resistance, and she has neither the courage nor strength to hold up the world for others anymore.

⬶XXVIII ⤅

Feeling the palpable reluctance, especially under the influence of alcohol which disrupts thoughts but has proven incapable of loosening Heather’s tongue, Hermione takes the path of least resistance and changes the subject instead.

She summons Kreacher to their side, politely asking the house elf to retrieve any books pertaining to the care of sea creatures and octopuses, if any.

12 Grimmauld Place certainly didn’t lack for informative and downright morbid books even after Molly Weasley attempted to cleanse the general library of dark artefacts and tomes, though this is by no fault of her own. Being a guest of the house, she couldn’t have conceived the sheer collection hidden behind blood locks and false walls – the Blacks had become rather... imaginative with the space in their ancestral home after residing in the same place for too long – in addition to the various hidden caches and decor that were transfigured from books.

Ever dutiful, Kreacher titters over his rightful master first, offering sobering teas and greasy foods before he disappears with a wave of spindly fingers and sparks to fulfil their requests.

He returns with a garden variety of hard liquor since his honourable master insists that the best way to avoid the impending hangover is to never get sober in the first place (which he largely disagrees with), as well as a tower of books which Hermione immediately reaches for.

It feels like they were in the Gryffindor common room all over again, hidden underneath the invisibility cloak as they pour through an interesting book they found from the forbidden section, with Hermione’s low and steady cadence reciting the important passages, while the Dicta-Quill assiduously writes down everything she says.

By the end of the impromptu study session, Ron has seen more mythical deep sea creatures in vivid illustration, plus the properties in different types of water bodies, in the last three hours than he has for the past eighteen years of his life, and he’s certain that suction cups will feature heavily in his next nightmare.

And in what will remain a huge mystery to the Golden Trio for the rest of their stay at the Grimmauld Place, someone suggests that they flood the unused bathroom on the first floor – the one that no one really dares to open because it is too close to Walburga Black’s portrait and occasionally oozes a tar-like substance from the door seams, which seems like an apt motif for the vitriol that the old matriarch spews – and convert into a huge tank for the new octopus.

But then again, maybe it isn’t a surprise that they land on this terrible housing decision, since the Golden Trio possess a total of seven active brain cells when they’re together and not in life-threatening danger, and said brain cells were mostly held by Hermione who is weak to her best friends’ whims.

Unless, of course, she is arguing with Ron, then it is up to Heather to balance their collective intelligence.

As their resident genius mutters to herself, working out the optimal salt and oxygen concentration for their Lovecraftian bathroom, Heather and Ron chatter aimlessly, wholly sloshed from emptying the Black mansion’s alcohol stores once more.

After scanning the moving illustrations that were strewn along the corridor, albeit with limited visual comprehension, Ron turns to squint at Heather and her new familiar. “Your octopus doesn’t look like any of these creatures, mate, what is it exactly?”

“Uh...” she thinks back hard about the exhibit’s introduction plaque. “Oodako isn’t magical for sure. Think he came from the Pacific Ocean or something?”

“Why do you sound unsure about that?” Ron tilts his head, puzzled.

“I dunno’, I just found him,” the-girl-who-lived finishes lamely, conveniently omitting the fact that her newest companion was stolen from a public aquarium. It was a minor detail anyway, almost inconsequential compared to her newfound life of crime, which she hasn’t told them about yet.

“But how is he like that?” The redhead continues his line of questioning, brows furrowed.. “Pretty sure he can change sizes, and no Mione, it’s not the alcohol talking. His tentacles bulged. Out of water.”

“I have working eyes too, thank you very much.” Hermione sniffs, before turning her attention to her other best friend. “And seriously, Ather, did you really name your octopus ‘The Octopus’, and in Japanese no less?”

“Oodako is an honest name,” The Potter defends.

Exasperated, the brightest witch of their age sighs, “But the name is rather lacklustre, isn't it?”

“Is it? I think it’s a good name with no expectations attached.”

Her statement is spoken lightly, but it takes the affianced couple off-guard.

They’ve been with Heather Potter long enough to know her fears and doubts, have braved through the worst period of their lives together and came out more than a little broken for it. Her admission cuts like nails on a chalkboard, carrying the screech of pitched agony to attuned ears.

Hermione and Ron share a poignant look over Heather’s shoulder before the latter finally says, “You’re right about that, I was overthinking it. Oodako is a great name.”

Then her brown eyes land on Crookshanks, who had migrated from their bedroom to her haphazard tower of nick-nacks after the loss of her human heaters.

They don’t need incarnates of medieval saints or spectacular beings for companion animals (though it would be hilarious if her half-Kneazle cat managed to shank a crook); the best gift of all would be for them to live out their magically extended lifespans by their side.

Shrugging lethargically, Heather holds up a random trinket that was lifted from the attic. “Do you think Oodako would want this in his tank?”

Ron stares long and hard at the object, which frankly has too many pointy ends for his liking. “Mate, are you sure that ain’t cursed?”

⬶XXIX ⤅

The sleep-deprived scientist blinks.

He blinks again, out of honest confusion this time, before he takes off his glasses to wipe off the non-existent dust with a fibre cloth, if only to confirm that he wasn’t seeing odd spots in his vision after being in the sunlight for the first time in many days.

As a man of science, Verde prefers hard, cold facts, and he values his own senses greatly when it comes to collection of data. At his very core, he trusts himself most.

“Perchance,” he finally voices his doubts after a long moment of observation, “Did we raid a zoo?”

Because last he remembered, they did not have so many animals in the Arco Manse, let alone the sheer variety that he was now witnessing by their pool side. In the swamp habitat he had built, his pet alligator was no longer the oddest creature there was, as an octopus was waddling through the murky waters, even possessing the audacity to tease the reptile’s open jaw with its long tentacles.

It was a no-brainer as to who the cephalopod belonged to, since there was only one person who could put an oxygenated water mask with leather straps on an octopus without an iota of shame.

If the Lightning was feeling artistically inclined, he would even openly admit that the saltwater creature’s current environment was a fitting metaphor for its owner’s circ*mstances, whereby it was forced to survive in a man-made swamp, among apex predators, while it looked completely out of its elements despite its camouflaging ability.

Besides the water-based animals, a toad with snake eyes is warming itself under the sunlight, completely ignoring the stare-down between the squirrel and chameleon that is happening a few feet away. Meanwhile a mountain monkey watches on with a bag of sunflower seed in its tiny hands.

The second coming of Da Vinci squints at the Japanese macaque, which is easily identified by its greyish-white hair and pinkish face, then he types something into the bulky laptop that is close at hand.

Deftly, he clicks on a link before turning the screen towards the Asian in their midst.

The headline reads:

In a curt manner, Verde deadpans, “Of all places you could have gotten a pet, you decided to steal from an actual zoo, and from a loaned exhibit at that. Did water get into your brains the last time we visited Mafia Land?”

“That’s not us,” Skull denies automatically, with the petulance and wit of a prankster who has been caught numerous times.

Unfortunately, his quick rebuttal exposes them in an instant.

“The day I don’t recognise your shadowy back figures is the day I’m dead,” the Lightning retorts, jabbing his finger at the image of two people that were caught on film as they were flipping over the enclosure wall.

Sadly, Verde has watched their backs too frequently as of late, such that the subpar CCTV quality and the lack of light exposure are not enough to distort their silhouettes and make them indiscernible to him. The greater irony in the whole situation is that it is the martial artist’s elaborate changshan which gives them away at first glance, since the stuntman’s leather outfit is well-suited for stealth.

Furthermore, their alibi matched. The Arcobaleno distinctly recall the pair saying that they were going on a road trip to Rome together, where the scene of the crime — the Bioparco di Roma — was located.

Equally unrepentant, Fon kneels down next to his new companion as he murmurs. “It was but a light theft.”

“Of a conspicuous Old World monkey species that was loaned by the Japanese Wildlife Society, to better foster diplomatic relations between Japan and Italy,” Verde cites from the article, and he could not sound more unamused.

“Both of you are absolute morons.” Lal Mirch declares from her position on the nearby lounge chair, her fingers pinching her nose as she questions if she should report these two suspects to her old military superiors.

On one hand, she feels duty-bound, both morally and lawfully speaking, but on the other, she has been discharged from service (no thanks to the machinations of one checker-faced bastard) and the report could count as a breach of Omertà by technicality.

f*ck, she really hates how complicated her life has become.

Without missing a beat, Skull jumps up to defend the monkey. “We had to take Lichi out of that place! He’s Fon’s!”

“Uh, no. It clearly belongs to the zoo,” was Lal Mirch’s incredulous refutation, as the sole voice of sanity in the group.

“Lichi can use storm flames and Fon’s going to teach him martial arts too!”

“Can it really?” Verde interjects in askance, his gleaming eyes now fixed on the primate.

“Yes he can,” Fon confirms, before issuing a pre-emptive warning, “If you so much as touch a hair on Lichi’s head, I will disintegrate your brain.”

Sensing his owner’s sudden hostility, Lichi follows by baring his teeth at the bespectacled man.

“It won’t be anything intrusive,” the green-haired scientist assures, to no one’s belief. “It’ll just be a few IQ tests and—”

“I’m sure Lichi will sufficiently prove his intelligence when I direct him to pull out all of Keiman’s teeth.”

“I’ll have Oodako hold Keiman down,” the Cloud tells the Storm.

“—a few test runs on the amount of storm flames he can channel. Also, Keiman has a bite strength of 300 PSI, good luck.”

Just as Fon is about to offer the alternative of descaling his pet alligator, Luce claps her hand twice, thus cutting the argument short. Her gentle smile is ever-present, all soft and motherly as she approaches the end of her third trimester.

“Our companions are part of the nonlethal pact too. Besides, there is no time where Fon is without Lichi. He will end up with him, sooner or later, just as you will always find Keiman.”

In response, the green-haired scientist stares at the seer in a weary manner. As a matter of fact, he doesn’t hold much fondness for the Arcobaleno – some mutual respect at best, and callous curiosity at worst – but he abhors the certainty that underlines Luce’s words at times like these.

Really, it is like her foresight has blinded her to the present and possibilities; it makes her forget that prophecy is merely probability from her limited perspective.

Luckily, it seems he isn’t the only person bothered by the Sky’s singular narrative as their other resident psychic chimes in, although they are nowhere to be seen around the pool.

“Mou, then what of Lal’s companion then? Or is she tied to a helpless golden retriever who is ready to follow her to the ends of the earth?”

Surprised, Skull looks away from his octopus to track down the source of the seemingly omnidirectional voice, before his gaze lands on the empty chair beside Luce, under the patio umbrella that the Giglio Nero members had helpfully set up for their Donna.

After confirming the Mist’s position, he shrugs and goes back to playing with his new familiar.

“Lal’s companion…” Luce’s words trail off, her blue eyes becoming evasive and distant.

Evidently, her companion, if she was fated to have any, was not even on the horizon. Lal tries not to deflate at that revelation.

From behind his fashionable shades, Reborn muses to the thin air, “He’s still there?”

“He is proving to be very loyal,” comments Fon, indirectly confirming the sergeant's continued presence.

“Seems more like plain masochism to me,” the wix mutters under his breath, to which the rest echo their agreement sans Lal, who splutters in protest before glaring in the general direction of her idiot student.

In spite of being at the receiving end of most dangerous projectiles, the stuntman didn’t find any pleasure from the pain; he just enjoys taking the piss out of others these days.

The blonde soldier — Sergeant Grillo, if his memory was correct — however, had the true makings of a masoch*st as the Arcobaleno have witnessed him taking many potshots from his annoyed senior officer whenever he came into shooting range of her weapon, and he has been camping out in the trees near the mansion, regardless of rain or shine.

Anyone who has staked out for extended periods of time could tell you that camping in the trees was bloody uncomfortable, and yet this man was doing it out of his own free will.

The worst part?

“He can’t even see anything from the treeline,” because Viper was nothing if not absurdly skilled at maintaining a Mist veil for security and privacy, “So why can’t he ask to stay here instead, like a normal person?”

It wasn’t as though they could turn him away either. After being exposed to the other COMSUBIN soldier’s Rain flames, the connection between him and Lal Mirch was intractable, in how they were clearly two halves of a whole—

( twin flames, she has always possessed a soft spot for them )

—He was the light drizzle to her heavy downpour, the easy levity to her hard edges; sharing a common intensity in differing shades of blue, so much brighter when melded together.

The sight of it is utterly mesmerising. Skull would know, as he had to take a long pause as though he had physically taken a blow the first time he witnessed the Twin Rains flaring their flames, in protection of one another.

Then someone stabbed him and tried to string him up by the entrails, which ruined that particular memory.

“If he were normal, he wouldn’t be pining after Lal.”

“Shut up, you egocentric harlot,” the blue-haired soldier snaps back.

“People wish they could sleep with me by giving me money, but I have taste.” Reborn informs her shamelessly. “Just because I’m hypersexual who loves the luxury of choices doesn’t mean I sell myself for sex.”

“I hope you get STDs,” the information broker mutters.

“Why stop there, just curse him with HIV,” Verde cheers Viper on, monotonous. “It’ll be interesting to see if the activation factor can accelerate the immunodeficiency virus to its last stage.”

Reborn’s lips curl into a sneer, “Please, I could cure cancer if I wanted, why would such trivial diseases matter to me?”

“He’s not denying the first part,” Skull notes, completely unafraid of the hitman’s retaliation, both in part of him being used to the abuse, and that his guns and Leon were out of reach.

Well, it’s mostly the latter fact that causes everyone to run off their mouths more than usual.

As a safety measure, he plucks the morphing chameleon from the elevated rock and places her on Oodako’s head, and his friendly cephalopod immediately entangles the lizard with his appendages. Despite cracking an eye open to convey her displeasure, Leon paws her new vantage point before settling down.

Alas, Skull underestimates just how prepared Reborn is when it comes to getting a pound of his enemies’ flesh as he pulls a stiletto out from the band of his tanning shorts to fling it at him.

Fon plucks the weapon out of the air before it can hit its mark.

“Ah, misbegotten youth,” he sighs, despite being the second youngest among the flame users.

A well-trimmed eyebrow raises over the hitman’s shades. “Speaking from experience, Fon?”

“There’s no experience to speak of,” Fon counters unabashedly. “My people have strict views on virginity before marriage.”

“Mou, I thought those standards only applied to women.”

“In the Triads, it applies to both.”

That sentence has a lot of startling implications about Fon’s life before he became the only neutral enforcer in the Triads, and they didn’t know where they should begin to pry, or if they even had the right to.

Skull shifts his purple gaze back to the treeline as he smacks his lips. “So… is anyone going to get the blondie out of the trees?”

“Let him suffer,” Lal dismisses his concerns, and that was that.

Chapter 10

Chapter Text

⬶ XXX ⤅

I’d say that he’s a lucky bastard, but he’s really not,” Sergeant Grillo remarks as he peers at Reborn leaning closer to his target from across the ritzy restaurant bar.

With a beer bottle dangling from his hand, a camouflage headband matching his jacket and pants, the blonde soldier – who introduced himself as Colonnello, to the sound of Lal Mirch’s audible facepalm – seemed like the most normal person in their restaurant corner.

Granted, they hadn't bothered to blend in.

Skull’s hair was still violently purple and he refused to take off his stunt make-up on principle, Fon’s oriental features were doing him no favours, and the actual Italians in attendance possessed odd colourations, except Reborn, who was attracting gazes for other reasons.

It was supposed to be a nice night-out: Luce had been craving pesto pasta, the Italians had been collectively offended that the Briton and Asian had never tried osso buco risotto, so they decided to get dinner together at a fancy restaurant owned by the Giglio Nero Famiglia.

Verde and Viper were conspicuously absent from the arrangement as the former could not be dragged out of his bat cave even on the threat of slow starvation and the latter had disapparated (as they were wont to do) after their latest mission was completed.

All was well, till the World’s Greatest Hitman decided to spice up the night by double booking a random contract in the area. And because the Sun was a psychotic diva who would go the whole nine miles for a good disguise, he had gone full Drag Queen.

His dark hair had been actively elongated into tumbling curls, artfully swept to the left side to reveal his lace-covered shoulder and heart-shaped neckline that gave the illusion of breasts which were accentuated by the silicon paddings underneath. The black dress hugs his frame, his waist cinched with a modest belt before the fabric falls straight down his sinfully long legs to brush against his ankles in stiletto heels, the high cut of his skirt revealing slices of delectable skin.

Despite her love for the persona Skull de Mort, Heather Potter is still very much female and bisexual. She ignores the envy simmering deep in her gut in lieu of admiration, for Reborn plays a better woman than she ever will. With her own petite and seeker-built physique (somewhat malnourished and sleep-deprived, a traitorous part of her subconsciousness adds), untameable hair and patchwork of scars, it would be a wonder if she didn’t scare any prospective suitors off.

To the surprise of no one, the disguised hitman manages to earn the table a few rounds of free drinks based on his stunning looks alone, as well as the undeviating attention of his target once he deigned to join him at his table.

“Why are you here anyway?” Skull asks around a mouthful of gelato. The dessert tastes really good with olive oil. “It would be great if you could share with the class why you finally decided to stop stalking your commanding officer like a creep."

His question is timed perfectly as the blonde soldier chokes on his beer.

Wiping his mouth, he splutters, “I wasn’t stalking Lal!”

“Certainly,” Fon demurs, “You were just tailing our car for miles and following her from the rooftops for weeks. Would you prefer if we referred to you as her ‘ardent admirer’ or a ‘passionate protective detail’?”

Luce points her spoonful of panna cotta at the martial artist. “Be nice,” she chides, blue eyes twinkling with mirth, “If it wasn’t for Colonnello, you would have gotten shot in the arm yesterday.”

As thanks, Fon politely pushes the remaining odorous blue cheese on the platter towards his supposed saviour.

Lal, who has been irate for most of the night due to the appearance of her errant student, rattles her fingers on the table. “Are we waiting for Reborn to finish off another scum of the earth or what?”

Humming, Luce responds with a smile, “I told him not to stain the nice hardwood floors… He will probably take his business outside.”

At that, Colonnello shoots the pregnant lady a surprised look. Logically, he is aware that he is among bad company -- he trusts Lal’s judgement, but what is she doing with them, seriously -- but the flippant mention of murder takes him back.

“Can we leave then?” questions Lal in a brusque manner.

Colonnello visibly droops, his COMSUBIN instructor hadn't bothered to utter a single word to him for the whole meal.

“There’s no rush,” the Donna says primly. “The night is still young; why end it prematurely?”

Lal scowls, but doesn’t refute.

⬶ XXXI ⤅

Upon seeing the two new patrons slide up to the bar, right next to Sun Arcobaleno and his quarry, Skull almost chokes on his whiskey. As he pounds his chest to ride out the coughs as silently as he could, he slides down his chair further, praying to Hogwarts' founders that he hadn’t attracted any unwanted attention.

Why is my life like this? The Vanquisher of Voldemort thinks morosely, aborting the mournful whine that threatens to rise up his throat.

Because Blaise flippin ’ Zabini just walked into the restaurant with another woman on his arm, whose features are similar enough for the wix to posit that she was his mother.

Who, not-so-coincidentally, holds a seat in the Magical Venetian Council of Ten, as Andromeda Tonks had informed her through a double-sided forty-inch parchment detailing the major players and noble houses in Europe, after finding out how sorely remiss the other adults in her life had been in terms of political education, despite knowing that she was the heir (and now Head) of two Noble Houses.

Joining the Mafia had brought its own nasty surprises to the list-- such as the Zabini Famiglia being heavily involved in supplying skilled assassins, and that its Consigliere Sabrina Zabini was the infamous Black Widow of Cosa Nostra.

Apparently life was more bizarre than fiction, and the rumours floating around the Wizarding society were not greatly exaggerated for once; Sabrina Zabini was revered in the Mafia circles for the entrails of (eight) ex-husbands she left underfoot.

Everyone knew she was responsible for their deaths, but did not have enough evidence to pin it on her. Moreover, it was hardly her fault that men were chasing after her skirts when she scarcely bothered to hide her sordid history; they wanted the talented widow so she answered; they fell in love first and lost so she took their sizable fortunes and lives as her prize.

It has been a little over two years since she last saw the Italian Slytherin -- she belatedly heard from her friends that he had attended both the seventh and eighth year at Hogwarts where she hadn't -- and he looks like he has changed little, if at all.

Still, the Potter despairs at the fact that they've come face-to-face again in such a setting, then genuinely fights to hold back the wail rising up his chest when he sees Zabini's beautiful mother heading straight for Reborn's target.

sh*te, that bastard must have offended a lot of people to get the World's Greatest Hitman and the Black Widow in a two-in-one death package.

Although Skull de Mort is certain that their quarry doesn't deserve her sympathy, she lights a silent candle for him anyway.

But here’s the more important thing about this unexpected reunion: Heather Potter doesn’t know how she feels about Blaise Zabini. The Italian may have flanked Draco Malfoy in most occasions, but he wasn’t a sycophant like Crabbe or Goyle; rather, he was akin to a spectator outside the gladiator ring, so aloof and detached from the violence that he has left nary a mark in its bloody history, sans the fading warmth on the seat he once occupied alongside the echo of his caustic words involving his hopeless infatuation towards Ginny.

Blaise Zabini is a witness, not a survivor; a rare person who saw both sides of the story and picked neither in the end. He has nothing to gain or lose from the conflict, the-girl-who-lived knows that now.

Therefore, she cannot in good conscience watch as his mother pits herself against the ruthless hitman, especially when she could not be more familiar with his professionalism.

Teeth scraping past her lip piercing, Heather swings out of her chair as she throws down a random excuse to justify her leaving early. Before heading for the door, she detours to the bar first, ordering two bottles of expensive wine for the Arcobaleno and Zabini’s table, while slipping a hastily scribbled note on a tissue paper that was wrapped around a disillusioned galleon.

The spider will dry up if she hunts too close to the sun.

She trusts that he will understand.

Ducking out of the restaurant, the purple-haired wix palms and scrubs away the concealer hiding her iconic scar. She doesn't bother to hide the blatant use of magic either, apparating noiselessly to the flat rooftop at the opposite side of the road and casting a temporary ward to divert muggle attention from her position.

Minutes later, Blaise strides out of the restaurant, searching. The trail she left is obvious to trained eyes – which evidently, the mafioso and wizard is – as his gaze lands on her spot almost instantaneously.

Instead of using the same method, he crosses the road as one normally would, before dipping into the empty back alley at the side of the building and floating himself upwards. He lands on the ledge, careful to keep a duellist’s distance between him and the unknown entity.

Blaise takes a whole second to process who was standing in front of him.

The aberrant blemish streaking across her forehead. The thin ozone of power that surrounds her. The dissimilar hair colour but the mess on top of her head is unmistakable.

“Heather Potter?” He says in bewilderment.

That’s an interesting expression on his face, Heather notes.

"Fraid so," she grins as she shoves her hands into her jacket pockets, before joking, "The rumours of my disappearance have been greatly exaggerated?"

Well, the Golden Girl hasn't read The Daily Prophet since her fifth year, but she can imagine the sensationalised gossip it spews on the regular with the random news clippings she gets.

A hint of annoyance tugs at the corner of his lips. It's so similar to the exasperated looks she often receives from Lal and Reborn – as though they are genuinely begging for patience against her antics – that she thinks it might be a common Italian expression.

Rolling her eyes, the purple-haired witch remarks, "Laugh it up if you want, but I'm reserving the right to hex you after five minutes."

Despite himself, Blaise chuckles a little. He finds it hard to believe that The-Woman-Who-Conquered, who had been missing from Wizarding Britain for many months, was actually prancing around his home country in dyed colours and tight leather. And wonders of all wonders; she hasn't been caught once.

As a matter of fact, he might not have realised it too, had she not invited scrutiny upon herself by delivering that scribbled note.

For a single moment, he looks like he's actually nineteen and among his fellow snakes instead, since his laughter is scant around unfamiliar company. But the reminiscing dispels soon after as he drops off the ledge and onto solid ground, his neutral stoicism sliding back onto his demeanour.

"You really do have an uncanny ability for ferreting out secrets that people want hidden, don't you, Potter?"

"Can it," she retorts, mouth thinning into an exhausted smile, "Trust me, just like everyone else who gets caught with their pants down, I'd really rather I didn't."

It's only worse when she feels compelled to act on the information, because if it has gone on long enough for her to find out, they were in serious need of divine intervention a la Potter style.

He raises a sceptical eyebrow, "Omertà?"

"Vindice," she answers without missing a beat.

In just two words, they confirmed their associations with the posse of Mafia elites who could wield Dying Will Flames.

"Are you making an enemy out of everyone who alliterates with villainous?" Blaise groans upon noticing her utter lack of fear towards their undead law enforcers.

"The Vindice?" Heather repeats their name on purpose. "Nah, they're decent blokes who do their job. Nevertheless, I do find it incredibly ironic that crime syndicates have better law enforcers than the Wizarding government."

"How do you think they keep their operations so clandestine then?" Blaise returns with professional levels of sarcasm.

Too easy. "Do you want the alphabetised list? It isn't exhaustive, but arson, assault, blackmail, bribery, drugs, extortion, flames, guns, money, murder, sabotage, threats--"

"Been spending a lot of time around your know-it-all boffin, I see."

Her eyes narrow and glow violet in response; it isn't as toxic as Avada Kedavra green, but it's warning enough. "No, just been spending too much time with your lot, specifically, against my better judgement."

Wisely, Blaise drops the previous insult, but his voice remains flat. "'Lot' is an understatement, even for you. Of all the people you could have consorted with, you chose the most dangerous hitman in the Cosa Nostra."

"Consorting is such an uncouth and inaccurate word," Heather clicks her tongue in distaste.

"You're not denying association."

"Unfortunately not," she looks skywards, somewhat pained, before admitting aloud, "Contrary to popular opinion, I do have self-preservation instincts, it's just that, sometimes, I'm not in the position to listen to them."

"Sometimes," Blaise echoes, seemingly in disbelief. "Right. You're a dunderhead, but you're too righteous to befriend an infamous hitman with a red ledger miles wide, even though I don't doubt your ability to affect him with your Gryffindor-goodness."

Then the Italian pinches the space between his brows in an uncharacteristic manner, "When I received a well-meaning note from a clearly magical being with Mafia connections, I did not expect the person to be Heather goddamn Potter. f*cking hell."

"May Hell f*ck you indeed," she ripostes, having mastered the art of being needlessly antagonistic given her recent company, "It was-- I was trying to be nice by giving that warning, so bugger off my case. And as flattering as your faith is, not even God can salvage Reborn, though that's assuming he wants to be saved in the first place."

The latter half of her sentence makes him pause, "He's a smarmy git, ain't he?"

"An absolute bum hole," she confirms.

"Alas, my mother is disturbingly fond of him, in spite of how he tried to garrotte her with his eyes across the table… All while he was disguised as an attractive woman too," the Slytherin remarks with perceptible disgruntlement.

Heather gets the sense that her ex-schoolmate may have tried to divest the flamboyant Sun of his attention and underthings, but wisely kept the observation to herself.

Spurred by morbid curiosity, she asks, "You reckon they'll shag after that man is dead?"

Their target's death was not a matter of if but when. Frankly, the Vanquisher of Voldemort couldn't tell whose hand it was better dying by.

There was the quick mercy that Reborn delivered, since he wasn't a contractor who liked to play around and leave behind loose ends, whilst the acclaimed Black Widow was fond of delayed gratification via coffer draining and elaborate death set-ups.

"Over his corpse in the loo, you mean?" Blaise utters sourly. There are many things the Slytherin preferred not to think about, such as his mother copulating with various men for their money, and by extension, his own conception. "It will certainly be humiliating, but I'd really rather not know."

“But they’d make such a… scintillating image together. Two infamy, nay, two mafiosi alike in indignity, in fair Verona, where we lay this body…”

At her blatant attempt to worsen matters for him, Blaise leers instead, “Oh? Has our Wizarding Saviour been developing a kink for voyeurism whilst away from the public eye? We could make our own scene, if you like.”

A blush rises up her cheek as she barrels on, “And miss out on a pair of star-crossed murderers taking out another’s life, a chance to witness a misadventured overture that sends sirens lamenting through the night?”

“While your recent coming into literature is admirable, the erotica of my parent fornicating in the bathroom isn’t one I wish to entertain.”

“For shame.”

“Not if it’s to my imagination’s demise, no.”

Heather lets out a laugh, shaking her head. “You really haven’t changed at all, have you, Zabini?”

“Can’t say the same for you,” he hums, brown eyes pointedly sweeping across her figure.

As the two wixes continue to converse, Blaise notes that Heather Potter seemed to be… Lighter, for the lack of a better word.

Less like she was carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders; no longer in pursuit of some noble cause she would undoubtedly find at the start of every semester, only to sweep the rest of the school and society in her latest conspiracy, embroiled in truths she had paid dearly to learn but no one would listen (while those that believed her were scarcely on her side); as though she were Cassandra of Troy screaming her lungs hoarse about the impending disasters she has foreseen, only to helplessly watch the world burn down around her.

She has come far from the clueless girl he met at age eleven, having grown out of her scrawny limbs and wiry figure and erased her awkward habits of fiddling with over-large sleeves and pulling at her haphazardly chopped hair. Now, her fringe has been swept to the side and her bulky glasses were done away, putting her audience under the full mercy of her luminous, soul-searing eyes.

But the shadow of the haunted soldier he saw in front of the Wizenmogot at age seventeen still dogs her steps.

Vividly, he remembers the broken and haggard image crucified on the witness stand; eyes bruises black and purple, her formal robes barely sufficient in covering the jut and jags of horrors that have calcified in her bones after eight tolling months, chapped lips giving way and uttering the truth and reality that their society had deafened themselves to.

When The Woman Who Conquered took the stage and laid her scars bare on behalf of those who fought on the other side of the Blood War--

(“We were only children,” he recalls how distressed her whisper sounded in the silent room when she emphasised on the past tense of that statement, “Who should have been taught better but weren’t, who ended up paying the highest price for the prejudices that were blindly perpetuated because we were only taught to repeat but not understand, who cannot be held fully reprehensible for our actions, for what is intent in the court of law, when minors have never been told the full story and had to pick up the unsaid pieces as they are fighting for their lives?

“Children were made to fight in the war because the mistakes of old were left to fester for too long. Children were forced to fight because their elders and parents – authoritative figures who should've known better and done better – had chosen to let the problem fall to the wayside for too long.”)

For those solemn hours, the British Wizarding Enclave stopped and went quiet, finally hearing the suppressed voice of a girl-turned-woman, their combined tragedy borne from inaction and stagnancy pouring from her open wounds as she bleeds and bleeds and bleeds.

It splashes across the ancient tiles and seeps into the cracks, staining the resin wood as well, impartial in the way it splatters and jars the judges, the jury, and spectators from every walk of life.

The Vanquisher of Voldemort is the winner in the conflict, but her head hangs low in gallows greys in the news publications after her testimony; she was akin to the poster child for wilful neglect, frail shoulders burdened with the accumulation of their sins, a macabre story foretold about rot and corruption.

The war has ended but Blaise Zabini can still perceive the battle waged beneath her scabbed surface, for she is armoured in precise cuts of dragon skin leather, hands defensively tucked into pockets and probably clutching onto a wand.

"You look better," Blaise remarks in a rare moment of honesty.

Heather shrugs noncommittally, "Some time away has been good."

Away from the attention (once UNDESIRABLE NUMBER ONE), external reminders cast aside for something mundane and less fantastical.

“That's hardly a surprise.”

Her head whips back to him, somewhat stunned. It isn’t exactly sympathy that she’s perceiving, but it’s quite close.

“What?” Blaise continues, tone as dry as a desert, “I have my own beliefs, but I’m not blind or irreversibly stupid. If I were you, I would have emigrated ages ago. Wizarding Britain is a sh*t place to be.”

And coming from someone with a Mafia background – Merlin, so much about Zabini made sense now – his last statement was incredibly significant.

"Why did you attend Hogwarts then?"

"That patch in upper Scotland was neutral territory."

Heather's mouth forms an 'o' in understanding. Then, her reckless curiosity kicks in, and she takes the opportunity to scratch an itch that has been bothering her ever since she was abruptly yeeted into the underworld.

“Speaking of which… how much of the Wizarding Community is involved in the Mafia?”

Blaise shakes his head, “Why did I expect anything less from you, Potter? If I answered that—”

“--You would have to kill me?” Heather finishes for him with a roll of her eyes. “All of you are a bunch of clichés.”

The Italian’s eyebrow twitches again.

"If you would quit sticking your head in places you shouldn't be, maybe you wouldn't hear such lines so often."

"Again, I don't ask to be involved in all this crap, it just happens to find me like a homing missile."

Blaise scoffs, "You're not deceiving anyone here, Potter. You seek out trouble like an incorrigible dog that's salivating after meat."

Nonplussed, Heather slowly raises her hand to flip him off. "At least I'm not knee-deep in sh*te all the time."

"Diving face first into said sh*te doesn't make you any better. I was born into this world and maintained where I stood, you let yourself stink up and sink."

"But you were born into this knowing, whilst I was made to think that drowning in the odour was normal," utters the witch, softly, words intoned like spell cast. Her lips take on a sardonic tilt, "What's worse though, living with the stench knowingly, or causing a stir in attempt to clear out some of the bad air?"

The-Woman-Who-Conquered does not delude herself into thinking that Tom Riddle's defeat and the cementing of her titles hasn't affected the noble houses' interests. Nor does she ignore the presence of their influence in the undercurrents of Voldemort’s short but horror-filled reign; he and his supporters were an echo chamber of archaic opinions which reverberated so loudly that they could hear nothing else.

"It's just stirring sh*t in a huge pot." It accomplishes nothing. The Italian drawls mockingly, "You should know better by now, the wizarding kind have always been stuck in their ways."

Upon hearing his reply, the countless letters she received, resolution thick in every stroke of quill, and the updates of DA members quickly filling the ranks of the government and Wizenmogot, come to mind. All of them were starting out at different positions but they were driven by similar motivations; they seem like insignificant gears added to the whole system, but someday they will create enough momentum to move.

Unable to stop herself, Heather Potter laughs.

"Not for long," she remarks after some mirthful contemplation. "'Stuck' isn't quite the same as immovable."

Maybe there's a bit of schadenfreude too, she can almost picture the shock on the nobles' faces once her brilliant Hermione takes the seat of Minister of Magic in the years to come while other DA members flank her.

It will take time, but there will be change; the Hogwarts students who survived the war, regardless of blood status, have lost much in the conflict – ideals, innocence, naivety, friends and family – but the beautifully ugly thing about ruin is that you can only stand to gain when you have nothing left to lose.

"It isn't," his agreement falls from his lips without resistance, even though his eyes remain narrowed. “But perhaps you need a reminder on the lengths people will go to keep the status quo.”

Arms crossed and head co*cked, The-Woman-Who-Conquered smirks, “Is that a challenge? Because you really won’t like our answer.”

⬶ XXXII ⤅

“What has stolen your attention so, .”

Slender arms reach around the armchair’s backrest to drape around broadening shoulders, while her chin rests on the top of his head. Her crimson nails trace circles on his shirt and her perfumed scent envelops him, thus dragging her child out of his own reverie.

Sabrina Zabini is a dreamy overture in her black rosette dress, whose neckline cuts deep between the valley of her breasts; arresting in her femininity that is displayed in her loose waves falling down her hourglass figure, her features wondrously contoured by the shadows of night, and the indigo tint in her smoky eyes only adds to her mystery.

She enraptures regardless of the room she steps in, and being her only son, Blaise is well-aware of her moods.

Contentment hums under her sun-kissed skin, and he shudders to think of the most recent conquest that her heels have strutted over, or whose neck the same hands have wrapped around.

Knowing better than to leave her hanging for answers, Blaise sighs inaudibly, “I met the Broken Sky of Hogwarts.”

"In Italia?" His mother drawls, vaguely remembering the purple-haired figure that she caught a glimpse of in Giglio Nero's family restaurant, alongside the eccentric group that had been heavily disguised under a Mist veil.

Whoever had cast that particular illusion was skilled, she would give them that much, but their touch was a bit too heavy and obvious for her liking.

Almost disapprovingly, she murmurs, "Well, her taste in company hasn't changed in the least. What have they been calling themselves again? Arcobaleno, was it?"

The uninspired naming choice after their flame colours steals a chuckle from his throat as well, "They prefer to be called I Prescelti Sette, last I heard."

"How quaint and unassuming."

"Indubitably so," the young Slytherin agrees with the Black Widow's mockery, who raises her eyebrow in return.

"I distinctly recall raising you better than to be condescending against the unknowing, mia figlio."

"Did you, Madre? Must've been swallowed by interhouse politics and Mafia finagling then. Product of circ*mstance, I'm afraid."

Sabrina pokes her son's cheek before drifting over to the emptied loveseat. "You were a product of circ*mstance too."

"As you have often seen fit to remind me, yes."

“It is meant to keep you humble, lest you fall into false beliefs of grandeur or supremacy,” states Sabrina, firmly.

“I would thank you, but you compared me to the bigoted bunch in backwards Britain.”

“You fully deserve that comparison.”

“I was twelve,” he can’t help but stress in exasperation, reaching up to pinch the space between his brows in exasperation.

Peering up from her nail inspection, the Black Widow counters, “Youth is not an excuse for ignorance. Enough of the digression,” she orders, as if she wasn’t the first to tangent from the initial topic. “What were you saying about that Broken Sky?”

“She’s a Cloud now,” states Blaise in a neutral voice.

Unbidden, the scene of Potter standing alone on the rooftop surfaces in his mind, irises contaminated with ultraviolet, streetlights dying at her feet as she lurks within the shadow of the constructed billboard. Boots shoulder width apart, she was tactically dressed in dragon leather and smudged with the vestiges of her warpaint at her neck and ears, flashing her signature scar like a beacon for trouble.

The Zabini could not have mistaken her as anyone else, but she feels different now; a fractured imitation of the bright Sky he knew in his youth, who, despite her gangliness and tendency to swathe herself in ill-fitting clothes, had been suffusive and much larger than life.

“She’s lucky to be alive at all,” Sabrina replies indifferently.

The British Wizarding Enclave could live in denial as much as they want, but any Flame Active would know that Heather James Potter had died during the final battle of Hogwarts. In her wake, the remains of her soul flames had scattered all over the school grounds, the fading reverb more potent than the alluded image of a gentle giant carrying her lifeless body back to the rest of the defending troops.

Hogwarts used to be neutral territory – past tense, not present –similar to how educational institutions such as Durmstrang, Beauxbatons, Stati, and the Mafia School were, but now none dare to tread on a Sky’s tomb out of the fear that they may lose their minds from the echoed grief.

Three Active Skies have graced Hogwarts in the last century, and yet it is the youngest and least ambitious who lays a full but horrendous claim over the ancient castle.

If it weren’t for the fact that the Slytherin had no other options and hated wasting more time to get his magical qualifications, he would never have returned for the final extended year. Hell, it was a bloody miracle that he hadn’t buckled to his knees upon reaching the school shores, choking on the fierce protection which hung over the school like an iron dome, carved from fatal sacrifice and helplessness.

Having to live on the premise of her suicide (and it was suicide, no matter how they try to aggrandise the tale), almost drove him mad with the want to resurrect Voldemort so he could kill him again and again, to avenge the dying embers that pulse as Hogwarts’ mournful consciousness, which crests over the waves of the Black Lake and fogs the Forbidden Forest. It is impossible to sleep peacefully when he can perceive the soft wails trembling within the walls deep in the dungeons, and sometimes the dripping in the bathrooms smell like rust and salt.

There’sno need to be a witness when he’s perfectly capable of sensing the tragic aftermath.

“Perhaps it is a good thing that she’s a Cloud now,” Blaise concludes out loud, his eyelids shuttered to conceal the identical violet flecks that have bled into his gaze.

At the very least, she would no longer be chained by obligations.

“A blessing in disguise,” his mother concurs before clicking her tongue, “It is quite a shame that such a powerful sky was lost.”

Still, he wonders.

“Could we have extracted her?”

“Unlikely,” the Consigliere snuffs his ideation immediately, “She was too wrapped up in the schemes of others. We would have won ourselves a Sky, but it would have cost us. Your Nonno wouldn’t have allowed it.”

Having expected those words, the best kept secret of the Zabini Famiglia sighs.

Maybe.

Maybe if Voldemort didn’t exist; if Potter had been sorted into Slytherin instead; if the Sky hadn’t found her own whimsical Cloud at age twelve at King’s Crossing—

He would have burned himself a home under her encompassing flames.

Chapter 11

Chapter Text

⬶ XXXIV ⤅

The day Aria del Giglio Nero was born was traumatising for all persons involved.

For Luce, it is the birth-giving itself, whereby she bleeds both blood and flames for hours on end, battling through the splitting pain to push out her first and last progeny. For all her foresight, knowing the possible ways that her pregnancy could have gone wrong and how her daughter may not come into being breathing, it’s the intensity of the pain she least expects; it was once viewed through seeing lens without any emotional or physical feedback and nothing could have fully prepared her for bone-breaking pain and desperation that overtakes her senses as she literally feels her life force draining out of her.

Pale-faced and fists clenched, what the Donna does not spit through gritted teeth is completely broadcasted in her star-burst Sky flames, sending out a signal miles wide.

Much like their unlucky beginnings, the Arcobaleno had the misfortune of being in the Arco Manse when she went into labour deep in the night.

However, Verde undoubtedly drew the shortest straw as he had to stick his head between Luce’s legs —it’s not even for a scientific analysis either, Verde thinks, as he admonishes the childish part of his mind picking up on that horrendous pun — to check her dilation process while the rest of the Giglio Nero Famiglia were fetching her designated gynaecologist.

If the next coming of Da Vinci had known earlier that the ‘Dr’ prefix would get him into this situation, he would have thrown away his thermodynamics dissertation in lieu of getting actual Permanent Head Damage.

Surely, that would have saved him the humiliation of a pregnant woman loudly threatening to dismember him for a foetus he did not help create years later, as well as the dozens of projectiles that were launched his way. The pockets sewn into maternity dresses, he learned that night, were numerous and large.

Also, Luce’s mouth was absolutely filthy when she deigned to use it.

For the rest of the Giglio Nero Famiglia, on the other hand…

Well, they were verging on tears as they had to deal with not one, but two sets of agitated elements, who seemed all too willing to eviscerate each other from the face of the earth in order to get to the pregnant Sky, and they were unfortunately the only obstacles standing between the door and fourteen overpowered individuals.

(They did not have enough insurance coverage for this sh*t.)

“I’m too young to die,” one of the mooks standing at the end of the hallway whimpers as he watches the Elements pace back and forth.

His more experienced partner proceeds to ruin his perception with one bland and honest sentence: “Not in this line you’re not.”

Risking a glance at their vibrating pagers, they note that it is filled with 505s from their colleague who is stationed closest to the Eye of the Storm. Tactfully, and to the gratitude of the housekeeper in charge of budgeting, Fon had chosen to keep his hands tucked into his sleeves after he destroyed several pieces of furniture with his touch alone.

Both of them ignore their colleague’s numbered plea as they tuck their pagers back into their suit pockets.

In the next few hours, six fights nearly break out and more items get destroyed until Lal Mirch snaps and calls in the calvary in the form of one blonde soldier to drown everyone in their heavy-handed Rain Flames.

However, it does little to tranquilise the pain-engulfed flames pouring out of the bedroom, and it only makes everyone in the vicinity more aggravated by the second, thus torn between rational thought and wanting to rip out the threat away and out from the Sky.

Halfway through, the Arcobaleno Cloud is the first to bow out as he jumps through of the window and escapes to the rooftop, and the other mooks can only watch in envy because they want to run away too.

Winces of sympathy go around when Verde is called back into the labour room, being the sole person who can survive holding Luce’s hand without getting his appendage broken. Judging from the slight glaze behind his spectacles though, and the stagger in his steps, the Lightning is neither immune nor sober enough to ruminate over his options.

In truth, it is a tough battle for them all.

It is not easy to sit still when their instincts are screaming otherwise.

When the Giglio Nero Nono finally graces the world with her wrinklish presence just as the sun hits high noon, her Famiglia almost sobs out loud in relief.

⬶ XXXV ⤅

Upon sensing the new blip on the radar, small and orange like a candle, Skull’s eyes flutter open like a moth fanning out its wings.

With his legs already dangling from the edge, the stuntman pushes himself off the flat landing, a light Arresto Momentum enveloping his combat boots as he falls onto the balcony leading into Luce’s bedroom.

Behind the curtained doors, a flurry of activity can be vaguely perceived: the rustling of sheets and the creaking of the springs as the Donna is resettled onto a clean bed, the quiet whimpers of an infant calming down from her first cry. Multitudes of footsteps treading across the carpet, gently, mingling with murmurs that sound like prayers and congratulations wrapped up in one.

His hand rests on the handle in a cautious manner. It would be easy for the wix to pry open the lock with Alohom*ora, but something twinges within him, so he refrains at first.

Perhaps it’s the suffocating dosage of flames that have seeped into the bricks and mortar and every nook and cranny over the past few hours, wrapping around his body like zip ties, the plastic pressing into his limbs and pushing into the spaces between his ribs. There are also leftover cinders on his tongue, providing no warm comfort, but the sourness which burns like concentrated citric acid.

As Skull rubs away the gooseflesh forming on his skin, Luce grants him entry, “Let him in.”

The door clicks before it is swivelled open, revealing one of the nursemaids that have been hovering around Luce as of late. After muttering a distracted “thanks”, the Cloud slides into the room, only to be taken aback by the scene in front of him.

He isn’t sure what he has missed, but all the occupants in the room surround Luce as though she is the sun and moon, and they are helpless to her gravity as they revolve around her.

Verde is still seated in the chair beside her bed, head tilted backwards to stare at the ceiling aimlessly. Reborn’s intense gaze is fixated on the mother and daughter, hands gripping his crossed arms tightly as if he yearns to touch. The Mist, as elusive as always, can be felt in the artificial peace that saturates the air, while the remaining two elements of the set stay at the foot of the bed, watchful and protective.

They barely notice the fact that they have nudged the original set of guardians to the side.

(Heartstrings, and the unshakeable sense of wrongness, twinge harder.)

Subconsciously, her own feet bring her closer to the infant in Luce’s arms.

“Can I?” She hears herself saying, her voice almost foreign sounding to her ears.

Even exhausted, the new mother does not let up on her scrutiny once she hears her request, immediately assessing if she was a threat to her daughter.

She hesitates.

The witch notices it, but her arms remain outstretched, patiently waiting to receive the child.

After what feels like minutes of mutual staring, Luce gingerly places her baby in Heather’s arms, fussing over the swaddling clothes and ensuring her holding posture is correct. Heather doesn’t protest, allowing the mother to have her peace of mind before she draws the baby closer to her chest.

Then pale blue eyes slowly open.

A world of knowledge passes between them in one look.

She sees the future.

She sees ends and crossroads.

The descendent of Sepira giggles softly, eyes closing again as she snuggles closer to bound breasts and begins to drift off to sleep.

With utmost tenderness, the descendent of Ignotus Peverell presses her lips to her tiny forehead, breathing in the unmistakable scent of life.

“Aria," she tests her name on her tongue, almost cooing. “Little Lioness.”

Heather Potter is by no means religious — has no reason to be, given the unfortunate series of events that sum up her life — but just as she prayed for Teddy Lupin, she prays that the budding Sky's melody will never be cut short.

⬶ XXXVI ⤅

Heather, Hermione, and Ron all maintain that it is not paranoia if the world is genuinely out to get you during a specific day of the year.

Anyone who wishes to argue otherwise can take it to Hermione, because she has a written biography (weaselled out of the unwilling protagonist), witness accounts, accidental victim impact statements, medical records, exhibit sites, scars, and court documents to f*cking prove it.

(The scholarly witch begrudgingly adds Professor Trelawney’s predictions to her dissertation entitled ‘Heather Potter and The Curse of Halloween’, but at the same time, there are at least twenty pages dedicated to listing out the harms caused by the prophecy, the concept of self-fulfilling prophecies, and the extremely low rate of success that the frazzled professor has compared to her better-known ancestor.)

Heather and Ron love their bookworm to the moon and back, but both of them are Gryffindor enough to admit that Hermione scares them at times.

Nevertheless, the point stands: terrible things always happen to Heather James Potter on Halloween.

Most of it bears a direct correlation to Lord Vader.

No one knows why he keeps using October 31st as his supposed day of reckoning — no one has bothered asking either, in truth — but you would think that after accidents keep happening on the exact same date, Wizarding Britain would start taking a hint and beef up their security against possible attacks from the Dark Lord on Halloween.

But nope. Expecting some logic from the wizarding community was apparently too much to ask for, since children were forced to end a war that started in their parents’ generation.

Maybe Tom Riddle was truly one step ahead of them and used reverse psychology on them all.

“Or maybe the wizarding community is just inbred and stupid,” someone who sounds suspiciously like Padma Patil whispers in the back of her mind.

Although the Potter was in Russia during her eighteenth Halloween — because the atheism and the lack of celebrations there has to count for something, right? — she hadn’t managed to escape the curse.

The witch had even gone out of her way to climb the mountain of Dykh-Tau in the Kabardino-Balkaria Republic just for the sake of avoiding people, but somehow, she still stumbled into Death Eater sympathisers who recognised her at the Berzingi Alpine Camp.

Fighting at 2180 metres aboveground and during a snowstorm was not at all recommended, though it did provide good cover against muggle exposure.

The cold burial from the subsequent avalanche caused by barrage of explosive spells, however, was not fun to get out of.

(Even Mother Nature was vehemently against her.)

Truth to be told, she can’t remember much from that day besides the regular dose of desperation pounding in her veins and feeling awfully cold.

Halloweens…

It is the single day of the year she dreads the most, it is the Day of the Dead; her loved ones tend to slip through the Veil, all leaving for a place she can never follow; where her enemies haunt her like revenants, and she is constantly plagued by ghosts.

But the traumatising memories are just the aftermath.

Nothing strikes fear harder than the tolling of the clock that signals the start of the blasted day, watching the moon rise and set and rise again, the hours crawling by torturously as she waits on bated breath for the next tragedy to slam into her like a freight train.

It is the suspense,the knowing belief that something terrible will happen that is the worst.

(At eighteen summers, Heather longs to take the falls by herself.

She would take all the pain and suffering, gladly and gratefully, if it means that her friends can be spared. She doesn't mind being the sacrifice.

Dying is just a part of life.)

At nineteen, the-girl-who-won’t-die wishes she had the capacity to feel surprised when she wakes up in a dark basem*nt, hands and feet tied to the armrests and legs of the chair.

“Today is starting off swell,” she mutters to herself sarcastically, before realising that her voice sounds oddly slurred to her ears.

Feebly, she twists her wrists to test the range of motion.

Whoever knocked her out and brought her here had pulled no stops; the metal chains are secured around the entire stretch of her limbs tightly and even her torso is tied to the cross rail of the chair.

She sighs. Why couldn't her assailants be underwhelming instead?

There is a persistent itch that belies her skin, like something foreign is slithering in her veins and clogging up the valves. Her magic and flames feel sluggish like a Flobberworm — a sensation she hasn’t felt in many months — and it makes her suspect that they might have overdosed her on something.

Scratch that, it must’ve been a high dosage if… She blinks hard at the whole other spectrum of colour she’s seeing in the all-consuming darkness— If it’s still in my system.

Even though she could hear the door unlocking and swinging open, she still has trouble focusing on the people who are stepping in. Her coloured contacts are practically glued to her eyeballs by this point, so it definitely isn’t her myopia acting up.

Skull immediately regrets being able to see their faces though. She knows she is technically immune to poisons, but apparently hallucinogens are a different category of substances that aren’t covered by her magical insurance of Basilisk venom and Phoenix tears.

Her face scrunches together. The new arrivals looked… grotesque and distorted.

“Looks like our little Cloud is finally awake,” the man in a pinstripe suit drawls out.

Well, the leader looks and sounds like a mangy cur, Heather giggles.

His acolyte clearly takes offence in her amusem*nt because he immediately grabs her by the hair to force her to look at the person who spoke.

“Is Skull-sama really awake? Cus’ you look like a nightmare.”

A slap sends her head flying to the side. She expected that; Uncle Vernon hadn't liked it when Freak gave him cheek either.

"Go easy on his civilian sensibilities," the besuited man tells his subordinate, but it reeks of insincerity.

“Civilian?" The man wearing a green dress shirt with rolled up sleeves scoffs. "Vor, he fought like a savage animal."

Flashbacks of Skull getting cornered in a rundown street in Poland filter into her mind. The thugs igniting into multi-coloured flames was a warning sign that the Arcobaleno had accidentally stepped into Mafia territory.

Shouts. Blood. Maybe some teeth? Got surrounded. He kicked someone in the throat. Fon-senpai would've been proud of that one. Black spots filling his vision. Darkness.

The recollection is brief but the-girl-who-lived smiles with teeth. Good.At least she didn't go down without a fight.

The Vor approaches her and grips onto her jaw tightly to prevent her from spitting on him. "The Pakhan won't be pleased if he knows you damaged the goods."

His index finger digs into the lip piercing. "Avoid the face, da? Pakhan wants a good, territorial dog, not an ugly, disobedient one."

Heather takes a deep breath and lets herself fall back into the safety of her own metal fortress, counting the seconds it takes for her immune system to burn out the flame suppressors.

(They cannot break her with pain.

Not when what they can inflict pales in comparison to what she has done to herself.

You don't try to make an obedient dog or a puppet of the Strongest Cloud or take away its freedom; and you should never try to bring The-Woman-Who-Conquered to heel.)

⬶ XXXVII ⤅

When it comes to the monthly Arcobaleno gatherings, Skull is always the last to arrive.

Even though all of them hated wasting time to varying extents, there is a silent and mutual agreement among themselves to overlook the stuntman’s tardiness, especially once they realise his vendetta isn’t against them.

At the start, they mostly excused it because they needed someone who was stupid enough to test the boundaries of this arrangement. If the weakest link wanted to put himself up as the monthly sacrifice, who were they to stop him?

Perhaps they would even get a better Cloud after his death.

(This thought lasts until they were caught in the full blast of Skull de Mort’s rage; no, they correct themselves internally then, they will never find another Cloud more powerful than the stuntman in their time.)

But as time wore on, this indifference morphs into honest curiosity about the lengths that their sole ‘civilian’ was willing to go just to spite Checkerface, and then amusem*nt because he was actually succeeding in annoying the Mist of unfathomable power and reach.

Say what you will about Skull de Mort — obnoxious, reckless, childish, deafening, ersatz — but his persistence and creativity is a thing of legends.

To date, he has tried cities, suburbs, towns, villages, forests, swamps, deserts, and tundra. If a mission ends before the mandatory two weeks is up, their youngest will disappear faster than they could say 'debrief' to put as much distance as he possibly can between himself and the Arco Manse.

He always ends up in the same place, but it does take a special kind of idiot to decide that exploring the 5,000 feet deep cave of Chevé was not troublesome enough before diving into the deep sea without any professional assistance, while doubling it as an experiment to see if he can endlessly propagate the air in his lungs to stay underwater.

(The answer is yes, and his current record stands at three hours and twenty minutes.)

No matter how reluctant, even Reborn can't help but appreciate his tenacity.

The most hysterical part about his attempts is that sometimes Skull doesn't even need to try; having to clean up after his devil luck is already a chore on its own.

The man can land himself in prison after a vehicular accident just hours before the scheduled meeting by no fault of his own. He can wander into cult meetings and nearly become the protesting sacrifice to a chthonic god.

And see, Skull has no reason to lie to them about his wild encounters.

Likewise, the Arcobaleno did not require much proof to believe him.

The fact that he, a popular stuntman who could have lived comfortably with his riches and fame, untouched by the darkest side of humanity, is caught in the deepest web of the Mafia speaks volumes of his absurd luck.

Honestly, he just needs to be the death-defying adrenaline junkie that he is, hopping from country to country and getting swept up in crowds, doing stupid sh*t until he gets shoved into the spotlight again, one way or another.

(There's an unexplainable magnetism to the immortal stuntman, for he draws attention as natural as breathing and his captive audience can never tear their gaze away from him.)

Moreover, Skull didn’t grow up hearing the horror stories about the Vindice and he doesn’t have a single bone in his body that’s made for self-preservation, so he treats the Mafia’s immortal bogeyman as a myth.

If anything, his first meeting with them has only spurred him to call them out at random, to the point where Viper is trained to gag him with tentacles the moment his mouth tries to form the first consonant.

It helps that the Cloud Arcobaleno has the strongest control out of all of them, despite having the most volatile flames, however odd that revelation is. If he hasn’t caught Vindice's attention during his showbiz career where he experienced a few messy splats and miraculously survived, he likely never will.

Checkerface, on the other hand?

Every time the Administrator forcibly teleports Skull from whatever location he has decided upon, be it a jail cell, the open sea, festivals, concerts, or different types of civilisation, he risks breaking Omertà.

Skull won’t be held reprehensible because he’s just being ordinary and testing the limits of life, but Checkerface will receive no mercy from their ruthless jailors if he lets an actual civilian catch a glimpse of his impossible will.

Viper, the Strongest Mist of their generation, would rather kill a paying client than go through the trouble of distorting the memories of an entire crowd.

Now, imagine having to do it once a month.

After all that has been said and done, it would be stranger if Checkerface wasn’t irritated.

His vexation starts to show too. The cracks in his professional mask start showing in the inconvenient drops and awkward angles that Skull finds himself in, as if he was hoping that the circus freak would land on his face. Odd objects tag along for the ride, the teleportations become hastier and the following whiplash would have made a lesser man retch, but Skull takes all of it in his stride, merely grinning like a shark that has scented blood.

Skull de Mort is a tenacious bastard; they can unanimously agree on this.

Therefore, when the stuntman is hours late, each hour denoted by the deepening creases in Luce’s frown since Checkerface would never let the Cloud be this tardy, the other flame users were of the mind that Skull might have successfully evaded the ancient Mist’s grasp for the first time.

They are proven wrong when the devil in white appears before them.

Honest to God, it takes the Arcobaleno a full second to process this fact before they rain hellfire on the Administrator again, their attacks far more vicious compared to their first meeting.

(The bookshelf, door and couch don’t survive the onslaught. Rest in pieces, furniture, you have served briefly but well.)

“I see that you are all pleased to see me,” Checkerface says sarcastically, after the violence ceases. “Worry not, the feeling is mutual.”

Verde scoffs with professional levels of derision in response.

Ignoring him, Checkerface continues, “As you may have observed, the floating Cloud amongst you is missing. He’s gotten himself caught in a bit of a pickle, you see.” He snaps his fingers and folders appear in front of them.

Used to the standard operating procedure by now, the Arcobaleno flip open the mission brief.

Luce pales rapidly upon reading the first few lines, “How, I did not foresee—”

“A seer you may be, but there are things beyond your mortal ken, Gilgo Nero Ottava,” Checkerface intones without care.

She pales even further. Loathe she was to admit it, the Cloud Arcobaleno – the final element to fill and pacify for her Sky – has always been a blind spot to her. But she usually receives hints of his presence, a missing space, a strange echo; but her predictions had not told her—

“Kidnapped,” Reborn barks out a laugh as he throws down the papers and leans back against his chair. “f*cking lackey got kidnapped.”

And out of all the places he could have gotten kidnapped, of course that trouble magnet chooses Bratva territory.

“Why are you hiring us to do this when you are perfectly capable of extracting him?” Viper questions monotonously.

Tapping his cane on the floor, Checkerface agrees, “It is within my power, but having to save a fellow teammate helps to build rapport, doesn’t it?” He tilts his silver-rimmed hat, “Besides, you might find… something of interest once you arrive there.”

Lal’s following response is tart and freezing cold. “How about you give us the full information, hmm? This isn’t the time for games.”

“But I would hate to ruin the surprise when Skull de Mort has gotten himself into such spectacular trouble. There’s always a first for everything, I suppose,” says Checkerface, and the other occupants in the room could get the sense that he was pouting behind his mask. His words were laced with schadenfreude too; but it is not difficult to decipher where his vindictiveness stems from.

The facts stand before them: Checkerface could have saved Skull de Mort from whatever unwitting trouble he had gotten himself in, but refused under the belief that Skull would survive, or that it was too much of a hassle to extricate him out of his current situation.

“Hopefully you won’t take too long in finding your Cloud,” the Administrator says in an airy voice as he dissipates from the room, “The Odesa Bratva aren’t treating him well, last I checked.”

Chapter 12

Chapter Text

⬶ XXXVIII ⤅

“HEATHER JAMES POTTER, WHERE IN GOD’S NAME HAVE YOU BEEN!?!?” is the first thing she hears when the magic mirror finally connects after many fumbling attempts.

Still drugged to the gills, the Gryffindor squeaks upon hearing that particular tone coming from her best friend. And holy f*ck did that shriek echo in her ears.

If there’s anything Hermione has mastered after spending years in school with her, it would be the art of making her feel crushing guilt, as if she’s let down the world.

“In my defence—” Heather slurs and pauses, trying really hard to focus on the blurred image in the mirror, “My hands were tied. Literally. Sorta awkward cus’ the kidnappers were real thorough with it, took some time to get outta the restraints, holy sh*te this place kind of reminds me of Malfoy’s basem*nt, Morgana’s tit*—”

Besides the names, Ron can hardly understand a word that's coming out of her mouth. “Ather, mate, we can’t understand a word you’re saying when you’re speaking in Italian.”

The stuntman scowls droopily. She must be spending too much time around the Arcobaleno, since their primary language of communication was Italian, Mandarin and French. It was immersive therapy to learn the languages, they had said.

As much as Heather hates to admit it, their methods are effective, but her progress doesn’t mean much when the Arcobaleno have ridiculously high standards.

Unconsciously, the thought makes her pout. She defaults back to English after a bit of stuttering, “S-Sorry, got used to speaking in Italian.”

The first-generation witch rubs her temple, “Nevermind that. Where have you been, Heather?” She demands, “You've been missing for two days and you were unreachable. You promised you would stay in contact.”

Especially after Halloween, goes unsaid.

If Heather wasn’t feeling as high as a kite, she would have apologised.

Sadly, she has absolutely no filter right now. “Got kidnapped, Mione. Didn’t ask for it, as per usual, but it happened. The unre-unreach-able part might’ve been cus’ of the anti-tracking spells though, heh.” She was getting pretty good at weaving spell work into her clothes.

“Oh, oh! Have I told you that I got involved in,” she giggles under her breath, with lingering disbelief, before she whispers, “In the Mafia. Babayaga.”

“You got involved in organised crime!?” Hermione screeches, her riotous curls flaring.

“What!?” Her fiancé yelps in the background after hearing those words. He scrambles over to the mirror to take a proper look, immediately aghast when he notices the blood that is all over his best friend. “Mate, what have you gotten yourself into again?”

“I don’t go lookin’ fer trouble—”

“Trouble comes looking for you,” Ron finishes, “Yes, we know. We were there.”

“Look, in my defence…”

“You have none,” the bookworm mutters.

“I don’t ever ask for this!” She flails her injured arms to make her point. “It jus happens, kay? Got dragged into Mafia by accident, like literally got apparated there. Tried to get out, for months I’ve tried, but nunthin’ has worked, y’know? It sucks major balls.”

Sighing heavily again, Hermione gives up all decorum and buries her head in Ron’s shoulder. “When you said you were doing something dangerous,” she says in muffled tones, “I thought you meant bike stunts. Admittedly, your choreography nearly gave me an aneurysm at the scene, but the Mafia, Ather? Really?”

Erstwhile, Ron hums thoughtfully, “Which is worse though, the Mafia or Death Eaters?”

“How about avoiding both,” Hermione suggests as their voice of reason.

Ron shrugs, “We have to be pragmatic about this. Evidently, Ather is incapable of staying out of trouble, so we have to decide on the lesser of two evils.”

The former Head Girl makes an exasperated noise. “Ron, we shouldn’t be encouraging her to stay in dangerous situations, we should be trying to get her out of it.”

“The Mafia can’t be that bad.”

“Love, your understanding of the Mafia is based on three movies that my dad made you watch because you were needlessly curious: the Goodfellas, and two parts of The Godfather. They are, by no means, an accurate representation of actual crime syndicates. They smuggle drugs, run gambling dens, prostitution and human trafficking rings—”

“So kind of similar to the sleazy stuff that happens in Knockturn Alley, except the destruction is limited to muggles rather than other magical creatures?”

“—To an extent, yes, but that's a bit of a gross understatement. The point is, they are incredibly dangerous, prone to violence, and they work against the law.”

Ron squints at his partner. “That still sounds like Death Eaters, mate.”

“They have guns and drugs and zero morals!”

“Killing Curse, Crucio, Imperius.” the redhead lists as a counterpoint.

Hermione was about to open her mouth again when she realised something. “You’re just arguing for the sake of arguing, aren’t you?”

Her newly wedded husband nods solemnly, “Why yes.”

She punches him in the shoulder.

Meanwhile, the third wheel in the conversation draws circles on the floor with her own blood. Heather is used to this; their discussions had the tendency to devolve into bickering sessions, falling in love and getting engaged hasn’t changed that.

“Back to the matter at hand,” Hermione huffs as she taps her wand on the table in an impatient manner. “Ather, could you please remove the anti-tracking spells so we can find you at least?”

The wix glances up, then bites her lips. “Um. Don’t think so? Would’ve apparated outta here if I could, but don’t wanna splinch myself. Spells be iffy.”

She must be completely out of her mind, to the point where Mione’s hair looks like living snakes and Ron’s Weasley red hair can be likened to a setting sun on his head, but the-girl-who-lived can still recognise that now is not a good time to use her magic.

She’s heard the riot act from Madam Pomfrey too many times while she was stuck in the Hospital Wing in her schooling years. In fact, she can almost hear the medi-witch admonishing her now— “ Miss Potter, I had hoped I wouldn’t have to see you so soon. Miss Potter, what troubles have you found yourself in again? As glad as I am that you have survived, would you kindly stop putting yourself in harm’s way? ”

The scholarly witch scrutinises her for a long moment. Her image is shaking, but that’s only because her own hands were trembling. Maybe she looks like a moving blood splotch from their end. The feeling of blood and sweat drying on her skin is f*cking weird and she’s almost tempted to claw her skin off.

A nervous cough hacks out from her lungs and her world tilts again.

Palpable horror seeps into Hermione’s voice as she deduces her current state, “You’ve— You’re completely baked on drugs. You weren’t joking when you said you found yourself among questionable company. Merlin, they tortured you, didn’t they?” Pain and hysteria join the complicated mix of emotions. “I suspected that something was wrong. You were staying mum, your correspondences had decreased by 34% the past half-year. We were busy, but we should have kept better tabs…”

Feeling equally panicked, Ron starts running his hand up and down his partner’s arms to soothe her. Alas, it does not stop Hermione from uttering every tracking spell she knows as though it were a mantra, as if saying it enough times will break through the defences that Heather has been building in the two years apart.

“S’not your fault. Never has been.” The once-buried thoughts spill out, uninhibited. “I’ll be fine, it won’t kill me.” She won’t say that the initial blow always stuns and hurts, but she barely feels the pain now.

(But sometimes, the pain is simultaneously the cruellest and yet most potent reminder that she is, indeed, miserably alive.)

The-Woman-Who-Conquered laughs with blood stains crinkling at the corner of her eyes, dried trails streaking down her cheeks to the open orifice that holds so many secrets and names of the dead.

She tugs her lips into the most convincing smile she can muster.

(It is the most horrifying and ugliest expression the Golden Trio has ever witnessed; and they have seen Heather come back from the limbo between life and death, and during her lowest moments where she locked herself within the haunted walls of Grimmauld Place to rot with lamenting portraits of the long dead.)

“Don’t worry about me. Don’t waste your life on me.”

Regardless of what Skull de Mort gets himself into — among the company of seasoned killers, under the thumb of a cryptic and ancient Mist, within the eyes of a seer who works towards self-fulfilling prophecies or waiting for the inevitable drop of gravity to claim him after a botched stunt —

Heather James Potter will always climb out of the smouldering wreck.

She is the-girl-who-survives, who will live but hates to tell the tale.

⬶ XXXIX ⤅

In truth, the Arcobaleno didn't know what they were expecting when they first stormed the Odesa Mafiya’s base.

They’ve seen the utter recklessness the Cloud exhibited in Vietnam, and from it, learned that they should never send Skull into any situation alone, unless he was the designated getaway driver.

Even then, the trust doesn’t stem from believing he won’t get in trouble; they just trust the fact that he won’t let their escape vehicle get damaged, since he’s made it abundantly clear that he doesn’t want to be on these missions at all.

Vietnam had shattered their expectations while reinforcing the notion that yes, they were dealing with the Strongest Cloud flame user, and pushover he may be, there are still instances where he should not be trifled with; Budapest and France informed them their local Chaos God and resident Disaster should never be allowed to join forces and it’s best if they kept to their mutually antagonistic relationship; the bullsh*t that Skull regularly found himself in the middle of was a painful reminder that his casual comments about his erratic luck was not just for laughs.

It is more than likely that the immortal stuntman managed to survive this long only because he was a tenacious co*ckroach that refused to die, that much was evident a few months in.

He had zero f*cking self-preservation instincts, his pain tolerance was off the charts, his situation awareness could be anywhere from a hundred to negative fifty at any given time, and he’s made out of reflexes and pure improvisation after all the crazy sh*t he’s been through, but has proven that he will nonetheless live to tell the tale, somehow , by the miracle of God.

But no matter how irksome they thought the non-Mafia Cloud was, regardless of the death threats they have issued—

They have never wished for this scene of carnage.

Upon breaking open the final door to the basem*nt, the first sensation that washes over them is the thick odour of blood. Then they see the liberal amounts of blood splattered on the walls and staining the floor, as though someone had been bludgeoned enough to bleed out thrice over, to coat most of the surfaces.

The COMSUBIN soldier is nearly overcome with the urge to throw up when she notices the tips of painted fingers soaking in the crimson puddle, and Verde, for all his callousness, cannot stop green sparks from crackling all over his skin, thus giving him a sick pallor.

Every step they descend reveals more blood and bits of viscera, which renders an awful and gruesome image.

In the corner of the room, closest to the small windowpane, their Skull is curled into himself, hair matted and undershirt dyed in rust reds. His combat boots are nowhere to be seen, but his jacket is surprisingly intact and clean on his shoulders. Wisps of cloud flames dance along the curve of his neck and limbs, with spots concentrated at the side of his head.

For once, Reborn wishes that he doesn’t connect the dots so quickly, but there are discharged bullet casings on the floor and holes in the wall, the gun is in their fallen enemies’ hands and Lackey’s flames seem to be working overtime to compensate for whatever damage he has taken.

Fon is equally furious at his side as a sharp consonant — which sounds like f*ck in Cantonese — rumbles out from his throat.

The victim remains oblivious to them as he continues to mutter slurred words into an object in his hands, with occasional giggles and chortles slipping in.

Wholly adrift, the showman’s head seems to be stuck elsewhere whilst his physical body is trapped in the Hellscape that is painted with his own gore.

“Mione, Mione, the stuff the nappers’ gave me is amazing. I’m actually seeing Reborn-senpai coming to my rescue. No one ever does that, ‘cept for you guys,” she giggles and hiccups. “Reborn, the World’s Greatest Hitman.”

Her false reverence sends her into another fit of uncontrollable laughter.

“Sometimes I wish I could break his perfect teeth,” the witch whispers conspiratorially to the broken mirror shard as she stares at the unmoving Sun at the open doorway. “He’s annoyingly competent and his flaws can’t just be his wankish attitude and curly sideburns. Oh, look, the other parts of the rainbow are here too, hullo—”

Betrayal splits across Heather’s face when she finally notices that the broken reflective surface is only showing her visage. Hermione hung up on her.

“Ron? Ron-Mimi, don’t leave me alone with my demons,” the Chosen One whines, clutching onto the mirror shard like a lifeline.

Okay, fine, the demons in her nightmares were never this tame or silent, nor did they use doors like civilised people, but all Heather wants to do is wake up and pretend that nothing has happened.

It’s another terrible All Hallows’ Eve, but no one has died yet. Technically.

“What the f*ck,” Lal Mirch whispers amidst the mad giggles, opining the thought that the others dare not vocalise.

What the f*ck, what the actual f*ck, she repeats in her mind.

There is no right reaction to this. There is no way to process the entire scene in a sane manner or make it digestible to the human brain.

They have seen Skull being wildly protective of complete strangers. They have seen him fall into uncharacteristic silence and gain an unnerving glint in his eye.

But this…. This feels like they are staring into the cell of a prisoner of war, who has given up on being rescued and has decided to make a small home in the throes of their suffering because that’s how they are preserving the last vestiges of themselves.

It is harrowing.

For his reaction speaks of experience – from where, they can only ruminate – of a person who has been thrown into pit holes one too many times, then left to drown in freezing swill, the cold temps forcing them into consciousness in the drowning darkness. She will live, he will fight to break through the surface, but she only drifts and exists; nose barely above the water as he chokes down salt and water into their lungs.

Taking a deep breath, Reborn gestures for the rest to stay behind as he steps forward, movements long and deliberate, hence masking the agitation and violence crawling under his tensed shoulders. (He knows better than to scare a druggie; due to their addled minds, they are impossible to reason with, perceiving any interlopers as competitors after their ‘fix’, and will lash out as if their lives depended on it.)

Unexpected violence is familiar territory for him.

Before he gets the chance to come into arm’s width of Skull, the stuntman loses all his ditziness and lunges at him like a feral animal, talon-like hands closing around his wrist suddenly.

His wrist bone crunches loudly under the propagated force.

The World’s Greatest Hitman is almost forced to his knees as Cloud Flames gouge under his skin and target every nerve ending, firing up every pain receptor and causing his entire body to go haywire. Yet he bites on his tongue to disrupt the knee-jerk reaction, his own, yellow-coloured flames bursting out in defence.

Suddenly, he understands why their enemies are crumpled messes on the ground.

(Loathe he was to admit it, Reborn starts regretting ever activating all of Skull’s pain receptors in the past as a form of retaliation too, because the Cloud is a good learner when he wants to be, especially when it comes to returning the pain twofold in the slyest of ways.)

Recovering his wits in less than a second, Reborn’s leg swings towards the side of his neck with no mercy, knocking the daylights out of the Cloud.

A conjured pillow catches Skull’s head before it could hit the ground, but the Mist’s efforts are immediately ruined as Reborn immediately kicks him in the skull again for good measure.

He meets the floor with a loud thump.

The COMSUBIN soldier’s shotgun co*cks warningly.

Ignoring the bristling Arcobaleno at the back, the Sun nudges the comatose stuntman with the tip of his shoe and injects his healing flames into him. Although Skull’s recovering ability was remarkable, his body could use a boost after everything it has been through.

It was unlikely that he was fed anything beyond some water (if it wasn’t used to torture him, that is), and his body needed some form of energy to work with, or else it might start cannibalising on its own reserves.

Reborn spits the blood gathering in his mouth.

“I am enacting the Arcobaleno Pact,” their Leader states, glowing amber eyes sweeping past every conscious person in the room.

Drawing out his .38 revolver, he executes the unmoving targets on the ground by firing two bullets into their head.

Ammunition spent, he discards the weapon.

In the ringing silence, Reborn speaks again, “If you possess any piece of information that so much as insinuates or hints at Skull’s abnormality, physical or digital, you are to ensure that it never sees the face of the earth again. Lock it down if you have to, ask Viper to wipe your memory for all I care, but none shall speak of what happened here. If anyone asks, lie, ignore, tell them to mind their own f*cking business, or put them down.

“If you come across aforesaid information in the future, you are henceforth pact-bound to destroy it. Should anyone sell or exploit the information among the Arcobaleno, they will be chased down and executed by the Arcobaleno, with extreme prejudice.”

Lifting his broken hand, he makes a slice across his palm and lets his blood and flames drip to the floor. Fresh crimson mixes with the existing gore, each indistinguishable from the other.

“Do we have an accord?” Reborn demands.

Silently, the other elements mirror his movements; some biting their thumb while others reach for their favoured implement to make the cut.

Multi-coloured flames and the same liquid red pool on the ground.

And thus, the oath is made.

“Viper, Fon, on me. We’re cleaning house.”

The Mist doesn’t move, but illusive indigo begins to ooze out of their billowing cloak. “Message job, salting the earth?”

“Give them your worst,” says the World’s Greatest Hitman.

“We’ll see,” Viper replies airily before they fade from the basem*nt.

A chilling scream reverberates from the upper storey, marking the start of a massacre that will be infamously remembered.

The Storm smiles with barely leashed violence as he heads for the door.

“Verde, secure the escape vehicle. Lal, stay with him.”

After issuing his last set of instructions, Reborn presses his fedora onto his head firmly and stalks upstairs.

⬶ XL ⤅

From the first moment Lal Mirch and Reborn set their eyes on each other at the church, they instinctively knew that they would never be on the same page.

They were cut from different cloths, one could reason; from the beginning threads which craft the weave of their lives, she was born into a decently well-off family whilst he was born to a destitute mother.

A child picks up habits that the adults carelessly throw around.

The young girl learns homemaking and pricks her fingers on needles and burns her skin on stoves, the young boy learns to run before he can walk and his hands reflexively find their way into the pockets of others, like a crow pilfering for shiny things.

Their lives could not have been more different.

Yet violence draws them together; roads intersecting like a car crash rigged by explosives.

Renato Sinclair picks up cruelty as he did his first weapon: shakily and not out of choice, weeping remorse and hesitation as he pulls the trigger and unmakes a life.

(The man on top of his mother, whose hands were wrapped around her fragile neck and causing the swell of blue and purple, was not the only thing which died that night. His own arms tremble from the recoil, but he is wrapped in a rage that can rival a thousand suns.)

Whereas Lalia Murgia’s first weapon was handed to her by her father to teach her self-defence: from firm and warm hands to a smaller pair who needed to know that the violence-infested streets were the most unkind to women.

(Her once-sheltered life comes apart as the years go on and grim truths repeatedly slap her in the face, louder than the spray of a submachine gun into a concert hall. Her naivety dies to make way for conviction that is as cold and relentless as a hurricane.)

This is an uncomplicated tale of one girl and one boy.

Fuelled by steely resolve, the girl turns into a woman through a baptism of blood, fighting her way up the military ranks, despite the sneers at every turn and the institutionalised misogyny. Many who once stood against her meet the backend of her heavy-duty combat boots eventually, forced to look up at her glacial expression as she overshadows them from above.

Her journey to First Captain is akin to steep steps, but stairs nevertheless.

As long as there is a will, there will be a way, and her mission reports never lie.

The boy, on the other hand, claws his way out of the slums through bleeding fingers and broken bones, perfecting vengeance with little ammunition wasted. The ruthless man he models himself after comes at a contract price, returning the ugly mugs of his victims in funeral portraits of black-and-whites.

His climb to becoming the best in his brutal profession is a treacherous mountain, whereby one misstep is enough to make him fall to his death.

He is a hitman. She is a soldier.

Maybe if it was another timeline, the COMSUBIN officer would have been charged to take him out for all his notoriety and associations, or the hitman would have been paid to execute her, as she was interfering far too much with his contractor’s smuggling business.

But the fact remains that they were brought together by a common manipulator.

Lalia Murgia Lal Mirch detests everything Renato Sinclair Reborn stand for, will always argue against him whenever the issue conflicts with her morals and methods over much, but—

The soldier does not deny the fact that he is a good leader in the Mafia world, armed with his Machiavellian values and necessary cruelty that is all geared towards the goal of surviving in this unforgiving landscape.

He is a harsh taskmaster, but their group is better off for it, having managed to establish themselves in record time.

Their sudden entrance into the underworld may have been shaky, analogous to a rock thrown into a still pond, rippling and bringing about assassination attempts, seemingly endless ambushes and contractors going back on their words, but their reputation as the Strongest Seven is quickly cemented as they prove their mettle.

No one questions their place afterwards, and no one dared to touch them.

Alas, a chain is only as strong as its weakest link.

Skull de Mort’s kidnapping isn’t just simply about testing the Arcobaleno’s unity and prowess, it’s not even for something as base and useless as pride. They do not care enough for each other to regard their collective as a family.

Even so, this infuriating and obnoxiously purple boy is theirs.

They cannot allow any cognizant member in the Odesa Mafiya’s Ukrainian base to leave alive, otherwise it will jeopardise their stuntman’s safety in the future, should news of his functional immortality proliferate.

She isn’t fond of wanton destruction, that's undeniable.

For the young and wilful Arcobaleno Cloud though, who is worth much more than the lives of the Bratva due to his willingness to protect the weak and help those in need…

She can be an excellent soldier who is good at following orders.

It won’t be the first time she’s risking her own career for her comrades, and she has seen enough horrible sh*t to believe that some people are better off dead instead of polluting the earth with their continued existence.

Hence when Lal Mirch receives her marching orders from the mouth of a professional killer, she obeys.

Chapter 13

Chapter Text

⬶ XLI ⤅

“Ați auzit de recentul incendiu din portul Ucrainei? ”

(Did you hear about the fire at Ukraine’s port?)

“Da, arde de mai bine de două zile, nu-i așa…?”

(Yes, it has been burning for more than two days, hasn't it...?)

When Skull returns to wakefulness, he hears the sound of local radio in the background first, alongside the low purr of the engine which distributes vibrations from the seat to his beating chest.

It is not immediately apparent that he’s awake as he rouses in silence; body and breathing going too still for the subconscious natural, his eyelashes fluttering minutely to take the smallest peeks at his surroundings.

However, since his head is pillowed on Lal Mirch’s lap, she notices it first. She makes no indication of it, as her hand continues to card through his hair, more so to comfort rather than to restore some semblance of order. But her flames recede from him like a tide pulling back from shore, no longer acting as a blanket that sedates him and keeps him under.

Given that his will is enough to haul him to the surface, then he must be healed, even if he seems deficient in energy and words.

Skull allows himself to luxuriate in the silence for a few moments before he pushes himself upwards, bones popping as he rolls his shoulders to shrug away the tension that had formed from being in an awkward position for a long time. Then he draws his jacket together, pulls his legs towards his torso, and curls into his own corner in the vehicle.

They’re in a flame-enlarged car which makes it harder to deduce its brand, but Skull assumes it is one of the roomier models that’s currently available at the turn of the century.

A Citroen Xsara Picasso? He guesses, eyeing the lower car platform and the foldable chairs in the second row. Regardless of the answer, he appreciates the extra space and the distance placed between him and the behatted driver.

The other passengers become quieter once they realise that their Cloud is awake, dozens of thoughts racing through their mind as they wondered how they could broach the topic of his short-lived captivity.

From their peripheral vision, he appears slightly out of it still; hair sleep-mussed and mouth dry, parted from a yawn that stole his breath moments ago. His make-up is unbearably smudged — the eyeliner streaks down to his cheeks due to the dried tears and flecking blood, his usual lip tint has gained a bruised hue from its usual plum colour, and the fading powder can no longer conceal the terrible pallor of his skin.

They haven’t touched him unless it was absolutely necessary, given that they know how touchy he can be about his disguise.

It is the least amount of effort he has put into his appearance thus far, which says a lot, for a man so determined to hide himself behind a painted mask, which is how he frames his refusal to integrate with the group, explicitly. He doesn’t like them, they have never given him a reason to, and that’s how they prefer their status quo to remain.

Yet , they are all chasing for answers now, no longer content to let the self-made clown prance around them without knowing the actor who lies beneath the facade, and treating them like fools.

Reborn furtively checks the side panel to ensure that the windows are locked. He could never be too sure if the stuntman was psycho enough to throw himself out of a moving vehicle to avoid the following confrontation. He can only hope that the broken glass shards and abrasive wounds would be enough deterrence.

At long last, the-woman-who-lived-again sighs, releasing her flames from its tight reins.

It trickles out and mingles with the rest of the elements; joining the Mist which lines the interior of the car and the Lightning that hardens the exterior. The Sun and Rain are felt in fading wisps, whilst Storm is the absence of, despite the proverbial gunpowder and smoke present in the atmosphere. The Sky is nowhere to be heard or seen, but the Cloud has never cared for her.

They wanted answers? Fine.

But it would be on her terms or nothing at all.

(It is only later that they will remember that automobiles -- vehicles which hurtle towards unknown ends at insane speeds -- have always been the stuntman's domain.)

Within the Arcobaleno, Skull is the one who controls his flame expression the most; it's a side effect from how she holds her immense magic in unless it is to be wielded, and that it isn't polite to flaunt it among common company. What she wishes to communicate can be accomplished through word-of-mouth (read: sarcasm) and understated gestures, such as playful nudges and small flickers of acknowledgement, will nevertheless convey the intended message.

The half-blood witch knows the magic in which she mediates -- like a turbulent river, its rapids rise quickly to her defence and answer to any perceived threats. It meanders and flows without cause, from the origins of her core and soul, which is grey and absolute, imbued with dusk colours that smoulder in dim light.

The current Heather Potter who is more death-touched than the norm, however, is much more unforgiving and crueller to the living.

Her magic fills every bit of air within the vehicle, slowly but surely building in concentration, until they are all choking on the immortal tragedy.

Ragged around the edges, her purple flames have been worn down and torn into, as if gouging another channel could introduce obedience into her, or that breaking her could allow him to fulfil his goals. The abscess echoes in its hollowness as life can no longer fill it, grievously wounded as she is, but here she sits, in the flesh, a twisted aberration of dysfunctional indestructibility.

She puts her ashen soul on display, wears her scars like badges, and dares them to wound her even further.

"Thanks for the save," says the Potter, because the last thing she wants to be is ungrateful.

"Guess the cat's out of the bag, huh?"

Her flippant confirmation stuns the others.

(They should have learned by now to not try and predict her.)

"You," Reborn tries and pauses, words stifled in his throat by the trauma that the Cloud is projecting, "are absolutely diabolical."

A hoarse laugh tears out of her lungs. Her laughter devolves into wretched coughs, like she’s trying to throw up the remains of her mortality, alongside the illegal substances flowing in her veins, and it fills the car with its sickening stench.

It should be terrifying to have her greatest secret laid bare like this, something she can’t even fathom confiding in Hermione and Ron, but what does an undying creature have to fear from a car of killers?

“Rich coming from a Mafia Catholic,” was her incredulous retort, as she wiped her mouth with her sleeve. “The chains of purgatory can’t contain me, but they appear to fit your wrist most swellingly.”

Reborn rotates his healed wrist idly. “f*ck you very much for the compliment. I could say the same for the crown of thorns you enjoy wearing on your head.”

“Hey,” Skull puts up a joking protest, but her tone is too snappish, too hoarse to fool anyone that she’s not affected by his remark, “Don’t go putting me on a cross now; he doesn’t have the habit of suffering for those who aren’t worth it.”

“Have the habit?” Reborn repeats mockingly, “You’re a living tragedy, Skull de Mort. You’ve nailed down yourself plenty enough, with your eagerness to throw yourself at death for what is worth very little.”

“Then you must be worth even less,” says the wix, before turning his insult with cutting sarcasm. “But don’t worry, Skull-sama has apparently been nailed down enough to stay around and witness the tragicomedy that will sum up your life.”

After all is said and done, and what’s more there is to come, the time for The-Woman-Who-Conquered to play the martyr has long passed. Now it has been replaced with a desperate daredevil – a sickening part of her that isn’t necessarily suicidal but wishes to the test the boundaries to see if death will finally stick – so she goads him into lashing out at her with his routine violence through a heavier dosage of her antagonising flames.

Immediately, the speed of the vehicle picks up against the behatted driver’s command, and Reborn swerves them onto the side of the highway and slams on the brakes.

If it had been two days ago, the World’s Strongest Hitman would have pulled out his gun and shot him in the mouth, car integrity and brain matter be damned, but he knows that if he falls for his stunt again, he loses.

The tables have turned with the revelations learned, and the scales are tipped in the immortal’s favour.

But Dio, so much about Skull de Mort made sense now.

When the final Arcobaleno first stepped into the church, he had been wary of him, as he always was of any unaffiliated Cloud who were practically loose cannons with unknown triggers: the deliberate stalk towards their round table was quieter than his combat boots should have allowed him to be, while his glowing eyes swept past them one by one, openly assessing all of them without a shilling of fear. He was soaked in his element’s hue from the roots of his hair to the tips of his fingernails, exuding it almost, as he sprawled himself over his violet throne in an aloof manner, one leg bent across the other.

He was not afraid despite recognising the danger, his matching undercurrent of power seemingly a decent fit to the strange collection of the strongest flame users.

Then he opened his stupid mouth and snuffed out whatever his instincts were whispering about him.

But he has always been an honest liar, hasn’t he? His subconsciousness supplements.

The showman never hid the fact that he was miming a persona, rarely lied outright when he could resort to obfuscation or silence, never tried to mask his distaste for their brutality. He dramatises his screams whenever he’s hit even though he can take the pain, he smiles and plays along so that he won’t get played.

And what did he introduce again? The immortal stuntman hated by death itself?

The mafioso wanted to slap himself for thinking it was just an exaggeration.

“Was it fun, acting out this way?” Viper asks, through gritted teeth and wounded pride.

Expression curdling into one of faux innocence, Skull replies, “Can neither confirm nor deny, Mister-Missus information broker.”

Right then and there, the Mist wished they could choke him so badly.

Ignoring their fraying patience, the showman continues, “It’s not Skull-sama’s fault that you don’t listen to him. Maybe you should consider taking down the hood, it may improve your hearing.”

“I’ll maul that smile off your face, how about—”

“Quit with the third person, please,” Fon interrupts tiredly, holding down Viper’s snarl.

Heather thinks about it. “Nah.”

She decides she likes their constipated expressions, especially when they can’t do anything effective against her precisely because they are aware of the truth.

“We’re either liars, thieves or murderers,” he quotes a common saying among them, before amending. “Except for Lal.”

“Thank you,” the COMSUBIN soldiers says wanly, still arranged in a protective posture beside her.

“You’re welcome,” the witch responds to her, before spreading her arms wide, her signature grin emerging on her visage, “So whatever Skull de Mort became? That's just par to your course.”

They helped perfect his charade, it was only right that they were acknowledged and received credit for it.

Viper doesn't manage to hold back from throwing a conjured dagger at his face.

⬶ XLII ⤅

“What does dying feel like?”

The question, which was dropped on him so suddenly, causes Skull to bang his head against the underside of the car. Hissing slightly, he fixes the last of the wires back into place before sliding himself out, rubbing his head as he confirms through one unshielded eye that it was, in fact, Verde who voiced the question.

Judging from the dilated pupils and the blood vessels streaking across his sclera, he must have been holding onto that query for some time. Either that, or it was the sleep deprivation that finally loosened his tongue and mind, to the point where he was contemplating the metaphysical.

It’s been a trying few days, after their long escape from Eastern Europe.

The wix could easily brush him off with a bogus answer, but there’s something about the familiar and intense green glint in his eye that stops him from doing so.

Deliberately taking his time to wipe away the grease on his face and hands so he can think, he finally asserts, “It’s like blacking out.”

The scientist raises a sceptical eyebrow in response. He knows that’s not all to the answer.

… Maybe if it was anyone else, perhaps a sorry fellow who was looking for an end to his suffering, or a craven man who was foolishly pursuing the idea of immortality, the descendant of Ignotus would have left it at that.

But he understands Verde; this is a genuine, and purely scientific enquiry.

His curiosity is unironically innocent.

Skull licks his dry lips, only to cringe and belch due to the taste of grease on his tongue.

“But I wouldn’t really know what comes after, would I?” He spits out, after swallowing the wynorrific image of the ghostly train station wreathed in mist and smoke, of a dark figure cradling something in their crossed arms hanging in the periphery, whisper louder than Dumbledore’s goodbye.

No, don’t think about it now.

Through laboured breaths, this the truth he knows best: “Dying is always the easy part. Feels like nothing in the moment. It’s having to come back that bloody hurts.”

⬶ XLIII ⤅

The light that slams into them the instant they reach the top of the mountain takes all of them by surprise.

A sickening chorus of screams erupt from their throats simultaneously as they crumple to the ground, wholly unprepared for the excruciating and debilitating agony that rips through them.

It must have lasted for hours.

Long enough that it feels like eternity.

When the pain finally ends, Verde thinks he understands what Skull de Mort means.

There are fates far worse than death.

⬶ XLIV ⤅

If Heather Potter had known the treasure hunt was in search of their childhood selves, she would have said no.

She used to joke about reliving her childhood with the Weasleys instead of the Dursleys (and God forbid it be with Sirius; she loved her godfather, but he was not an ideal parent), but it was said in jest. Being in a magical enclave wouldn’t have made it better, if anything, she shudders at the thought that she might have become similar to twelve-year-old Draco Malfoy, who was bloated with family pride and boasting about outdated achievements that weren’t even his.

Staring at her tiny hands, her toddler-sized body, and most importantly, the glowing violet pacifier around her neck, she thinks with mounting hysteria:

This must be some kind of cosmic joke.

It had to be, right???

Freak doesn’t want to be a child again. Doesn’t want to powerless, doesn’t want to be locked back into that god-forsaken closet underneath the stairs, that was too small for her growing body and forced her onto her hunches, where spiders and rats were her closest friends whom she could hear scuttling about deep in the night, only to be awaken by thumping footsteps and shrill voices telling her to get up.

Her vision blurs. Suddenly, it’s hard to see and hear what’s around her as she is overwhelmed by the wretched pulsing of her soul flames, which are constantly being sucked out of her before it’s regurgitated in smaller chunks and dragged through a scrapyard of sharp metal, hence making it completely imbalanced with her smooth and surging magic.

Worse—

Her exhales are coming out fast now as her heart thunders on, muscles clenching unconsciously as she keeps a terrible grip on the dizzying ground, until her baby fingers are digging deep into the soil.

Worse, the Master of Death feels like she’s attached to a ticking clock, each pendulum sway hammering against the confines of her ribcage, the cogs winding down ever-so-slowly but surely advancing towards the inevitable end. Drops of tar are building up in her lungs, threatening to suffocate her and release her from her feeble shell at the same time, she can’t breathe, she can’t breathe, why can’t i BrEATHE—

Distantly, rage-filled flames scour her skin.

But she can’t feel the burn at all, not when it is so miserably pale in comparison to the pain that consumed them when the blinding light hit — perhaps that’s what the end of days would be like, no horns or fanfare, just a single blast of judgement that will wipe out humanity, for that will be her reckoning — ripping her soul into a thousand bits, then twisting and compressing it before joining the broken and punctured pieces with chains, to bind it to something that was contrary to her nature, to what shouldn’t be .

The ‘saviour’ of Wizarding Britain is so, so , so sick of being attached to persons or objects at random, so tired of being fate’s chew toy for amusem*nt, and so f*cking done with her abhorrent luck.

I knew this wouldn’t kill me. I knew, I know —

She knows that deep inside her tattered soul as she was climbing up the mountain, agitated and wishing to turn away.

What had she told them then?

“I think we should turn back,” she had said to them nervously, only to receive the mirthless thinning of lips and sneers for her lack of courage.

Of course, there isn’t a treasure at the end of their journey; that only exists in childhood delusions, such promises are only uttered to entice fools. The only reason why the Arcobaleno complied was because they wanted to see a conclusion to this farce that brought them together.

Of course, there isn’t a treasure at the end of their journey; that only exists in childhood delusions, such promises are only uttered to entice fools. The only reason why the Arcobaleno complied was because they wanted to see a conclusion to this farce that brought them together.

So they had embarked on this trek uphill, together as seven.

With one blonde idiot trailing behind them as the eighth.

Whatever lays ahead won’t be her end. Not many things can be, anymore.

The feeling she got during the trip was different, in the sense that the impending doom churning in her gut had a tinge of levity to it, like she was being dragged down to a basem*nt with locked doors and a window with a rusted lock.

She can break through it.

She also knew she could not escape.

It was like walking through the Forbidden Forest again, towards her worst nemesis and the end of her first life, because only then, did her friends have a chance of winning that stupid war.

Choices, they laid before her, each harder than the other, but at least she got to choose.

She had accepted the consequences.

She chose to die (again and again and again) so others could live.

Heather James Potter just never thought she would have to be here to see the consequence.

Is it too much for a girl to ask to die?

Chapter 14

Chapter Text

⬶ XLV ⤅

Here Is Your Element Of Safety

In spite of the chains that are comically larger than his shrunken body, when Hau Wan Liu Fon kneels before his Mountain Master, his back remains ramrod straight, his remade crimson changshan spreading around him like a phoenix's wings unfurled.

(Even as a child, he has always portrayed his generation-style name (運) best; like the wind that constantly moves, an unstoppable force pushing against an immovable mountain, who learned from a thousand collisions that if you could not go past the hurdle, then you could weather it with a storm.)

His knees may meet the ground with what sounds like a reverent bang, the force behind the gesture cracking the tiles beneath him; his eyes may be lowered as if he defers to his seniors, but his serene smile reeks of thinly veiled insincerity.

“Where is your sister Hau Saap Sin?” His Mountain Master demands.

“I do not know,” Fon answers, and that is the truth.

The best kept secret is one nobody knows, and though he knows his younger sister’s escape was engineered by that Checker-two-faced bastard – since that was the implicit condition which initially drew him to the round table – he had not been informed about where her final location would be.

The notion of danger coming onto her person sunders him with anxiety, but he trusts (however little) that the Administrator will keep his end of the deal. Regardless of their new blood feud, he needs the Arcobaleno alive to keep the Tri-Ni-Sette running, and to ensure his continued cooperation, his younger sister’s well-being is pivotal.

The red pacifier around his neck strangles his soul on a daily basis, with some days worse than others, almost to the point where he wants to commit ritual suicide to shed this mortal suffering, but the thought of seeking out his only blood sibling keeps him tethered.

At five, Hau Wan Liu was already deeply aware that he had to be strong to protect what he cared about. Flames had sparked from his fingertips then, red and hot, the initial spark burning and consuming all reasonable opposition.

(At age thirteen, the active Storm had cauterised his father’s broken appendages, effectively crippling his worth and getting him expelled from the Sect to be fed to the starving dogs.)

At age fourteen, he had laid his eyes upon his days-old sibling and promised he would protect her from the world, under the fearful gaze of his weakening mother.

What the Eye of the Storm needs to do now, and what he has always been good at doing, is to bid his time and let the Triad relax their hold on him again, then, and only then, will he have the perfect opportunity to seek out his younger sister.

“Do not play us for fools, Hau Wan Liu,” spits one of the acrider elders of the Wo Hop To Triad. “Where is Hau Saap Sin?”

“I do not know,” he repeats, refusing to bow his head any lower.

There is nothing that the elders can threaten him with anymore; not when his last weakness has disappeared into the clouds, not after the Triad slowly hollowed out his mother of her utility and cut off that substantial emotional link, not when they have already isolated him out of fear of his burgeoning powers.

All the while, his Mountain Master assesses him critically from his high seat. The dragon embroidered on his chest, with golden threaded scales and crimson red eyes stare at him too, but they have long beaten the fear of violence out of him—

Because you cannot teach fire to be afraid. You cannot enforce fear on the greatest enforcer there is.

“At ease,” the Mountain Master tells his fuming contemporary, casting a warning side glance to the rest to quell their protests.

“There is no point in playing music to a cow, and even nine bulls could not pull him back; he will not understand it, nor will he be persuaded. He has wanted this.”

Fon tenses momentarily but relaxes soon after.

“We have long anticipated it. It was remiss on our part to fail to make contingencies,” the Mountain Master continues, stroking his beard thoughtfully, “No matter. Still, a country has its laws, and a Triad has its rules. They must be upheld, or else there will be disorder and discord. Do you agree, Enforcer Hau?”

Thin and small lips, which struggle to maintain its usual smile, pull open to respond, “Of course, Mountain Master.”

“Drag Enforcer Hau outside the courtyard for hundred lashes of the whip. If he passes out, wake him. If he bleeds out, throw him out to the dogs to feed.”

If it wouldn’t increase the severity of his punishment, he would have laughed, Fon thinks. He rises to his feet, easily dodging the members trying to truss him up, before walking out of the main hall on his own, dignity intact.

This martial punishment won’t kill him, and if it did, then he truly deserves to die for being so weak.

It is not my time yet.

He tells himself.

( Not yet, not yet, Death croons to the sound of each whiplash, skeletal fingers pressing into bleeding flesh and touching bone.

, remember?)

⬶ XLVI ⤅

What Is Neither Created Nor Destroyed

Everything about their predicament defied logic.

As Verde stared at his smaller hands, still calloused from various chemical burns and instrument handling albeit minimised, his brain kept crashing and refreshing because the science did not compute .

If the scientist were to hypothesise that all eight of them were de-aged and regressed, then their mental faculties and physical abilities should, correspondingly, be greatly reduced. Evidently, that is not the case as he is perfectly capable of processing information at the same speeds; and while shaken in the stark absence of the transformative pain, they were adapting to the smaller forms at remarkable speeds, visible to the naked eye.

The sudden drop in elevation and perspective was rather jarring, he is used to seeing over heads at 190 centimetres but now he is visually impeded by furniture. It is a valuable lesson that the world isn’t bigger for children; they are merely smaller, and everything towers by comparison. However, none was as frustrating as the drastically shortened reach of his limbs. He can’t even reach the tabletop now for Becquerel’s sake, and he could distantly imagine the troubles he will have to go through to miniaturise everything.

Maybe they were akin to turritopsis dohrnii (immortal jellyfish) in human flesh? Reverting back to a sexually immature stage in the face of immense environmental stress, yet their bodies retain its crucial biological information. This theory would be hard to conclude, given that he was not at all interested in either genders or inanimate objects. Nor was he a fan of infantilising himself to arouse; he could be and do many things in the name of science, but there were lines that he could not be bothered to cross.

Otherwise, the more plausible theory — and one he was more inclined to — was simply compression.

From fully-grown and mature adults (sans one), they were condensed into a toddler’s size, the pacifier chained around their necks acting as a constricting ventricle which contained the enormity of their souls, except their flame output was flowing to a destination he could not decipher.

Was this some form of conservation, by reducing their overall surface area and thereby energy consumption? How was it accomplished? To what end does this achieve?

In thermodynamics, the most basic law of conservation of energy states that energy can neither be created nor destroyed; it can only be transformed or transferred from one form to another.

For this fundamental principle to be tenable for a human as an open system, who used, released, and converted energy in its interaction with the world, the mass-energy equivalence must be factored in, which means that energy and mass are formulated as one conserved quantity, inseparable from each other.

Although he hasn’t found the time to weigh himself, the scientist knows he is far lighter than his adult self, ergo his mass has been substantially reduced, relative to his scaled down size. If that’s the case, then—

Where was all the unaccounted mass and energy stored?

It couldn’t have magically disappeared into thin air, otherwise they wouldn’t be alive at all.

Most importantly, what is the exact weight of a soul?

Verde returns to his senses once Luce pointedly places her teacup down on the low wooden table with an audible clack, an action she often does at the table to signal her want to speak. All of a sudden, he feels like Pavlov’s dog; how she had carefully administered her influence in light doses to engineer a response from him, having him salivating for her every word for a lick of her Sky Flames.

A subtle but effective method to leash them into her calculated orbit, aggrandising a promise of sanctuary when it is only a defunct laboratory running the wrong program, its self-destruction imminent.

Disgust churns in his stomach at that abrupt observation.

But he wants answers, all seven of them do, disregarding their varying emotional states and levels of acceptance for their current circ*mstance.

Hence they stay silent around the circular table in the Dojo — the best protected room which is filled with the Mist, Storm, and Cloud’s flames, with low and less demeaning furniture to match — and begrudgingly grants the Giglio Nero Donna the right to speak.

To the seer’s credit, she starts with the facts instead of platitudes:

“Earth, as we know it, is supported by a device called the Tri-Ni-Sette, whose primary function is to help guide the growth of Earth while maintaining a balance of its life force. It is currently composed of three sets of seven artefacts, with the most vital and biggest part being the Arcobaleno Pacifiers, while the other two serve as stabilisers.

“Before the Tri-Ni-Sette settled into its current mode of operations, long before humanity came to exist, there were only seven stones, though their rightful names have been lost with the passing of those who originally supported it. It is only a natural consequence then, that the stones were split apart and the duty of supporting the artefacts fell on humans instead.”

The necessary information falls into place.

Unable to help himself, Verde rests his head on the table, taking long and deep breaths.

Since the planet is a system subject to the laws of physics, it could never be a perpetual motion machine as it constantly uses, recycles and loses energy. There must be an external energy supply to allow it to continue delivering energy to its surroundings, hence—

“That’s why the seven strongest flame users are gathered,” Viper hisses their given title in a scornful voice, fists clenched and flames sparking with agony. “We’re sacrificed and turned into living batteries for . But you forget, Luce, I know what I am and that I am unrepentantly selfish, so what’s stopping me from tearing off this stupid pacifier and letting the world end?”

“Because you won’t be able to take it off,” Luce tells them honestly, unfeeling against the miser’s rage. “The Pacifier will be a permanent fixture on you until death does you part. Anyone who tries to remove it from your person will also meet certain death.”

Reborn snorts. “Well, that can be easily accomplished. Just name the price.”

Leon jumps off his shoulder and transforms into his customised pistol, pointed neatly at Luce’s glowing orange pacifier. Gone was his gentlemanly veneer in front of the Sky that would have been his, exposing the brutal hitman that was truest to his nature and nurture. Likewise, he cares little for the world, and a child who has never felt its warmth has no hesitation in allowing it to burn.

Fon remains quiet behind a solemn demeanour, though the tight grips of restraint in his clenched fists is enough to show his stance. He is not controlled enough to hurt someone without bringing down the roof atop their heads, but he will gladly witness Luce bleed out on her cushion. He might even help get rid of her carcass for cathartic destruction and ensure that she is eviscerated into nothing, as she rightfully deserves.

Skull… Skull still appears to be shell shocked as he stares out the dojo doors with unseeing eyes.

Shattered rain flames, which must hurt to pull upon, spread out across the room, barely tangible in its newly bruised hue. It is not a means of appeasem*nt; Lal Mirch is the painful testament of what has transpired to all of them, however incomplete in her greyed-out state.

The Sky’s features twist briefly at the soft echo of distress in the broken Rain’s expression. If Lal Mirch had not been fractured so badly by the interloper taking her place, she would have been hers . One-seventh of the Greatest Harmony, her loyal Rain, who would have helped soothe the hurts of the inevitable.

Subconsciously, Luce casts a small bitter look at the new Rain Arcobaleno and his Pacifier which glows an undeniable light blue, but he is immediately shielded by his senior officer.

Clutching her grey pacifier, Lal Mirch states, “Given the grave importance of our meeting, deception shouldn’t have been necessary.”

“It was an omission rather than deception. There have allegedly been instances where some Arcobaleno tried to dodge it upon knowing the parameters of their duty.”

Reborn fires his gun without second thought. He blinks in surprise when he misses a point-blank shot and the bullet goes through the wall behind Luce instead — as if he involuntarily shifted or the trajectory had veered away from her consciously — but he recovers quickly.

“Do not. Do not call it ‘duty’ when we didn’t choose it.”

In response, the Donna shrugs helplessly, because her point has already been proven.

“Even so, you cannot deny that it is an honourable thing to carry a paramount function on your shoulders.”

Colonello immediately interrupts her moral argument, finding it awfully weird that these words were coming from the head of a mafia famiglia. “Signora, honour means nothin’ when the soldier isn’t voluntary in carrying out their duties. And you guys aren’t soldiers for sh*t, kora.”

“I, for one, can’t stand this nugatory discourse,” Verde finally announces, pushing his face off the table and adjusting his glasses. “The Tri-Ni-Sette sounds severely inefficient for a device that our ecosystem’s survival hinges on. Has no one tried to make it self-sustaining? All I hear, and I will offer this piece of criticism for free, is excuses and incompetence of an Administrator and his nontheistic compeers who failed to find a proper solution to make it independent, as well as the short-sightedness of generations of seers who didn’t bother to expand their sight to help look into possibilities.”

“The disastrous results of the status quo are as you see it,” he gestures to their shrunken forms clad in white cloths like pilgrims trudging through the open desert for a hallucinated deliverance. “It is broken. It’s apparent that it needs to be fixed. Not only does the seer end up pitting herself because she has turned out to be the most viable candidate in her century, but another batch of seven – or eight to be technical – have to suffer for fools.”

His opinion clearly has more effect on Sephira’s descendant than the world-ending death threats as she visibly pales.

Rolling to his feet with admirable elegance for his size, the second coming of Da Vinci fixes his garb. He misses his lab coat already. He reckons the irritation towards the predicament that has befallen him will never fade, but at least he has gained a new project out of it.

“As for the Administrator, having to wrangle with the human condition for humanity’s sake more than fulfils my asinine need for vengeance. The aeons he has suffered due to his own ineptitude? Purely kismet.” And Verde isn’t even saying this to spite Checkerface, if he’s watching this confrontation at all. He truly believes that the ancient Mist deserves the cyclical burden he has been charged with, and its consequent problems.

“Now if you would excuse me, I have better things to do with my time than mope.”

⬶ XLVII ⤅

The Blood Runs Deep

Out of childish rage, Viper flings the papers across their table.

Pressing their palms to their eyes, they resist the urge to dig their nails into their sockets and irreversibly ruin their eyesight. Something like nightmare fuel, dark and bubbling froths out from their tattered cloak, digging deep into their skin and siphoning blood.

The pain, it only anchors, and the crimson turns viscous as it drips onto the papers, producing a spattered roadmap of betrayals and bad faith.

Information is of a transient nature, its value fluctuating based on scarcity, urgency, thoroughness and the client it is sold to. These are facts that the miserly information broker understands a little bit better than everyone else, which has been crucial in making their success as long-lived as it is.

How can it cost so much but be valued so little? The Strongest Mist ruminates, despicably.

For what is spilled on the pages is tragedy written in three parts:

Of three carefully chosen generations of Arcobaleno who had perished within decades of undertaking the accursed Pacifiers, of twenty-one unageing toddlers who simply disappeared into thin air once they had exhausted their use, of three batches of the seven strongest flame users who were forgotten and erased from existence, meeting the same sorry fates as the original septet who first carried the torch for the world.

There are suspicious spaces in between each iteration of the Arcobaleno that Checker-f*ck-face had conveniently left out of his “reward dossier”, but the increment of casualties would only reinforce their eventual doom.

The Arcobaleno are fated to pour their entire souls into life’s crucible to fuel the world and its insatiable need for progress and wanton destruction, but they are insignificant to the grand scheme of things, merely tools or a twisted oblation thrown into the super volcano to feed the flames.

Like rock shrapnel travelling through the atmosphere at hypersonic speeds, causing glowing strips that last in the sky for that one spectacle of a moment, their lifespans will come to end abruptly; burning brightly and then vaporising, giving everything that they are until naught is left of their existence.

Not even a footnote in the books despite their sacrifice and humiliation, never mentioned or spoken of in between like taboo, their identities effaced into the mysterious collective of people who appear sporadically in the Mafia’s blood-soaked and forgetful history.

Viper loathes the knowledge of what will become of them, and the wound only deepens after they find out how they had drawn the Administrator’s attention to their web in the first place.

Every Arcobaleno is found through a defining act—

Gilles Verninac’s selection is of no surprise considering his eclectic genius; Skull de Mort’s rise to fame could be linked to a circulating video tape of his grisly encounter with gravity after a botched stunt and yet he manages to get up and limp away; the Greatest Hitman and the Triad’s only neutral enforcer needed no introduction to their infamy as they have destroyed either a group and/or place very flagrantly; while one of Lalia Murgia’s many redacted missions was probably to blame.

(Luce presumably submitted her own name to be martyred in the suggestion box but who gives a f*ck about her at this point?)

Hence it rankles, the notion that their defining act was done for someone else’s benefit rather than their own.

When the surprising request was first issued by their client, Viper had been intrigued, then quickly framed it as a challenge; a contracted way to spread their metaphorical wings and test their limits. Faking a death was child’s play, something that was a dime a dozen in their resume, but burying and consigning a man to oblivion would definitely be a Herculean task.

Better yet, most (unless informed beforehand) were none the wiser about the ruse pulled beneath their noses. It was a coup de maître which the Mafia world would never learn of, a secret that they would gladly take to the grave with a smile of success on their face.

Self-deprecatingly, the Strongest Mist thinks they could have avoided this farce entirely if they had internalised humility and laid low, but that would be the greatest lie ever told if they managed to convince themselves of it, as getting them to surrender their security and ambition would be akin to ripping off the cloak that is practically stitched to their skin.

There is little they can do to change their circ*mstances now, but they can improve it.

Hacking out a wet sigh, Viper ignores the sanguine discharge, disguising their hoarse voice before dialling a familiar number.

He picks up on the third ring.

“What?” His voice is snappishly high, likewise brimming with rage and resignation.

“Mou, I’m calling in on the debt,” Viper starts without bothering about the niceties.

He falls silent. The chances of him being in a safehouse are high since they can barely discern any noise from his end.

Maybe Sweden? Or was he hiding in one of his many boltholes in Asia?

“Really? Now of all times, Viper?”

“When else?” Viper scoffs, bringing the phone receiver closer to sibilate into his ear, their voice carrying over so hauntingly that they may as well be right next to him. “You owe me, Reborn. Not the other way around.”

Oddly enough, he relaxes upon hearing the emphasis and laughs. Baffled, the Mist blinks, wondering if the curse has dealt irreversible damage to his brain.

“Who do I have to murder to get you off my back?”

“Quite presumptuous of you to think that your debt can be cleared so cheaply.”

“Then pray tell, how many?”

The self-named snake hums, satisfied with his comprehension. “Mou, I’ve got some housekeeping to do, whilst you have a reputation to prove. A laundry's list will do for now.”

“I took you for a person of speculation.” They could almost hear his eyebrows raising from the other end.

“Within acceptable risks,” says Viper, terse.

If their individual faith had not been broken, they might have toyed with these bottle flies hovering near their web more to observe where it would eventually land. Predictably, it was all rot and garbage at the end of the trail, but the prospect of finding something useful from their gaffer often stayed their hand.

Alas, they have few resources to spare now; portfolio and self-worth completely undermined, they were too paranoid to contend with variables, and had to feud with limited time as a bomb lynches their neck.

“The debt doesn’t cover that much anymore,” he remarks wryly. “Surely you are aware of what that cagacazzo has done?”

A new dent appears in their wall as their Mist flames lash out. “If that senile f*cker wasn’t so appallingly hard to find, he’d be on the top of that list.”

“I’d have taken that job pro bono,” the Sun Arcobaleno agrees with a wishful tone.

“Alas, we were not made for martyrs and charity, nor do we pursue unachievable dreams,” the immigrant murmurs to the street rat.

They weren’t originally made of tougher things, no children are, but they have begged and received nothing but poisoned scraps – these bassifondi are too crowded with poverty and have no space for kindness, bambini – so they’ve been wounded, scabbed and scarred over, until they became kevlar and gunmetal.

After double-checking the targets written, Viper pulls the list of names into their flames and transports it into Reborn’s waiting hands.

Paper rustling, the hitman hums thoughtfully. “Looks like I’ll be painting a lot of houses.”

“Almost enough to make a ghost town,” promises Viper darkly.

“Who’s helping with the spring cleaning?”

“I’ll arrange it; just tell me the place.”

“Well, it’s always good doing business with you,” Reborn states, then he hangs up.

Letting the dial tone ring in the silence, Viper stares at the pulverised wall again.

“How queer that I cannot say the same.”

⬶ XLVIII ⤅

So You Shall Be Remade In Your Own Name

The Iron Fort is amazingly well-preserved for a series of interconnected buildings that date back to nearly four centuries ago.

Designed during a time of Italy’s rising opulence with many influences flooding in, the Vongola headquarters is majestic in scale: built on alluvia mud and timber piles driven into the ground, brick walls are then raised and faced with Istrian stone to make a grander and whiter facade. The main and largest structure boasts loggias – a covered exterior corridor with elaborate arches and columns, quite typical of the 16th century – as well as heavy tracery which supported the darkly stained windows. Towers flank the sides of the main building with crenulations on the low parapet; a wise and defensive selection in case of any attack.

Allegedly, the Vongola Primo despised over-extravagance (for all it went against his vigilante values to defend the weak and poor) and kept the excessive fringing and decorations scarce. The current iteration begs to differ as its simple exterior hides decades of fraudulence and decadence.

Reborn wished he had the height to appreciate the architecture more— or at the very least, find it within himself to not curse at the tedium of having to navigate acres of gardens to get to the main door on toddler’s legs, but he recognises intimidation tactics when he notices one.

The un-subtle Mist blanket shrouding the entire premise, the watching and distrustful eyes behind the bushes and hedges… Every caution taken against him is a direct reminder that he may be a friend of Timoteo and Daniela, and thereby a partial associate of Vongola, but he was not an ally, nor will he ever allow himself to be.

(If he had been born decades earlier, in the time where Vongola Ottava reigned with her iron fist and thorn-lined lips, resisting the war and fascism, he would have fought for the right to be her Sun and blazed a longer path for her with no holds barred. But that beautiful woman of kohl-darkened gold eyes strung together with a crossbow of red flowers has long retreated from the frontlines, and her succeeding son is a fraction of her greatness with his pliable values and antiquated mace.)

Nevertheless, the Greatest Hitman knows intimidation and fear like a well-worn glove.

Patient, he strolls towards his destination at a regulated speed, though he does wonder if he could extract a possible arrangement to let his transport drive him closer to the front steps.

Upon reaching the main doors, he deliberately tilts his fedora down, before his hands sweep across his suit and down to his pockets. A purposeful show that there are no weapons, but no mafioso worth their salt is truly unarmed in foreign territory, which makes people question where he stashed them.

Concurrently, Leon crawls onto the brim of his hat, bright green stark against black, to stare at the Vongola staff.

The door men remain impassive, likely accustomed to the various antics of the visiting guests.

One of the besuited door men gets on one knee, feeling up his clothes meticulously. It takes him seconds to finish his task. Sized down, there isn’t much surface area for him to cover.

The maid, however, could not hide her small twitch. Her folded hands squeeze briefly and her lips part a little but she catches herself soon after, pursing them into a thin line as she pushes her shoulders back.

It was apparent that she was new to the job and has experienced a literal crash course within the past few days, judging by her nervous reaction. The turnover rates at these headquarters have always been horrendously high, and those who manage to make it through the first three months are often the ones who survive for years to come.

Reborn laughs softly, the high note from younger vocal cords taking the maid by surprise. She responds with a full-body shudder this time, her pupils dilating to reduce her irises into a ring of brown—

Then it glazes over, like mist sweeping through the forest at night, before her vision returns into focus. Unnervingly, she smiles back at him, her aggression and anxiety replaced by what he can only describe as adoration.

And he does not mean admiration or infatuation; her expression typically reserved for children and babies, a far-removed emotion he scarcely relates to.

It f*cking disgusts him.

Most people who are not well-acquainted with Reborn tend to presume that he is a mind reader of sorts as he seemed to possess the ability to guess the turns of their mind. The actual truth is much simpler: it is just cold reading taken to the extremes; alongside logical deductions extrapolated from years from examples with regards to the primal response of fear.

Hence, the Arcobaleno Curse pisses him off to Naples and back.

He spent years cultivating his image of sensual danger, one that simultaneously invites lady loves and incites trepidation at the same time.

But that has been ripped away and counteracted by the Mist-shrouded Pacifier. Not only does it suck his blood regularly and regressed the possibility of a sexual outlet, but it also seems to induce a counteraction to any perceived threat to the bearer.

If someone wanted to hurt him, they would pause and de-escalate the situation, or disregard him entirely and walk away. If his opponent wanted to kill him, they would suddenly find themselves diverted and only wound him severely instead.

The Arcobaleno are forced to walk amongst a deluded crowd for the rest of their days, like they are the only sober ones amidst nicotine addicts and their haze of smoke, thus asphixiating on their apathy; who will never take them seriously despite all the dangers they represent as the strongest flame users, as if these lambs’ penance is to be deceived and slaughtered at their whims, just an inconsequential commodity that can be sold in exchange for them holding up the world.

He holds back a snarl in his chest, utterly disenchanted as he pulls back figuratively and nods at the maid.

She leads him through many corners and hallways, carefully listening to the whispers in the shadows, until they reach the Vongola Don’s office.

Once the mahogany doors open, the top of Timoteo’s head enters his sight. Grey hairs have begun to sprout at his temples and at the roots of his crown, and there were obvious creases on his forehead and at the corners of his mouth due to the stress his position has given him.

(Privately, Reborn did not envy the middle-aged man at all; being saddled with one of the strongest mafia famiglia may be one of the greatest prestige he could never hope to attain, but having to deal with the alliance members and other wannabes sounds and looks exhausting, to say nothing of his three less-than-competent sons and an incredibly ambitious adopted one.)

It strikes him, out of the blue, that his friend will continue to age while he will remain the same, trapped in the appearance of a two-year-old toddler. It’s uncertain who will die first at any rate, but he won’t be waiting on bated breath for the answer.

Timoteo lifts his head from the documents he was reading. Recognition lights up in his eyes.

“Ah, you’re here—”

Then he notices it again. The faint glaze sliding across his eyes. The lost moment, the breakneck reconfiguration happening inside his brain as memories are buried and altered till they are mutilated to fit a single narrative that this is natural, that there is nothing abnormal in this room .

“—Reborn.”

Lungs constricting, the self-effacing mafioso nearly staggers towards the door frame for support.

Although he has committed his birth name and its history to the grave, there were a select few who remembered.

Why the Sun Arcobaleno had left behind such liabilities, he can’t be fully certain.

Perhaps it was sentiment?

For the brash and ravenous boy that Renato Sinclair was, who had no guidance in life and hence erred in judgement too many times but pulled himself together nevertheless, later growing into such notoriety that it got into his head and created more enemies than he could justifiably handle.

Renato Sinclair had killed, f*cked, and played with similar vengeance, except he paid for the excessiveness with his existence.

He was too troublesome to live as, too recalcitrant, so he had to be put down in a gunfight, thus going out in a flashbang of flames that took the whole building and everyone else within it to be the accompaniment of his cement-filled grave.

Reborn claps one hand to his eye, blunted fingernails digging into his hairline slightly.

I’ve been spoiled by the company of the dead , he admits to himself.

After all, what’s deceased have no need for their eyes when their end of days was imminent; their obliviousness becomes his boon as it makes it far easier for him to complete his tasks. Their names and identities are just a passing memory that is made to be forgotten.

(And you, soon, will become one of them too.)

So what is the greatest joke here:

The famed hyper-intuition which does not even enlighten the Vongola Don about the absurdity that stands before him, or the humiliated form of the Strongest Sun who had been completely blindsided by the final plot?

He shakes his head bitterly.

“Ciaossu,” says Reborn, trying and failing to not hate how his smaller tongue twists his words.

“How do you fare, my friend? You’ve been uncontactable for months,” Timoteo says out of concern, unaware of the inner turmoil which brews within him.

Typically, such extended periods of absence meant that there was a need for a search party to find one’s abandoned corpse in a ditch.

“Here and there,” responds Reborn vaguely, jumping onto the top of the chair’s backrest to gain some elevation as he sits down.

The Vongola Sky nods in understanding.

Between them, there’s a tacit policy of ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’.

Because it’s impossible for Timoteo to tell him about the inner workings of Vongola and its alliances unless he was hired as the ‘lethal help’, whereas Reborn had his own network of contractors whom he cannot divulge lest he wants a counter-bounty posted on him.

Alas, not every Element within the office could be considered the sharpest tools in the shed.

Case in point: the new Lightning Guardian – whose predecessor was already sorely missed – that immediately runs his mouth off.

“Been slaughtering your way through the Cosa Nostra, haven’t you?”

“Astute observation,” responds the hitman, before giving Ganache the Second a leisurely glance. “There’s hope for you yet when a bullet comes hurtling.”

“Is that a threat?”

“Hardly. One can never be certain if they have become a quarry.” And when that happens, even being associated with Vongola won’t save you.

“Listen here, you little—”

“Reborn, would you mind?” The Vongola Sky cuts in tiredly while he sends his Lightning a silencing look.

“Merely voicing my opinion, Timoteo,” he replies, voice mild.

His statement is not in jest; the replacement of the previous Ganache has opened the precedent that the current Lightning Guardian can be superseded on the premise of their death. It will be doubly dangerous for the Ganaches now, given that they have the foremost duty of protecting their Don while their own lives are secondary.

To act or think otherwise would be treason, but it’s often hard to tell who the enemy is gunning for when they are attacking in your general direction.

(Although the Sun Arcobaleno understands why Timoteo chose another Lightning after Matteo Altera the first Ganache passed to have a full complement of strong and abled Guardians, he can’t help but think that it’s a mistake. He thinks about Daniela’s Storm position which sits empty, or Don Cavellone’s similarly missing Lightning…

The substitute will never be the same as the first.

What is at stake here is loyalty .)

“Regardless… The recent hecticness?” Timoteo inquires with a hint of caution.

And Timoteo could not be faulted for his wariness; it is out of character for the World’s Greatest Hitman to go on a killing spree of this magnitude, acting as though he was a rookie speeding through a bulk of contracts in a desperate bid for validation.

As a matter of fact, Reborn does not receive that many contracts these days – his main cash flow has long diversified to other avenues – both in part of his notoriety and corresponding exorbitant fees, since you would only hire him to send a strongly worded message, and that a wanting client could pay another hitman less and achieve the same end result, albeit with less finesse.

The reports he received from the CEDEF and Varia have been… disturbing, to say the least.

Whoever was orchestrating the string of deaths clearly had the ability to control and silence the information, yet they have carefully leaked them to the general public.

It was framed as accidents, homicides, or due to unfortunate gas leaks and building defects, but the narrative made available to the underworld differed vastly.

This is a warning.

From the Mist Arcobaleno no less, to a whole range of unknown recipients.

In the past few months, the Cosa Nostra had been baptised by blood and terror in controlled waves, then reframed into the same dangerous game with disparate moving pieces. It had shaken the underworld once again and tore its foundation out from underfoot; its ripples smaller than the Arcobaleno’s sudden entry but similarly destructive.

Another reminder of the massive resources pooling within hands of persons who have little affiliations and cannot be leashed; seven individuals who were akin to nuclear weapons, let alone the revolting amount of damage they could cause when gathered together.

Their reign of lethality only served to instil a deeper degree of fear and awe towards the Greatest Information Broker, who seemed to have the Greatest Hitman at their beck and call.

Despite the bitterness weighing in his bones like lead, Reborn’s visage remained impassive. “Just an old debt that’s been gathering interest for far too long.”

Pausing from his paperwork, Timoteo remarks, “It’s unlike you to admit weakness.”

“Because it isn’t. Weakness, that is.” He states, frustration pressing down his throat. “It was a transaction uncompleted.” Viper must have profited from their arrangement in their own imperceptible ways, otherwise the debt would have been far heavier than this.

“And it was ever thus,” Timoteo muses.

A co*cky eyebrow raises above his yellow-ribboned fedora. “Well, you could always hire first to beat the competition."

"A costly suggestion, of which I cannot accept."

Reborn strokes the rich leather beneath his palms. "Then that is all it will ever be."

⬶ XLIX ⤅

Neglected Is The Truth

The lights in 12 Grimmauld Place have long been extinguished.

The moving portraits, for all their asinine loquaciousness in death, are as silent as attic mouse for once. Naught a word about the present master who resides within their ancient halls, whose muddied blood and confusing status on their family tapestry drove them up the walls, nor were there loud grumbles about destitution and their noble ails.

No, they can feel the magic pulsing within this old mansion like a broken heart pounding.

(It feels like a resurrection, serrated and excruciating, seeping between the bricks and roof tiles, its filtration arrestingly loud even beyond the veil.)

The Black Madness is alive inside Heather James Potter, her roots from her grandmother Euphemia Potter nee Black showing; an inheritance of emotional changeability which has been the cause for their insidious temper with sparse moments of incredible brilliance.

Numbly, Heather sits on the bed of Sirius’ old room, the pillow she’s hugging swallowing most of her shrunken form. She would have occupied at least a quarter of the bed seated upright days ago, but she is just a lesser portion now, her body encapsulating the diminished state of her soul flames.

She could have brooded there for years and not noticed.

(The Master of Death has no need for food, water, or rest by technicality, tethered and unable to die in spite of being skin and bones. The unfading deformity on her forehead and heart is a spelled-out testament to her immortality, and the whitish-pink scars — consequences of accidents and unmitigated violence — puckered and splashed all over her skin is proof of her functional hardiness.)

A door, once closed, opens slowly.

Irises dyed in a similar violet peek through the gap, her cascade of platinum-blonde hair the first splash of bright colour that the dark room has seen in a long while. She dances around the tattered posters and furniture debris on tiptoes, rather dreamy in her flightiness.

A ring of twine now wraps her fourth finger and a variety of bird feathers and beads have been braided into her hair, while the butterbeer cork necklace still rests between her clavicles regardless of her ever-growing eclectic wardrobe.

Luna Lovegood is now a woman grown, on the cusp of motherhood should she will it so.

She says nothing as she approaches, her fuller limbs folding as she avails herself to the space on the bed.

Heather does not protest her presence, although she barely does anything in acknowledgement, nor her touch, allowing gentle fingers to trace from her temple to her cherubic cheeks. When the whimsical witch reaches for the offensive new accessory hanging around her neck, however, Heather stops her firmly.

“No.”

Even despondent, she will not risk her dear ones for their own harmless curiosity.

Pulling back her hand naturally, Luna settles for drawing her good friend closer instead, letting her rest her head on her side. It was much more comfortable than the hard headboard.

“You know,” says Heather in a matter-of-factly tone, without stuttering.

Her dreamy and distant gaze clears from violet to crystalline blue, before her vision focuses fully on the smaller witch. Although Heather has become quite peculiar, Luna regards her the same way she did when they first met at the train station.

“I know many things,” Luna says lightly, “I believe in much more.”

The-girl-who-lived laughs breathlessly at that.

Undeterred, Luna continues, “And I will always believe in you. Whether it was against Lord Voldemort, or against another fantastical creature who has set you in this plight.”

“But how—” How could you believe me so unconditionally, where do you find that faith from?

These are questions Heather doesn’t dare ask, after spending months running away from Wizarding Britain, only to end up in deplorable straits and then cursed.

“You’ve never lied to us when it mattered. And one should not be so shallow as to imagine deceit when there is no precedent.” Luna points out emphatically.

An odd feeling rises in her heart. “The lack of it hardly stops other people from lying.”

Luna blinks, somewhat mystified. “I don’t know other people well. Nonetheless, since it’s Heather, I trust you must have a good reason for breaking faith.”

Burying her face in her hands, Heather tries to stifle the noise coming from her mouth. She places more pressure on her cranium through her fingers as if she’s trying to stem that raw and dull ache emanating from her head, or perhaps it is a sad attempt to pierce through her skull and cease all its thoughts.

It is difficult to give everything and receive nothing in return, to have to constantly fend against something and yet still leave with a sense of betrayal when the anticipated occurs.

Life is not a zero-sum game, but The-Woman-Who-Conquered finds that she rarely comes out ahead.

“How could I deserve you. Any of you,” she sobs, finally recognising the grief for what it is.

The Lovegood embraces her tighter and she grips onto her lapels harder in return.

“Why would you need to be deserving?” The Ravenclaw wonders. “To deserve is to imply that you have to be worthy of it. You simply are. You are my greatest friend, Heather Potter, not what you’ve lost or what you can’t be.”

Gently, Luna wipes away the tears trickling down her face. She whispers, “Forgive yourself in your anguish, for you do not need more sadness.”

For I’ve witnessed how they attempted to crush your spirit into stardust, and how you shattered, so painfully and willingly in fierce protection, spreading your warmth across ancient estate, and barely remade yourself in chosen image only to be trodden, then ripped apart again—

So I curse the stars, in wishing for your smallness when you are much grander than life, I cannot scream your agony but can share your pain; I ask, kindly and benignly, for your conservation, so—

Rage, rage

Ron bursts through the agape door in passionate fury as red as his signature Weasley hair, trailing soot and dust as flames nip at his heels and singe the carpeting, while Hermoine is one step behind him, her frazzled energy encasing the room and setting what is broken and wrongs to rights.

Windows repaired, glass un-fractures, books are slotted back into shelves, and fabric re-stitch itself (but she innocuously allows the gravure posters to burn due to her husband's anger).

The married couple clamber onto the soft sheets as if they were back in their Gryffindor dorms again, huddling close as they choke down their latest complication before weeping.

Erstwhile, George slips into the shared space, his words of consolation stilted and half-spoken. His magic suffuses through the air to create a liminal dim akin to a waxing moon whilst he perches himself on the corner of the bed, his posture barely lending any support. Wan, the Weasley twin remains in part illusive, more fixated on picking at the imaginary threads that tie them together.

Last but not the least to join them is Neville, arms touting a full porcelain set on a borrowed golden tray. Soft and aromatic wisps of hot, honeyed camomile tea wafts into the room upon his entry and he shyly sets down the implements with an apologetic smile on his countenance. He is late to answering the silent beckon that jarred them out of their usual activities, but he completes their imperfect set.

Finally, the first rays of dawn peek through the curtains, shining a light on the unnoticed.

Slightly torn, a discarded envelope lies right under their feet.

~*~+~*~+~*~

Heather James Potter

You are formally invited to

I PRESCELTI SETTE

Gathering of The Seven Strongest Flame Users

~*~+~*~+~*~