Parted

Theodore tried to open his eyes and found he couldn't. Something held them shut. That same something held every molecule of his being; its force spread so evenly from his tiniest curl of hair to his pinky toe that he felt no pain despite its immensity, only a feeling of immobility. Everything, even his tongue, was still. He couldn't breathe, but he felt no need to.

The rhythmic pleasure of his beating heart, the Thumps it made when all was quiet, the Thumps that said you were still alive. His usual comfort in the absence of sound was itself absent. This should have made him panic, but instead, he felt calm.

A foreign and tickling current of warmth sheltered his thoughts like a cabin's blazing fire in a blizzard. Its crackle was calming, holding back the tide of hyperventilating panic he should feel with his immobility.

Then there was a flicker. Lights shone through the filtered flesh of his eyelids, a blinding red.

Reality pooled around him, soaking him in its rich tones. He felt poles of ice run rampant through his veins, jerking his heart to begin beating rapidly with clockwork machination. The pressure that held him faded, and he opened his eyes.

Shades of vibrant green outlined by the beaming sun seemed to jump into his eyes as he sat up, rubbing his glabella to stop the headache he felt coming on.

Those green outlines crystalized into familiar trees.

Theodore heard the violent shrieking of monkeys overhead, along with the whooping of exotic birds and the bending and breaking of wood. The thick, water-laden air pressed against him, drowning him in its soup.

'Great, It's a recurrence.' he thought.

Dreams that he hadn't finished. They kept coming back if Theodore didn't complete them.

Entrance into the dream usually wasn't so unsettling, but Theodore usually saw things from his father's perspective. Much was different about this dream than others. Except it seemed its repeating quality.

The Metamorphmagus resigned himself to see more of this jungle. He hardly ever managed to finish a dream on his second attempt, a thought Theodore found unfortunate.

Most of these wolf dreams took place in London, which is lovely, dreary, and metropolitan. Of course, there was occasional unpleasantness, but also some level of separation when stepping in someone else's shoes, unable to act or worry about how they might touch or feel. Those dreams were usually never so real or terrifying, and none of them had taken place in the jungle.

He had appreciated that. He still had nightmares that involved a densely packed and life-manic jungle.

Enormous Parasitic insects in one world Theodore visited loved to inhabit jungle ivory. He had vivid memories of cavernous teeth projecting out of wood chittering after him after having missed burrowing into his flesh as he saw it want to do in other passing Hart.

Not to mention, Jungles were uncomfortable on their merit: flies with their constant natter, mosquitoes with their disease and parasites, Leeches with the same, and Frogs. Theodore had always hated frogs, and they seemed similarly disposed, though there was no escaping them in jungles.

Those annoying amphibians wouldn't stop screeching and were much worse at it than most animals. That obnoxious, short-bursting noise they made irked Theodore so that he wanted to pop all those bubble sacks, which those annoying frogs used to store air.

As if to prove his point, a loud croak sounded. A chorus of hundreds of other abominable amphibians quickly joined in.

Theodore glared at the offending frog that started the chorus, a molded green thing with large knotted bulges of flesh and muscle on its back. Its pill-shaped pupils and glib yellow eyes seemed challenging as it glared right back. It gave another incredible screech as it watched him struggle to his feet.

The Wizard, of course, then stumbled over a particularly gnarly root, and Theodore could swear the thing laughed at him, giving many short snapping rattles as he scraped his hands against the root's five hundred grit spiked bark.

Theodore felt a rush of embarrassment, and he blew on his hand to settle the pain, using his metamorphmagus ability to cinch the minor abrasions shut as he picked sharp pieces of wood out of his hand. One splinter particularly painful made him silently begin cursing. The ugly frog, as if it had a premonition of danger, took that opportunity to hop. Its ugly bow legs made uneven distances away from Theodore.

Shaking his hand, Theodore decided to ignore the pain, knowing it would fade the instant he awoke.

The Wizard briefly considered chasing that ugly creature, though a thousand frogs still croaked around him. He knew it wouldn't accomplish much, so he quickly discarded the foolish notion of any revenge, as without magic, it would be a fruitless hunt.

His metamorphmagus ability was unrestricted because it was innate. It was part of him, but magic was banned from all his dreams. It would make his task, whatever it may be in this dream, much more difficult. Theodore sighed, knowing that would likely mean he would see more of this jungle, but he knew he couldn't wallow.

Instead, he crouched, stepping carefully into the shadows.

He took exaggerated care to step where the ground was soft, looking for moss-covered patches. He pressed his body into its most petite shape, taking the form of a small child and feeling not much different from one as he hid behind a spring of bushes. It was time to play a game of hide-and-seek, though he hoped he would win this time as the Wizard waited for the trotting of boots he knew would come.

He didn't have to wait long before the frogs' sound changed. They were panicked, like a quarter-turned door with creaking rust that moved just a couple thousand times. Then, they went silent as if sensing predators nearby.

boots like last time came carelessly crushing rotten bark and ants underfoot

Then, like before, two men stopped in the clearing. The tall Wizard, having seen something.

Theodore was close, lying crouched just behind where two men stopped. He was so close he could smell them. The tall man held the rich scent of dragon's smoke, aftershave, and spice. His father had a more familiar scent: it was warm, like freshly cut grass, along with a hint of jungle smell.

Theodore winced as he noted Remus's worn-out coat and scuffed shoes. His father looked worn and thin, hungry even—so unlike the powerful, straight-backed man he had always seen in living pictures.

"He was here." The large, gruff man said for a second time.

"How do you know that, and what are we even tracking? You dragged me out here, and we have been stalking through this forest for days now. And yet you still won't give me an answer."

As always, hearing his father's voice was comforting. Whenever he had these dreams, the man seemed calm and ready to handle any situation. Even now, the man hid his frustration if he had any. He sounded more amused than anything.

The larger man pointed at a spot of decaying bark.

"I'm talking about the invader—the one DOM allowed to pass through the gate. Don't play coy with me, werewolf. I know that you have your spies."

Remus turned toward the black splotch of bark and hummed in acknowledgment.

Theodore's ear picked up as he heard a gate mentioned. They likely meant the doorway. If so, it would seem that the Veil had been active longer than he suspected.

The metamorphmagus had long claimed that wizards had been using it before the last wizarding war, But he had no proof. The Department of Mysteries kept no records of its use, or if they did, those records had long burned in the chaos that ensued from the collapse of the ministry and later the ICW.

Retroactive magic would usually provide information about the magic employed, but it was useless in this instance. The Veil, similar to Stygian gates, was beyond scrutiny. Its magic disrupted spells cast on it or often even near it.

Low-fidelity magic was especially susceptible to the Veil's icy cast. Diagnostic spells and other more complex spells were included in that category as often they were weaker or less stable magics.

The intent to kill was strong, powerful, and easily imagined—curiosity as to how big or hot or how something is often less potent.

Either way, the Veils' use during his father's time was concerning, close to a complete disaster, as all sorts of things hid in the space between—plagues and Vile creatures that dealt in possession were rampant.

It seemed that Wizard kind had been playing with that fire longer than it took most children to have their fingers burned. Theodore could only hope those who ran the Department of Mysteries at the time weren't utterly incompetent at their jobs.

"Oh yes, that one. I've heard about that. Damn shame they're so unspeakably bad at their jobs. What is this, the sixth one? "Remus sardonically said as he paused, snatching a pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket. It had a diminished stock, with only four filters tumbling together as he opened the lid. He pulled out one and lit it with a snap of his fingers.

The larger man hitched his breath in slight shock at the casual use of wandless magic, but Remus ignored him as he took a careless puff, ashing almost half the cigarette.

"I heard that the Unspeakables had a tough time catching this one. So what makes you think a homeless werewolf would be of any help to you?"

The mountain of a man turned to Lupin, holding out his middle finger, forefinger, and thumb in a smoker's pose. Lupin, shaking his head, gave the man one of his precious few cigarettes and lit it for him with another snap of his fingers.

The man took a testing drag and tapped his nose. "You have a better natural one of these than any human, and it is old magic. You know how those newer magics slide right off UGOs Plus… you're loyal. You followed me out like a good little bloodhound for days, even without answers."

"I do get paid by the hour. You aren't truly wasting my time if that was your goal." Remus gave a sly chuckle before taking another long drag of the cigarette, puffing out a fluffy plume of smoke, "I don't think you understand how hard it is to scrub galleons together as a werewolf, Wolfy. Besides, I like spending time with you. It gives me more opportunities to get you to join my pack. I've got a prime den for you Wolfy, to sleep in, to do other things." Remus said, playing overly innocent.

"Please, as if I need the den of some 'homeless' wolf."

"You sure, Wolfy? I know how lonely it can get in Siberia," Remus said with faux seduction, his voice filled with laughter.

Wolfy looked at Remus, uncomfortable, before taking another drag of his cigarette. He seemed to enjoy it and grumbled pleasantly.

"You know you really should stop smoking if you want to save galleons. Or, at the very least, you should stop buying Zonko's Originals." Wolfy turned the cigarette's filter, which showed a Spiffy Z logo littered with gold that reflected what little sunlight scraped through the dense foliage.

"What can I say? I am a man of culture, Wolfy. To do less would be to deny myself one of my only pleasures in life. Besides, everyone knows Zonko does it best."

"I'll take your word for it. I've really only had Dragons sleepers, and I'll tell you one thing: Zonko's is smoother. What is that prickly thing it does to your tongue."

"It's from the fire seed," Remus muttered distractedly, taking another large puff and looking around cautiously before throwing it to the ground and snuffing its embers. "You've really only had dragon sleepers? You poor child, that stuff is awful."

Wolfy cuffed him on the arm for that, and Remus gave a protesting shout of indignation.

"You shouldn't have called me a child wolf. First off, I'm older than you. Second, you won't like what I do if you repeat it." Wolfy said the last part offhandedly, his Slavic accent thickening as he spoke, but it held little heat.

Remus rubbed his arm before holding up his hands.

Stretching them out as if to calm a wild animal, which only managed to annoy the giant Wizard even more

"I see I have touched on a sore point, Wolfy. I only meant that I hope you don't actually like that nonsense. I'm not sure I could be friends with someone who is into self-immolation. That stuff is too gimmicky."

Wolfy grunted before finishing his cigarette. He stomped its embers out before pointing at the bit of decaying bark.

"Give it a sniff, little wolf, and stop yapping so much. Be cautious. Remember your training. This scent is better wafted than closely sniffed."

Remus gave a stiff nod before his posture shifted. He hunched over, stalking forward like a wolf toward prey, each step tense and ripping.

Theodore couldn't see it from behind, but he knew from watching James that his father was partially shifting. It was a process of adopting the thoughts and characteristics of the wolf while trying your best not to go stark mad.

The partially shifted's eyes would turn into yellow slits allowing for werewolf senses with human sensibilities.

Remus wafted the smell of corruption to himself, and Theodore, who shared a connection with his father, shared the elder Lupin's vision of gray fog leading deeper into the forest.

Theodore tensed, realizing he was poorly positioned. Remus began turning toward the mountain-sized Wizard, who still had his back to Theodore, but the Wizard realized he hadn't taken werewolf night vision into account.

Theodore sighed, knowing that if one of the conditions for the dream was to stay out of sight, it would soon end. It was too late to shift now. Instead, he allowed his skin to shift transparent black and locked his muscles and bones from movement with a simple flex of his metamorphmagus ability. He prepared his body, watching and waiting for the dream to end.

Out of nowhere, Wolfy pulled out a wooden clipboard and a feathered ink pen as Remus looked in his direction.

This was it; there was it. Theodore waited for yellow eyes to shoot towards him and to be chased into the land of waking.

Werewolf eyes were drawn to the living and had an auto-locking feature. There was no way he couldn't be seen, and yet he wasn't. Theodore allowed his skin to shift fleshly pink, even allowing it to glow slightly by reflecting sunlight to catch its eyes, but still, Remus couldn't see him.

At a glance, Theodore confirmed that he had the correct creepy, oversized eyes—the ones he had dreaded as a child, the ones feared before he knew what these wolf dreams really were. Yet they wouldn't focus on him. Instead, it was Theodore watching, looking more closely than he was typically allowed.

The complexity of those roiling yellow orbs transfixed him. Theodore felt their rotting egg yolk color held the essence of disease and corruption so old and rotten it must have come from the source. Looking at those eyes, he saw a glint of something alien and powerful. That wasn't simply because of their appearance, though he did find that fascinatingly grotesque; no, it was because of their breadth of history.

Lycanthropy was a disease older than Atlantis itself, older still than written history and wizarding written history, which was significantly older than that. The disease, if it could be so simplified, had persisted for Eons. It made one wonder, 'How did it start?'

Theodore stood up fully. Those eyes, always hunting for prey and looking for ways to spill out into the world and create more of themselves, couldn't see him. He was invisible.

"So, can you describe the scent? We need to be accurate and track any evolving dangers. I'll need to note any changes." Wolfy looked almost comical as his sausage-width finger dexterously held his small feather pen. In two seconds flat, he turned from a ruff and tumble-hit Wizard into an academic scholar. Theodore almost laughed at his deliciously quick change but thought better of it.

The predatory consciousness behind the wolf dreams was whimsical. It was hard to know what other rules it would impose, but the Wizard already knew from his first dream that he couldn't make loud sounds. That wasn't so hard. He would have to resist laughing too loudly or stepping on any sticks.

65

A number glowing red appeared at the edge of his vision, 'well, that's a first.'

Theodore watched the number with focused intensity, paying little attention to Remus and his description of the smell and what the malodorous fog looked like. 'Is it some kind of warning?' If it was, it was one the metamorphmagus hadn't seen before. First dream paralysis, then the headache, the frog, now a mysterious number at the corner of his eye? Too many things were shifting at once. Theodore gritted his teeth, thinking that perhaps it would be wise to wake.

The Wizard had methods of stopping these dreams altogether, but there had never been a genuine need, and strangely, Theodore found these dreams comforting. They had always been there. They accompanied him in childhood.

These memories held him even when the night came biting at him. Even when Muggles hunted him, they came to him in captivity, even when his muggle-born tormentors drove him to unconsciousness.

They saved him from his hatred and allowed him to be merciful despite what he had suffered. Memories of his father and examples of his nobility became role models for him long ago. Theodore had ingrained Remus Lupin in his memories as a path to live by, a way to live a respectable life.

The comfort he derived from these dreams stemmed from the simple fact that they hadn't ever genuinely harmed him, but there had been concerns that that might change.

Back when Harry still cared and Hermione was alive and well, they had searched for ways to stop the dreams. They had always wondered, 'What if they changed? If the dreams did become dangerous?' Of course, they had failed to discover a cure more out of a lack of motivation than anything else, but their worries were infectious.

All it would take now was a little cut for this world of dreams to slip away.

He had come close to making that cut before. In the space in between, some creatures less tangible could hop into dreams. Sadly, they weren't as rare as one would think.

A Chaotic sea could be Chaotic at times. Who knew? He had, however, found ways to protect his dreams beyond simple Occlumency.

Though those protections didn't prevent harm from the wolf dream itself, they prevented outside influence. There was still much he didn't know about these dreams. Their consequence could likely be like a wart looked at with concern but forgotten for years, only for it to nibble more nitches of skin and spread a thousandfold. It was a risk he had decided to take.

The two men began moving off through the forest, and Theodore drew back to himself. He would see where this dream would go a little longer. He stalked the two wizards at a careful distance.

After not even 10 minutes of walking, the number became 64, and Theodore felt his heart beat a little quicker. The metamorphmagus became intensely curious about what caused the change.

Remus and Wolfy continued to follow the fog of gray that belonged to the invader. Occasionally, they would stop taking note of decaying trees and ripe carcasses, some of which were only half eaten and left behind in their quarries trail. It seemed that this UGO had a pension for indiscriminate violence.

The disgusting number of dead things in this creature's path seemed to disturb Remus and Wolfy. Both continued without comment. It appeared to Theodore that this was a common sight. His father had likely hunted something like this before, though if that was the case, it had taken place in wolf dreams he had yet to see.

Theodore trailed them, examining some of the remains after they moved on. Instantly, he noted the size and shape of a clean wound it had bit into one deer's side.

The edges of the teeth on the left and right sides bit through its meaty stomach, leaving large, smooth, bloody gouges. The creature had torn off rather than bitten through the edges of the wound, indicating the likely presence of some form of molars. Whatever this creature was, it had a jaw broader than the average human's with sharp canines.

And it seemed to love the taste of intestines as it left almost everything else in the poor creatures untouched.

Remus said something to his companion that Theodore couldn't quite make out, and then the two of them stopped.

Theodore paused, joining them in listening. He heard nothing but noted that it was getting darker. The metamorphmagus was beginning to struggle, seeing what lay even a few feet in front of him in any detail. He had never quite mastered night vision as a metamorphmagus, and usually, he had magic to supplement that flaw.

Now, if an ambush were to happen, he would be caught unprepared, and that thought unsettled him. Almost enough that he nearly missed the distant sound of voices. Shaping his left ear to find the noise, he let it bend and cup until he found the right direction.

He heard the bubbling of conversations happening all at once, the buzz of everyday activity. There was a group of people not far from them. From the sound of it, no more than fifty.

Their voices were violent, guttural even. They were speaking a language vaguely familiar to Theodore.

12

Theodore glanced again at the red number at the edge of his vision, Noting that it wasn't quite a chronological countdown. The first number had taken ten minutes to change—the next twelve. There had been a time that Remus and Wolfy had taken a more extended break where the number hadn't shifted at all.

If Theodore had to guess, the count was tied to some event in the dream or perhaps its progression and completion, but neither quite fit. Something about this seemed ominous. The further down the bloody red counter went, the darker and more vibrant it became. Now, it was the color of arterial spray.

The trio walked toward the voices they both heard, and Theodore remembered where he had heard that language before. It was Gobbledegook. Theodore confirmed it as he looked through the clearing of trees and saw a band of Goblins.

Judging by their rugged cart filled with miscellaneous goods, Theodore thought there was a good chance these were merchants—though likely not good ones. Their tents, weapons, and clothes were haphazard and sloppy—in other words, cheap. Their appearance didn't bode well for their business as merchants. Even poor ones often wore expensive garbs beyond their means to attract a buying audience.

Goblins, like wizards, weren't a monoculture. While the respectable goblins in wizarding societies' eyes ran banks, some chose different lives. Merchant goblins were of sneakier and more thrifty cloth. They weren't suited for smithing or banking, so they took to running traveling shops instead. Some even hosted events not dissimilar to muggle circus acts.

Creatures in their profession thrived best where people lived, but Theodore saw tents and Valiant steeples. Already, dirt paths had been laid, and foliage flattened. These goblins had been here some time.

The gray fog's trail stopped there, right in front of the Goblin horde. The UGO was among them.

Wolfy took out the same clipboard he used before and wrote something before nodding to Remus. Then, the two approached the goblin encampment, and canny goblin eyes quickly noticed them. Theodore watched from the tree line as the goblins piled out of their transfigured huts and expanded tents, waiting anxiously to greet the two wizards.

Theodore considered how he would make his way over without making noise. Of course, he could walk over, but here in the jungle, every inch of ground was cramped with clamor. Even if he was careful, he was bound to snap a twig like he had before.

In the end, he decided to soften the soles of his feet. Such was the control over his metamorphmagus form. He could create spongy pads that would snap nary a twig with his passing. He hadn't done so before because he was able to keep his distance, not to mention it was an uncomfortable form to hold. It was like flexing a muscle and holding it in place, waiting for it to cramp when using non-human appearances, but Theodore was well practiced and took to it no with no more difficulty than changing his hair.

Of course, his shoes were a slight problem, so Theodore took them off and discarded them. They weren't real, of course, and if he had any need for them, he could harden his feet so that he would barely feel jagged edges.

—-

The walkover didn't take too long. In fact, the only difficulty Theodore had was watching that number at the edge of his vision take a fresh, bloody cast. Theodore had a guess why.

The Wizard looked for an imposter among the goblins as Remus Lupin and Wolfy made conversation, but he had always had trouble reading goblin emotions.

A snarl for a goblin might as well be their human version of laughter; he had seen them do it often enough when someone joked. Drawing a knife and holding it to your throat could be a welcome to an old friend for all he knew. To Theodore's shame, he had never overly cared about goblin culture.

Theodore might have recognized the language, but he had never bothered to learn it. In fact, he had never kept gold in Gringotts. It had been at its most popular long before his time. In the Ave Dominus Era, Most wizards owned secure vaults, and Gringotts banks were only seen or used in Mysthaven and a few other fortress cities in England.

That said, he had about a dozen suspects. One with violet eyes and misshapen goblin ears, in particular, jumped out at him as it was chewing through its rotting arm, which made even several of his neighbors look at him strangely, but it could always be a coincidence.

Wait, no, now it was spitting out blood, and several goblins were staring, but none of them looked even the slightest bit concerned. Theodore decided that one was definitely one to watch for.

"You say we have an outsider among us, but I assure you that is impossible. We are a small, tight-knit family. We decided together to abandon the way of the merchants and make a life for ourselves that was far from society. I know every single soul in this camp, in fact…"

Something grabbed the large, stately goblin that Remus and Wolfy had been talking to from behind and bit into him. The goblin silently tried to scream, but blood quickly filled the creature's lungs, preventing it.

The violet-eyed goblin that Theodore noticed before gnawing at its arm moved faster than the metamorphmagus's non-magically assisted eyes could follow and killed the goblin's horde leader. The other goblin merchants didn't even have time to panic before the fight started.

Remus and Wolfy reacted in an instant, and both used killing curses without hesitation. Splashes of green flew at the aberrant goblin. Both spells missed by inches as they dodged to the side. It began with a sickly crackling chuckle that didn't sound dissimilar to a sick toddler in a candy shop.

It began hopping and bouncing, and spells meant for it splashed against rock, moss, and other goblins instead of their intended target.

Chaos erupted as the goblin merchants began screaming. Some of them drew shoddy daggers and took a run at the wizards only to be knocked to the side or killed. Others, utterly confused, began screaming, scattering like a pack of gazel that spotted a pride of lions stalking them. Still, others stood frozen in shock or fear; Theodore couldn't quite tell as for the metamorphmagus himself. He decided now would be a good time to hide. The counter increased its value as he stalked back to the treeline he had come from.

Theodore leaped to the top of an acacia tree branch and watched as an extraordinary battle took place. He managed to get a good view by making his vision telescopic.

The Goblin imposter was fast, deadly, and indiscriminate as it attempted to slaughter goblins and wizards alike, quite often succeeding in the former. The goblins were caught unprepared to fight one of their own. Remus and Wolf only barely avoided being slaughtered with the generous use of apparition.

Even then, it was a struggle as the UGO began to deform. Bits of its arms and legs lengthened, bulging as if ready to burst. This should have made the creature's gait ungainly, but somehow, it managed to use its uneven appendages to throw itself around even faster than before.

Remus managed to blast its rotting arm off, and Theodore watched closely as it began to foam and eat the ground. A large blackened arm dripping with what looked like tar erupted from the creature's stump, bigger than the creature's entire body.

Wolfy threw a powerful piercing charm at the creature. It was a good shot that should have landed center mass, but the creature somehow twisted its body at an unnatural angle. Then Wolfy, who was standing far too close, was assaulted by the black arm that had doubled in length. The mountain man gave a terrible scream as its claws carved themselves into his side but managed to disappear before that ugly creature could do more.

Remus apparated to his side, and the creature, for once, stopped its aggression. Its eyes bulged. It opened its mouth to speak, but all that came out was, "..me." Theodore manipulated his ears, widening them and shaping them so they would catch the slightest sound it made, but it spoke no more.

There was a snap, and several black-cloaked figures appeared at once. They began throwing a blaze of binding curses. Remus and Wolfy joined in. Knocking aside several attempts to use its black arm to slash at its captors as they slowly pushed back, it made one more attempt at speaking before being locked in its tangled box. Theodore just barely caught its words over the sound of struggling wizards and spellfire.

"Not… Me," it said, as black horns burst from its head and a vacuum began to pull it. Thinning its limbs and head, it fell into the box as if caught in an event horizon before the creature spaghettified fully, and the box grew smaller until the box fully contained it.

Its lid slammed shut as the box reached barely a few inches in length each way, and one of the cloaked figures, presumably an unspeakable, lifted the box carefully away. The Unspeakables immediately began post-op interrogation. To their displeasure, Remus and still bleeding Wolfy were taken to the side as other cloaked wizards swept the area with diagnostic charms.

Despite not being able to see the magic they used, Theodore recognized several wand movements indicative of searching for harmful contamination. It seemed they were taking precautions. That was good. Theodore felt the hair bristle at the back of his neck.

Out of the corner of his eye, Theodore saw a black shape hiding in a branch just above him and slightly to his left side. That number at the corner of his eye was a dull, lifeless zero as if the counter had bled entirely out.

Careful not to make a sound, Theodore turned to where he had seen that figure's outline.

Violet eyes looked back at him. A Cheshire smile filled with sharp teeth stood out even in the tree's shadow.

Theodore jumped down and began running.

The true UGO followed.

Theodore leaned forward, grabbing at the ground. He continued running, managing to snag a rock before the creature bowled him over. The formless horror was heavy, and it clung to his form as if trying to subsume him. He heard whispers it called to him, telling him of unity, of war of unspeakable horror. Its inevitability and the total obliteration it would bring managed to jerk tears from his eyes. It would destroy everything and then again and then once more. It was a cycle of cold-blooded genocide.

A lesser man would have gone mad. Sadly, Theodore was already quite mad. He wouldn't let this thing take his body. His pride, more than any innate power he had, wouldn't allow it.

Gritting his teeth and straining muscles he didn't know he had or even ones Theodore didn't think he could build, the Wizard took the rock, still gripped tightly, and threw it with all the force he could muster. It made an enormous knock as it hit another rock.

The last thing he saw was his father turning in his direction. His slitted yellow eyes met his before he was pulled into the land of the waking.

—-

Theodore felt pain. It was a crippling burning sensation that came in waves and ran its way throughout his entire body. He was getting stabbed by a thousand red hot knives from the inside as if his magic was burrowing underneath his skin, and it was wrenching apart anything it came across.

Theodore had to fight his magic to summon his philosopher stone to him, breaking the wards that would usually prevent its transfer, holding it to his chest, and hugging it so fervently that it might have broken had it not been heavily enchanted. A spread of transmuted Phoenix fire burned the corruption away, and Theodore felt he could finally breathe again. The pain became a dull ache, and instead of feeling like he was dying, the Wizard only felt a violent hangover still tangled in his covers.

"Mipsy"

His loyal house elf came with a pressurized pop.

"House elf, Bring me my knife."

It seemed his dreams weren't entirely as free from outside influence as he would have liked. How unlucky.

He took the dual-colored knife, holding it out in one hand and pulling a bit of a patchy hairy soul with the other. Then he turned its shade-colored side inward and scalped the bit of extra soul as smoothly as one would cut butter.

What came next was like trees sighing in the wind or the sun coming out from behind the clouds, a burden cut away, and then the return of memories Theodore would have preferred forgotten. The sun was hidden behind another patch of cloud thicker and more thunderous than before.

Theodore knew that if he cried now, he would not stop, so he didn't. There were things to do and plans to make.

Theodore pushed back his covers fully and stood surveying his palatial dwarven sweet. It was a box geometrically perfect, simple, and beautiful because of it. In it was a plain writing desk and a finely carved but unadorned chair.

Theodore fell into it, letting the ruff, petrified wood hold his body as he leaned back, looking down at paper after stack of paper that filled his desk.

They held reports sent by Trianna, notes taken on dwarven ecology, analysis of stone and crystal samples, and notes taken about every dwarven Grimstborith Theodore held any suspicion of. None of that held his attention. No, instead, it was a slip of paper on dwarven law, and it said in many more words than Theodore deemed necessary that the entire dwarven legal system was a sham.

In fact, in all his research on dwarven trials, less than half of one in ten people who went through a full dwarven tribunal had ever been labeled innocent, and those had been dubious, often involving kings and princes with too much power.

Theodore looked out the small window his room had been afforded, admiring the crystalline stars of the twilight city, as he wondered what chance a son of Morzan had of walking free.

—-

"Now begins the trial of Murtagh, son of Morzan. We accuse him of King slaying as well as treason against the Varden's noble cause. Are there any that would dare speak in his defense? No.. Then Let's Execute the Leach!" The dwarf unabashedly shouted?

Murtagh's head throbbed at the clattering of armor. Dwarves Gumbled death threats and insults, though none spoke loudly. His only comfort was that he could feel his bonded dragon. Thorn might only scream vitriol in his ear, but that was delightful for Murtagh, as it meant his dragon was still alive and kicking.

The dwarves' daggered eyes glared at him, making him wonder how much longer he could count them both among the living.

Murtagh had slept for most of the journey to the Beor mountains. Whatever that Wizard had done to him had a lasting effect. The cursed rider felt his chains clink as he reached to his chest, where the spiral scar still itched.

He remembered the spell's effect. He remembered begging. A part of him gave in to the pain and the fear he felt when he felt something innate in him decided he was no longer worthy of power and abandoned him at a deathly sprint, as if desperate to be away from his stink and rot. That part was still somehow wounded upon its return.

Murtagh searched his mind for that gate that led to magic and struggled against gripping rust.

Icy power greeted him and left him just as quickly, falling just outside his grasp once again.

His effort didn't go unnoticed. The Wizard, the one from before who had caused so much pain, was looking at him from dias off to the side. His orange eyes were smug before smiling knowingly.

The Wizard had done something to him and taken his magic without the use of drugs. Murtagh was sure this wasn't the breath that muddled the mind and stole his words. The man held some lever in him, halfway between relief and desperation.

"There is no reason to Rush the trial. Rum'den, the man may be sentenced, but we must still have a trial. It is the only way to honor King Hrothgar's memory."

Murtagh found a red-haired clever dwarf looking at him, his eyes filled with mean-spirited delight as he spoke. The dwarf stroked his beard consideringly before an idea set his eyes alight. He let loose a mocking smile.

"I know. We should have someone defend his actions. It is only fair. Look at the boy. He is so dizzy that he certainly can't do it for himself. If we do it this way, not even the gods could say what we do isn't fair and just."

"You're right, Manid. It would only be fair, but who would dare lead his defense and still leave with his hand untainted and his honor unquestioned."

Manid gawped at that before giving a lazy shrug, "We could always just execute him. No one would question the integrity of his crimes. Maybe you were right, Rum'den. It would be quicker, and I've got a game of knuckles to get to and a bet riding on it."

Manid hummed and Turned to Orik, their new King, with all the reverence of a toddler looking at something new and shiny.

Orik looked taken off guard by the judges' laid-back attitude and cleared his throat as if uncertain what exactly to say before retaking his princely bearing.

"He must have a trial. I hope that was obvious, Manid. As for who shall represent him… Lord Lupin has volunteered. He is the most free from judgment as the one who captured him and brought him to justice."

Theodore let loose a bullish grin, "I would be more than delighted to serve in such a capacity."

Manid and a few other honored judges nodded as if this all made good sense. Murtagh wanted to be horrified.

'Of course, his captor would be his only defender.' Murtagh clenched his teeth and hid a sneer, knowing it would do him no good. This was all a dance with carefully choreographed movements. The dwarves' important nobles and men at arms stood in concert, hundreds watching his farcical trial for their measure of satisfaction.

Murtagh felt his stomach clench, and a cold sweat touched his brow as he realized he wasn't quite ready to die yet. He didn't trust the dwarves to execute him kindly.

Those small, wretched creatures hated dragons, and so he also despaired at the thought of what they would do to Thorne. Murtagh reached for his dragon and was wrapped in its rough mental embrace.

He could feel his dragon felt the same fear for him. They both had the same desperation to have only themselves hurt. It was easier to handle one's own pain and torture.

Theodore lazily approached him before making a seat for himself at his side, startling not a few dwarves. He leaned over, and Murtagh, who could do nothing better, let the man bring his mouth to his ear.

"Don't worry, I'll make sure they don't kill you."

Murtagh felt as if that man held his life in a whisper. Though on his bond, he couldn't figure out why the man would bother unless the Wizard had some sick perversion for giving false hope.

"Why?" Murtagh croaked, feeling his parched lips crack as he spoke. There was a pause; he wasn't sure the man had actually heard him and was about to repeat his question until he heard him whisper in his ear again.

"Because you remind me of me," Theodore said, sounding uncharacteristically genuine and more tired than he had let on before, though his voice still held an echo of etched marble.

Theodore leaned away, and Murtagh met his insightful orange eyes. In them, he saw a glimmering familiarity—a rebel who hadn't entirely hung up his travel-worn cloak. Instead, he wore it across one shoulder folded, ready to be deployed as needed.

—-

143 years before inheritance.

Theodore watched as the stygian gates curtains fluttered in invisible winds. There was a chill standing too close, but anyone who crossed would have to bear it. All had to be flash-frozen and vulnerable before the power of convenience.

Theodore found entrance through the gate easy. He was, after all, one of its guarantors. The Dominion had granted all rulers in this fae land the same ability to return home at will. Bringing others along for the ride was no more complicated than stepping through the Veil's moonlit curtains and having them follow him, and that was what they did. Out, they popped into the main terminal in the city of Thana.

A City-state quite far away from Mysthaven, lying on the other side of the world, in fact. It is in a place that used to be called Melbourne, Australia, an isolated complex far from civilization, heavily fortified.

All transportation off-world travel passed through here, and yet it was at the furthest point from the Dominion's capital. Its position slowed all trade between worlds to a crawl, effectively stunting the economy of both the Dominion and its many settled worlds. Of course, this made complete sense when one had a healthy sense of paranoia.

Mysthaven was the Dominion's capital, so if an incursion were to happen, they would likely be the last affected. They would be humanity's strongholds.

Their centric position ensured that every city lord, no matter their ambition, had to act as a barrier to the royal person. Theodore thought this was definitely one of his father's better strategic choices despite its machiavellian nature.

It stabilized many fractured factions of wizards. City lords formed pacts for mutual defense, and families were bound together to hold the line.

The others followed just a little behind Theodore. Stephen gave a chilled cough, and low-grade armor cracked against stone as the Faerish men and women fell over into feeble shivers.

Theodore gave a soft chuckle as Dion Hillcrest began heaving chunks of half-eaten food. It made an unpalatable moist patter as it painted the floor. The spatial disorientation and intense cold encouraged several more of the pix to join him in his effort.

Magic was required to emerge unscathed. It was a safety measure and revenge really against the muggles. Wizards could be quite economical when they wanted to be. It seemed that, despite their looks, these fae had little magic in them.

'Perhaps.' a cold part of him thought, 'giving them the name creatures was a mistake.'

Afterall, wizards had mandated in books older than the war and even the statute of secrecy itself that those that held the name of 'creature' also held magics innate to them. Attributes that, at times, could be useful to potions or alchemy or, at the very least, had metaphysical weight in the world. These pix had no tie to magic. Those who wielded it among them were merely vessels for it—magicians of the lowest order.

Theodore sent a warming charm to his Apprentice using the powerful intent of paternal protection but left the fae to their sickness, waiting for them to stand again.

The terminal's silence was only broken by the occasional retching.

No people traveled these halls regularly, and the space this particular stygian gate took up was small compared to the grand Mausoleum, which held several dozen others.

There were guards, of course. They stood outside the compound.

Standing too close to any veil for prolonged periods was no different from plunging into the waters of Moldefjord and deciding to sit for hours. The cold seeped into the bones, and the cold one would catch would reach one's soul. Few could tolerate such a biting cold for prolonged periods.

Besides the death guard, of course, but even they were suspiciously absent.

It took Dion a moment to stand, and not much longer after that; the other fae joined him. Emer Stonespray, that girl he had boa constricted before, was helped up by his Apprentice. The boy used a warming charm to make her comfortable, even going so far as to use an anti-nausea spell that sailors often used for ship travel.

However, Theodore noted that the female pix was significantly less affected than most others. Her face was visible through the open face of the low-grade helm. She wasn't quite as pale as the other faery. She didn't have sweat dripping down her brow as Dion and the others did.

Emer, the intense girl, had this glow about her—a field of life that exuded excess, one that he recognized.

Theodore glared at Stephen silently, though the boy could not see him from where he stood behind him. Stephen was so engrossed in talking to the girl that Theodore could see plainly that he was quite smitten. That, however, was no excuse; the elixir of life was not given lightly. They would have to have words.

"Come pixies, there is much Havoc to create."

It turned out that leaving the Mausoleum was easier than expected, as there were no guards.

Well, the absence or human slaughterhouse of dead guards was the same difference, really.

Already, clouds of flies collected on hundreds of corpses. Blood, still fresh, dripped and pooled in the grid of path blocks. Flesh and amputated limbs spread around like confetti. Burned-out eyes let out horrified screams without a sound.

A few corpses stood frozen in the act of being murdered; they had crystals peeking out from flesh, spreading from wide, thin wounds. Those were all the more horrifying for their intact nature. The fear on their face was palpable and hair-raising.

Theodore crouched down to inspect an especially mutilated guard and saw someone had used smooth sweeping cuts to cut his victim to bloody bits. Cuts that only came from A Death Guard BrittleBlade.

Those swords held at their sides were preternaturally sharp and enchanted to the brim for the express purpose of disposing of wanded wizards. The damage they created was characteristic, almost like a grim signature.

Stephen, who wasn't wholly uneducated, saw the same. The boy looked almost queasy in his recognition. Smart boy.

War was the only thing that would mobilize death guards in such a manner. It's not a common Muggles bane but something more sinister—a coupe, perhaps—though Theodore had long suspected that, with Harry's resources, such a thing would be impossible to do successfully.