Snippet #1984988

Vance Abernathy - Arietem House

Vance hadn’t expected this to be easy. No, he expected Fletcher to make it as painful, as laborious, as annoying as would be humanly possible, from virtually the instant that Hughes had suggested him. It hardly mattered though, as long as he said yes. There was a brief spell where Vance thought about chucking the whole idea. He could study privately, be even more cautious, ferret out some trustworthy allies. He wondered vaguely if Vulpes’ resident potion-peddlar was capable of making Veritaserum. That would go a long way toward ensuring that he could actually come to rely on someone.

No. This was the best way. Brushing up on his defensive theory with a skilled wizard who hated him slinging the spells was the surest way to protect himself. Perhaps afterward, he could start assembling a few loyal followers to help him cut out the infection from the student body.

Through most of Fletcher’s invective, Vance remained non-plussed, just standing by patiently with his hand and mechanical hand clasped behind his back, watching the other boy and waiting for him to finish up. The mention of Nevaeh hit it’s mark, though; or rather, it hit a mark. Even Fletcher likely couldn’t imagine what had occurred between them, and if he knew, he’d likely never speak of it, certainly not in such a casually cruel way… unless Vance was wrong about the Ferre.

His smile went quite brittle at the mention of his sister. Part of him, the part that vaguely resembled the golden-haired younger boy who had always, always wanted to be as strong as his twin, wanted to let him in on the fact that, in the end, Vance had come out the victor. Another part, similarly buried deep, felt quite ill. The strongest urge he felt was to cross to Felix and put the strength of his goblin-forged hand to the test by seeing how long it took to crush his windpipe.

Instead of doing any of that, he forced himself back toward composure. It was remarkable, how he could swing between thoughts of murder and polite conversation in a matter of seconds. Well, remarkable was one word for it, anyway.

”You have an interesting method of negotiation, Fletcher.” There was no way the other boy had missed his tensing up, so he decided to run with it. Slowly he unclasped his hands, letting his right arm hang at his side. The ebon dragonskin glove he wore was probably worth more than most of his peers’ parents brought home in a month, beautiful really. He slowly flexed the mechanical hand beneath it into a fist, and then unclenched it to play his fingers. It would be too noisy to hear the whisper of the gears, but he was hoping Felix wasn’t too dim to notice the glove itself.

”Agree to assist me, and I’ll tell you why Nevaeh went to Beauxbatons. If you’re uninterested, then…” he shrugged minimally. ”Well, I did try.” His handsome features were once again a mask of genteel charm. Fletcher would only manage to get under his skin the once.

Meanwhile, at the Legion of Doom! (Justin)

Down, down, down. He’d always had the sneaking suspicion that whoever had been responsible for this secret passage was either smaller-than-human or very young. He didn’t have to duck to make his way along the stairwell, but he only barely had enough clearance after his last growth spurt to avoid smacking his head against the bottom of the steps he’d only descended a few seconds before.

After what seemed like forever but was only roughly thirty seconds, he touched down on the landing. The slight trickle of anxiety that had been building during the voyage down evaporated all at once, like the incredibly useless Disappearing Draught he’d invented on a lark. It looked like common water, but when someone attempted to drink it, the potion would just vanish. The Disappearing Draught was emblematic of Justin’s approach to magic: it was well worth forging together incredibly potent effects (the potion’s absence actually relied on a system not dissimilar from Apparation), provided that one could make either a profit, or in this case, a laugh, in the process.

The stairwell and landing were pitch-black. If it weren’t for the blip of light at the end of his wand, he wouldn’t have been able to see his hand in front of his face, never mind the hole. The tower itself was very tall. The ground was definitely a terminal velocity’s worth of falling below, and that was how Justin had discovered the room in the first place. He’d been outside, enjoying one of his favorite psychedelic concoctions, when he noticed what looked like a dark spot on the tower wall. It was so high up he could barely tell, and sort of built into a bevel, but it was definitely there.

He’d nearly fallen in the hole, which led into a ten meter sharply declined chute that would have deposited his bony ass into freefall if he hadn’t hopped over it at the last possible second. The room’s last user had probably flown up to get in; it was just big enough to accommodate someone riding on broomstick. He’d since laid a piece of wood over it, but his stomach still did flip flops whenever he crossed over it to reach the large, heavy door.

It was a fearsome door, the sort of door that was usually only employed to keep particularly strong monsters from passing through it. There had been a few enchantments worked into it when he’d finally made it down, weakened by age and easy enough for him to disarm. He hadn’t bothered refreshing them since. Opening the door by means of his own strength was impossible; really, it would have taken five of Justin to accomplish the feat. He extinguished his wand and then brought it through a figure eight. The mammoth door groaned, and shuddered, and then finally swung inward.

A sweeping gesture set the torches within ablaze, immediately bathing the entirety of his hideaway in soft light. It wasn’t massive by any standard, and when he’d found it, it was barren save for a single cot and a dog-eared issue of Transfiguration Today from ten years before Justin was born. He’d left both there, in deference and respect to whomever had come before him, but had brought an awful lot more in.

There were three six foot long work tables, all of which were heavily laden with the tools of his trade. Cauldrons of a variety of metals, the magical equivalent of Bunsen burners, all manners of flasks, beakers, and vials, and enough plastic tubing to tourniquet a small army. Most of it had been pilfered from the school, but a few of the more specialized items (a rather ingenious magical centrifuge that had been popular in the Nile Valley a few centuries ago, a diamond knife with an amethyst hilt required in several archaic recipes that originated in aboriginal Australia, a monster of a scale that could weigh nearly a dozen items at once separately, and be tuned to indicate proportions, among others) he had acquired himself and smuggled in.

The real value, though, lay in a small hutch that rested in the easternmost corner of the room. That Justin had laden with quite a few protections, each worse than the last. It took him several minutes to undo all of them, and even then, there were three key holes to contend with. One key, he kept in his bag. The second was tucked in his right sock. The third and smallest he kept in a tiny incision he’d cut in his own inner-cheek, an old Muggle magician’s trick he’d read about and then greedily employed. The keys had to be inserted in one sequence and then turned in another, but not before he worked a Bubble Head Charm on himself. The final protection was mostly mundane; upon being opened, the hutch emitted a cloud of aerosolized Draught of Living Death that was potent enough to put a grown man to sleep for a week.

The effort was necessary, and well worth it. The hutch had an Undetectable Extension Charm, and contained Justin’s entire fortune. There was some gold, but that was just his rainy day fund. He had herbs and ingredients in that hutch that he was reasonably sure Professor Hutson would have slept with him to obtain. He’d liberated more common bits from the school’s potion stores over the years, but at this stage, he’d become self-sufficient enough to buy in bulk. Also inside were several stopped vials of some of his more incredible (and expensive) creations, including a single tiny teardrop shaped sample of Felix Felicis that Justin hadn’t decided quite what to do with yet.

He’d needed to restock quite a few of the more common ingredients, and he spent several minutes transferring the jars and boxes he’d bought over the summer from his messenger bag to the hutch. He reserved a few petri dishes of lacewing flies that he’d been dutifully stewing for the last three weeks, setting them aside on one of the tables, and then selected the other items he’d need.

”Now where did I put the powdered bicorn horn..?” he murmured to himself, rummaging a bit before he finally laid hands on it. Polyjuice potion was absurdly useful, and so he tried to keep it in ready supply as much as he was able. He’d made the complicated potion so many times by now that he didn’t even need to measure, and so it was (relatively) quick work for him to get three large cauldrons going. Once this initial work was done, it was only matter of checking in every couple days and giving a few stirs, and in a month, he’d have… well, quite a bit of the stuff.

He also mixed together some more Betterbeer (a tenth of an ounce of goosegrass, two fairy wings, a strand of starthistle, and two pickled slugs to every four cups of butterbeer), enough for about a gallon. The real trick to it (aside from the fact that he was making people drink pickled slug, which was a different sort of trick) was the brewing process. He got to work with a mortar and pestle, turning the base ingredients into a uniform brownish paste, then added it to the end result’s near namesake. It had to be boiled hard for nearly an hour, which was too short a time to bother leaving for, so he decided to work out more of Operation Emerson.

Lying down on the abandoned cot was actually one of his favorite methods of ruminating. He curled up, rolling onto his side and closing his eyes, and just listened to the sound of his Betterbear angrily roiling in the cauldron.

Okay, Justin. He liked the popsicle sticks, well done. Step… two? of Phase One, the Phase of Gifts, should be arriving by the end of the week, but it might be a good idea to hold off on giving him that one just yet. In fact, it’s probably a grand idea to stop trying to organize this into steps and phases. Before that, you should… hmm. Some kind of gesture. Yes. Yes! An action that encapsulates your affection, your remorse, and your ability to not hit on him.

He frowned. But what? What would Em appreciate? He likes dumb jokes, but you already covered that, and his Quodpot fetish will be taken care of with Step Two, so… what’s Step 1.5? What will make a good segue? He sighed. He’d never actually wooed anyone before. Seduction he could handle, but this just wasn’t his weal house. Maybe ask Bliss, or Felix, or Teiver. No, not Teiver. Bliss or Felix. Probably Felix. He’s a lot like Em in some ways, the ways that I don’t really grasp, anyway. Yes. I’ll ask Felix, and he’ll ask me why I’m even interested in Em like he always does, and then I’ll casually mention Bliss and he’ll know exactly why I did it and shut up about Em, and then I’ll figure out how a quirky jock likes to be courted.

He almost felt exhausted, after all that thinking. At least he had more of a plan, now. He rolled onto his back and clasped his hands over his flat stomach, staring up at the stone ceiling. I know I fucked things up, Em, but I’m going to make it right. Just wait and see.