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I have theory the Sammick haters are people that have never liked yaoi/slash. They’re in fandom but they are separate from the m/m lovers. So when a movie like Sinners comes out, gets the buzz and attention all Black fandomers crave, we’re kinda all smushed together because they’re like “Yes. Representation but not like that.” They see m/m as deviant yet again priortizing white male and bodies and male bodies over women… which fair.

I do wonder if AO3 wasn’t the predominant fandom site and like FFN was the fanfic site if we would have the same stats on ships. I’m guessing there would be more M/F stories than M/M stories… as FFN to me as by and large seemed like a place to write and popularize your power fantasy while AO3 is a white male centered queer utopia.

The Sammick hate is so weird to me especially as someone who grew up in fandom spaces/chronically online. We used to pray for time like these, where a black character would be celebrated for being a soft boy and in the most popular ship… Now it’s happening and people are complaining about accuracy and such… for a crack ship. Is it what they were talking about when they said the pendulum swung so far left it went right?? Cause why are we admonishing people for having crack ships now come on.

And I get that Sinners is a period drama, but it’s also a work of fiction. That’s how fiction/fandom live, through silly discourses and hear me outs.

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Dean Thomas actually has real steady hands and he’s fantastic at charms and a great student. why? his mother is a Barbadian Brazilian neurosurgeon and he definitely spent his childhood + summers being drilled in medicine. She fully expects him to be a doctor while he spends his very little time reading manga, doodling on any and all blank canvases. He’s left-handed and still gets ink on his inner palms.

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Blaise Zabini unwittingly starts the Black Student Alliance at Hogwarts. Dean Thomas and Tracey Davis are founding members. Angelina Johnson is their reluctant sponsor.

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in my Blaise x Harry fic, Harry has unknowingly inherited like the worst traits from his parents. Like yes, he’s a people-pleaser but he’s also feral and he saw Blaise and he developed like an instant crush and now he’s like buzzing around. He has a quick temper and it’s on site and he picks up curses and hexes with terrifying ease. Hes just a literal chaos demon and Blaise is just like “who is this white devil’ while trying to put distance between him and Harry. However Harry has no concept of space and Blaise can’t help himself.

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Name: Dorcas Meadowes

House: Hufflepuff

Blood Status: Pureblood (Caribbean lineage)

Language: British English, Jamaican Patois, Kreyol

Cultural Identity: Black British, second-generation Windrush

Family Origin: Jamaica (mother), with Haitian ancestry on her father's side

Raised: East London, in a working-class Caribbean immigrant household

Her parents came over during the Windrush era (late 1950s), part of the post-war labor push.

Her mother came from **Kingston, Jamaica**,

Her father’s people had roots in northern Haiti, though he was born in Jamaica.

She grew up with both traditions Jamaican folk healing and Haitian-style Vodou merged in the home.

Younger sister, Prudence Meadowes (mother to Angelina Johnson, one year younger than Dorcas) sorted in Gryffindor.

Personality: Loyal, grounded, and sharp.

Quiet but not shy. Listens more than she talks. When she speaks, people shut up. And don’t mistake her being quiet not ready to fight, she’s pretty famous in the halls that don’t cross that Hufflepuff or mess with her younger sister

Doesn’t chase power or titles, but she’ll fight for what’s right.

Raised to protect

Magics: Practices **blood magick**, but not in a flashy or flashy-dark way—ritual, ancestral, deeply practical.

Blood magick dies in with her warding because her magics are famously powerful

Serves the Lwa

Keeps altars hidden.

Known for her ability to draw warding veves and defensive sigils . Best class are wards, runes, herbology

Learned to work with her hands: chalk, herbs, blades, bone.

Speaks: British English** with a sharp East London accent

Slides into Jamaican Patois with her family and when she’s emotionally charged.

Understands Kreyòl through her father's side and through ritual used mainly in ceremony

* Seen as odd by the other students.

* Spent more time in the greenhouse or in the library’s Restricted Section.

* Ran protection spells, did divination through mirrors and blood.

Death: She died in action. Voldemort killed her personally. Not a random kill. He saw her as dangerous.

Aunt to Angelina Johnson

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mayhaps i was playing with heights.

Sirius: 6'4" James: 6'2" Lily: 5'4" Marlene: 5'10" Remus: 5'11" Peter: 5'5" Ayisha: 5'7" Mary: 5'8" Dorcas: 5'2" Severus: 6'0"

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What are your biggest pet peeves in fics

My biggest pet peeve is, hands down, fandom’s portrayal of the first war, which is almost never portrayed as violent and terrible as the details we get about it in canon. Most importantly:

The First War started in 1970.

Not 1975 or 1976. Certainly not 1978. 1970. This means the war was raging the entire time the Marauders were at Hogwarts, and that they entered Hogwarts a year into the war. It lasted 11 whole years. The whole point is that the First War was much worse than the Second War.

I’ve seen people say things like “The Marauders era is boring because nothing really happens until their later years until the war starts and/or heats up” and say it like it’s complete fact and not something fans completely made up. The idea that the war only “heats up” after Snape’s Worst Memory is so universally accepted despite all evidence to the contrary.

(I’ve also seen claims that the only murders/war crimes committed during the first war were the few explicitly named in the text, which is, again… truly embarrassing analysis.)

The reason fandom has come up with this narrative is entirely to fit the Snape vs. Marauders “bullying” angle. It usually goes like this: Sirius and James were bullies for 5 years, until - conveniently and magically - the war started to “heat up” and get more serious 6th year or sometimes 7th year and therefore they matured (especially James, though the idea of Sirius maturing after the Prank is also common in fic). It provides a neat little coming of age arc for the Marauders, one that does not actually exist in canon.

Because, believe it or not, Voldemort was not going to adjust the trajectory of his war to fit this narrative.

On the pro-Marauders side who still see them as bullies, the fandom can’t reconcile the idea of the war being serious and the Marauders not being serious about it and instead spending their time bullying others. But the war was already heated up, and the Marauders were already serious about the war by SWM - because the Marauders attacks on Snape and others was them being serious about the war, because it wasn’t bullying, it was vigilante justice.

On the Snape fan side, to portray Snape as a victim of bullying, they have to pretend that he's the only person capable of being victimized in the whole entire wizarding world, and people actually being murdered and tortured conflicts with that narrative.

I can buy that the war took a few years to heat up, I doubt it went to daily murders and tortures immediately, but I think a war would not take 6-7 years to escalate. I would guess it heated up sometime the Marauders 2nd year or 3rd year, at latest.

(I often see so many Order deaths happening in late war, per Moody, used at evidence that the war only escalated then, but the Order is tiny and doesn’t represent the casualties in the rest of the population)

Evidence towards the fact that the war was very heated up already by the time of SWM is that Lily calls Voldemort “You Know Who” in her conversation with Snape outside the Gryffindor common room - which means that by that time Voldemort has spread enough terror that people are afraid to say his name.

Also, remember this is already a very violent society. The fact that some pureblood families murder Muggles for fun (Muggle hunting) is apparently an open secret, they murder house elves, and I’ve said before that I think pureblood society practices honor killings which are at least somewhat legally sanctioned (i.e. Merope’s situation).

So a few occasional murders is not going to shake them and is not what this society is going to consider a war.

More evidence is how much the violence has escalated at Hogwarts. Death Eater students are regularly and openly torturing students with Dark Magic "for a laugh" and not being expelled, which is something that doesn't even happen in canon era - the closest we get is Draco cursing Katie Bell by accident, during a specific secret mission, and unlike with Mulciber and Mary Macdonald, no one knows who the culprit even is, so they don’t have the option to expel him. Similarly we have Snape using Sectumsempra so often at Hogwarts that it became known as his specialty and not being expelled, despite it being a near-fatal torture curse.

This fic captures what the atmosphere at Hogwarts would’ve been like really well:

"Did that kind of thing happen a lot in Hogwarts?" Hermione asked, tone oddly flat. "In the seventies?"

“Yes," Sirius said after a long moment. "It did. There were times when it was pretty much open warfare in the halls and on the grounds, between the students everyone knew were on Voldemort's side and the ones who opposed him, or whose families did... I was talking to Pomfrey about it the other day, she says you lot get yourself hexed as often in a few months as our generation used to in a week. And people attacked pets or destroyed belongings all the time. It was one reason a lot of students hid being muggleborn."

There’s the inability to extrapolate from canon details, fandom often portraying the First War like it’s just 30 Death Eaters on one side and 20 Order members on the other.

For example, if a mere ~30 Death Eaters are already committing daily murders in HBP during the Second War, how much violence do you think an army of ~500+ DEs (Sirius says the DEs that came back in GoF is literally nothing to how large Voldemort’s armies were in the First War; Remus says the Order was outnumbered 20 to 1) was committing? Similarly, based on the statistics given in HBP (by February Ron says he’s literally lost count of how many students have lost relatives), by SWM a substantial amount of the student body would’ve had families murdered by Death Eaters (and therefore the students cheering James and Sirius on in SWM is obviously because they hate Snape for being a proto-Death Eater and not for being poor 🙄). There may have even been students themselves that were killed over breaks.

This lines up with Sirius's description of the war:

“You’re scared for yourself, and your family, and your friends. Every week, news comes of more deaths, more disappearances, more torturing... the Ministry of Magic’s in disarray, they don’t know what to do, they’re trying to keep everything hidden from the Muggles, but meanwhile, Muggles are dying too. Terror everywhere... panic... confusion... that’s how it used to be."

There are lots of similar passages about the war, I’m not going to quote all of them, but I suggest people actually pay attention to those details, as well as stuff during the Second War that would apply to the first.

The same thing applies as fandom portraying teenage Death Eaters as only joining once they graduate, when canon indicates they would be Marked at 16, but that’s for another meta. ETA: That meta is posted here.

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Rainy late night, eventually interrupted by a urgent message from the Order.

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do we ever talk about the practicalities of being a muggleborn at Hogwarts? I mean, I know *i* do, but does it infest anyone else's brain?

right, cause we have one (1) train, and it stops in one (1) place. You're boarding the Hogwarts express in London, which is great if you live in/near London or you live with an adult who has magical teleportation powers, but what tf are the muggleborns supposed to do about that???

Oh god and the isolation of it all?

can't phone, no normal post. I'm so sorry but my landlord would boot me out if I brought a fish into my apartment. I KNOW those muggleborn families in flats couldn't have owls coming in and out at all hours

hell, most apartments don't have fireplaces, so that's floo right out

do you just not speak to your parents for 4 months at a time? You're 11! You've just been taken away from everything you've ever known! That's awful!

and there don't seem to be any services for incoming muggleborns. Like, we've got muggle studies for upper year wizards, but why is there no wizard studies for new muggleborns? Like, even just a once a week first semester class going over shit like, 'this is how you tie a tie' and 'this is how owl post works' and 'this is how you open an account at Gringotts'

I don't know. it just seems like a full nightmare for me to imagine an 11 year old having to try to navigate a whole new society on their own

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character: *isn’t 100% good or evil*

The Internet: hello naughty children it’s Discourse time

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Actual facts.

I personally don’t imagine her as a Slytherin for reasons (she’s a Gryffindor imho for lore reasons) but why don’t we see more content on her? I actually think she has a lot of potential and there are a lot of different ways to play her

You know what I’ll never forgive this fandom for?

Popularizing the Slytherin Skittles (Never liked the name but we ball), Mary, and Marlene but not BLAISE ZABINI’S MOTHER

Perfect addition to the slytherin lineup yall want so bad. The Evelyn Hugo of Harry Potter.

Who married a bunch of rich men who tragically died and left her a lot of money. Who was FAMOUSLY beautiful.

It’s not a (long) me fic if she’s not at least mildly referenced.

RIP to those men but like…Love her

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honestly the Blaise Zabini hyper sexuality trope bothers me so much. Why does he have to be the slut of the Slytherin boys? I feel like it feeds into the hypersexual and hypermasculine trope of Black men. Like half of y’all probably headcanon that he has a big cock too. Ands Mrs Zabini having 7 husbands and taking their gold also is a bit … weird as well? I think a lot of people see Black women as “loose” with a big appetite for sex. Idk it’s a bit of ick.

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hello 👋👋👋

thoughts on Blaise Zabini? there is some scenes in HBP when he's cold pureblood who is looking with hate on Harry

in fics he's usually portraits like pretences boy, no biggot, but in canon he's like it actually

wanna read your opinion ;)

Okay, I actually really like Blaise Zabini and find excuses to write him into my fic. Like I think he's a bitchy bigoted asshole but I love him anyways.

I love the conversation we have with him, Pansy, and Draco at the beginning of HBP, since it's our best look at how the Slytherins interact with each other. I used it a lot in my Theo Nott meta because it's a really good piece of character work that I really like. Like, it shows how none of them are really friends and I'm here for it. I love their scathing friendship where they would all sell each other for one corn chip.

With all that, let's talk about Blaise:

He's good-looking. His mother is mentioned as being incredibly beautiful and clearly her son got it from her:

He recognized a Slytherin from their year, a tall black boy with high cheekbones and long, slanting eyes;

(HBP, 143)

He can be cold and aloof. Like, Blaise is often described as looking bored or indifferent, and it's not common that he shows much of an emotional reaction:

Crabbe and Goyle were gawping at Malfoy; apparently they had had no inkling of any plans to move on to bigger and better things. Even Zabini had allowed a look of curiosity to mar his haughty features.

(HBP, 151)

(Haughty is a word often used for attractive characters in HP, to my above point)

Now, Blaise is intelligent. Like, he seems very aware of people and what bothers them most (which he uses to be an ass). He's not quite a bully like Malfoy, but he likes knowing what's going on with everyone. In the other quotes I bring up I'll mention that as bored as he looks, he's clearly interested in the gossip. He loves having information others want. He likes having that power over Draco, particularly since they seem to have a kind of ego war going on on the down low. (in my opinion, Zabini wins since he's the one who actually manages to look cool and collected).

We also know he's in NEWT potions, so, he likely had an O in Potions adding to the point about him being intelligent.

As I mentioned, he is kind of an ass:

Zabini did not make any sign of recognition or greeting, nor did Harry or Neville: Gryffindor and Slytherin students loathed each other on principle.

(HBP, 143)

“Of course,” said Slughorn, watching Harry closely, “there have been rumors for years. . . . I remember when — well — after that terrible night — Lily — James — and you survived — and the word was that you must have powers beyond the ordinary —” Zabini gave a tiny little cough that was clearly supposed to indicate amused skepticism.

(HBP, 146)

As he pushed past Harry into the darkening corridor, Zabini shot him a filthy look that Harry returned with interest. He, Ginny, and Neville followed Zabini back along the train.

(HBP, 147)

But he's an ass in a very different way from Draco. Draco is in your face with mean comments and making fun of things in an obvious very verbose way, Blaise is an asshole in an aloof kind of way. Like, he thinks himself too good to go out of his way to bully people, and he doesn't need to actively do anything. He's all scathing looks and raised brows and subtle acts of minimizing and belittling people.

He isn't actually close to the other Slytherins and treats them not that differently from how he treats Harry.

It was fortunate that Goyle and Zabini were snarling at each other, [...] “So, Zabini,” said Malfoy, “what did Slughorn want?” “Just trying to make up to well-connected people,” said Zabini, who was still glowering at Goyle. “Not that he managed to find many.”

(HBP, 149)

Blaise doesn't have respect for Draco, Crabbe, or Goyle, and he doesn't need to say it, he shows it. He snarls at Goyle like he would at Harry (who he disrespects and thinks less of). He says there aren't many well-connected people, clearly meaning everyone in the compartment besides himself. He's a dick.

Like I mentioned in the post about Theo, the Slytherins aren't actually friends. Draco uses Blaise's last name, not the first one. They aren't close and they're both aware of it. @indigo-scarf wrote a great post about how Draco and Blaise aren't actually friends, but it isn't unique to them. Crabbe and Goyle turn on Malfoy instantly in book 7 when they think him weak. Even in OotP, they do nothing to help Draco when Harry and George attack him. And Draco clearly doesn't actually trust any of them as in HBP, his main confidante, and friend is Moaning Myrtle. All these Slytherins hang out together because it serves them, not because they like each other.

Similarly, Theo clearly hangs out with Draco in books 5 & 6 only when he has no choice. Pansy is dating Draco, but is making eyes at Blaise like Draco is her second choice. But Blaise doesn't seem interested in Pansy in any way and thinks she is lesser than him as well. Blaise and Theo clearly aren't friendly either as they never hang out and Blaise calls him by his surname, etc. Basically, none of them actually like each other, though I assume some of them do respect each other (to different levels throughout the books. Though I headcanon Blaise and Theo have some grudging silent respect for each other as they consider each other intelligent and on the same level, while they both look down on most of the rest of their year including Draco, Pansy, Crabbe, and Goyle).

Malfoy sat up very suddenly, knocking Pansy’s hand aside. “He invited Longbottom?” “Well, I assume so, as Longbottom was there,” said Zabini indifferently. “What’s Longbottom got to interest Slughorn?” Zabini shrugged.

(HBP, 150)

Here again, Blaise is ridiculing Draco subtly. Basically saying "well, duh, don't be an idiot," without outright saying that but making Draco feel it all the same.

He's also showing how he ravels in getting an invite when Draco didn't. Blaise likes having the cards and power in a situation.

“I wouldn’t bank on an invitation,” said Zabini. “He asked me about Nott’s father when I first arrived. They used to be old friends, apparently, but when he heard he’d been caught at the Ministry he didn’t look happy, and Nott didn’t get an invitation, did he? I don’t think Slughorn’s interested in Death Eaters.” Malfoy looked angry, but forced out a singularly humorless laugh.

(HBP, 151)

And Blaise knows how to get to Draco who is clearly upset. Draco wishes his snide comments were on Blaise's level. I just really enjoy how Blaise shows his disdain for people. And how he thinks of himself as better.

“And you think you’ll be able to do something for him?” asked Zabini scathingly. “Sixteen years old and not even fully qualified yet?”

(HBP, 152)

Again, in the above quote, he belittles Draco and shows his doubts about him and how much Voldemort actually wants him in his service. And he's 100% right that Voldemort is expecting Draco to fail, something even Draco didn't quite realize yet.

All this isn't friendship. It's acquaintances who dislike each other but need each other is what it is. I know that when I'm writing them, that's what I go for. They were raised to see other people as connections or tools, not as friends. So real friendship is rare with these sorts of purebloods, it exists, but it's rare. Like, some of them probably like each other and enjoy each other's company, but I imagine they wouldn't like, actually trust each other.

Ginny calls him a poser and she is somewhat correct. I think Blaise does believe in everything he says he does, but he isn't as cold and bored as he appears. I think he likes knowing gossip and information others don't even if he appears nonchalant about it. That is definitely a pretense, but the bigotry isn't.

I know many fics paint Blaise as someone who isn't actually a bigot (because he's black) but he is. I think he is one of the characters who's honestly an unapologetic blood purist:

“A lot of boys like her,” said Pansy, watching Malfoy out of the corner of her eyes for his reaction. “Even you think she’s goodlooking, don’t you, Blaise, and we all know how hard you are to please!” “I wouldn’t touch a filthy little blood traitor like her whatever she looked like,” said Zabini coldly, and Pansy looked pleased.

(HBP, 150)

He sounds exactly like Bellatrix "Blood Traitor is right next to Mudblood in my book" Lestrange.

Obviously, he says what he is supposed to and what he's been taught all his life, but I think these are his honest views from what he knows. Like, in the Wizarding World skin color clearly doesn't matter much, but blood, oh, they care about blood.

This is somewhat interesting considering the Zabinis aren't among the Sacred 28, whether it's because they immigrated to the UK after Cantankerus Nott wrote the pure blood dictionary or they really are not pure-blooded enough, is unclear. I headcanon it's the former and that the family moved to Britain more recently, after the dictionary was written in the 1930s. And, it kinda makes sense. Like, if the Zabinis were in the continent and backed up Grindlewald, and then after he fell they needed a new start someplace that didn't have as strong feelings about Grindlewald and them, so they moved to the UK. Grindelwald never reached the UK and therefore, they could live there without that stain attached to their name. That's like, my headcanon about the Zabini family.

Despite all his Slytherin tendencies and intelligence, Blaise is quite arrogant. I mentioned he's prideful and thinks himself better than Draco, Crabbe, and Goyle for example, but he thinks himself so above others that he's untouchable. You see it in how loos-lipped he is regarding his mother's crimes:

Zabini, who was interrogated after McLaggen, turned out to have a famously beautiful witch for a mother (from what Harry could make out, she had been married seven times, each of her husbands dying mysteriously and leaving her mounds of gold).

(HBP, 145)

Like, how do you accidentally let that slip in casual conversation?

It's clear he thinks he and his mother are above the law and that no one could do anything to them. He believes in this so much that he doesn't care outright mentioning she maybe murdered her husbands in a room filled with people who don't like him. He feels that secure in none of them doing anything or being able to do anything. (I bet his mom bribed a ton of people).

In my headcanon, Blaise and his mother are pretty close and are each other's only confidantes. Like, they sit together to gossip and judge people. She asks him whether he thinks this next husband is good enough or rich enough. I headcanon she's also cold, bitchy, and arrogant and Blaise models his persona after her (and perhaps her brother or father, but only relatives on her side).

I also imagine he knows his mother killed his father and that she sat him down and explained why so he does back her on that decision. He has his doubts deep down about his mother's ways, but he isn't ready to examine them, or planning on doing so any time soon.

So, yeah, I think Blais is an asshole pureblood bigot who doesn't really have friends and is so incredibly arrogant. But he isn't a bully, he shows his disdain through cold looks and indifference. He also has the potential for interesting character dynamics with his mom and I like him a lot.

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Dorcas Meadowes actually is a practitioner of Haitian Vodou. Her family is long associated with the Gede. Her patron is Baron Criminel. Powerful blood magic practitioner. Deceased Aunt of Angelina Johnson. Angelina’s mom and her were sisters.

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Blaise Zabini

Blaise is the duca of the House of Zabini, raised with nobility, power, and etiquette.

His mother looks like a mix of Anok Yai and Arsema Thomas—elegant, commanding, stunning.

He was raised to mind his own business, a Zabini survival tactic.

He’s rich-rich. Possibly wealthier than all the Ancient Houses in Britain except maybe the Chang’s

Fluent in Italian, English, Arabic, and passable in French. Speaks like someone who’s used to translating across worlds.

Accidental best friends with Dean Thomas, Harry Potter, and Tracey Davis

Angelina Johnson is his play older cousin

Likes apres ski

Looks like a cross between Damson Idris and Michael Ward. He’s just like absurdly pretty

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Can we talk about the severe lack of Blaise zabini fics🧍‍♀️ like I want real fics not just a small paragraph in a how Slytherin boys react to this or that or a small smut fic, like a REAL long cute fic that's not smut but an actual cute story😔

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shotgun rider | chapter xi: fèt gede

Blaise made his way to the library. On a Sunday night, it was packed. First-years whispered over crumpled parchment, fingers dragging through their hair as they traded notes and scrambled to fill the last five inches of their scrolls.

The familiar chaos should have been comforting. It wasn’t. His stomach twisted with each step.

Tomorrow. His birthday. The summoning.

He followed the sound of raised voices to the back corner.

"Wingardium Leviosa!" Tee flicked her wand like a fishing rod. "This wand is janky. It don’t wanna do none of Flitwick’s spells."

Dean groaned. "Your wand isn’t broken—you’re just flailing like a drunk Muppet. Hello, Blaise. Sit down before she sets herself on fire."

Blaise slid into the chair across from them. Dean’s hands were steady. Good. He'd need that tonight.

Tee shot Dean a dirty look. "You gesticulate too much," Dean went on, pure exasperation. "Charmwork's about precision. Like intubating a patient. You can't just swing your wand like you're directing traffic."

Tee narrowed her eyes. "Jessica?"

"Ges. Tic. U. Late," Dean broke it down slowly, like he was tutoring a mandrake with middle-child syndrome. "It means—"

"I know what it means, Dictionary," Tee snapped. "You just made it ugly."

"I made it correct."

"You made it condescending."

Blaise barely suppressed his smile. Soon, there might not be anything to smile about. "A break might be what is needed."

They groaned in unison.

"Where's Angelina?" he asked.

"Getting the last bits," Dean said, already packing his Charms and Potions books into his backpack. His movements were too quick, too sharp. Nervous. "She said meet by the greenhouses at half past eleven."

"That's in twenty minutes," Blaise said, checking his pocket watch. The metal was warm against his palm. His father's last birthday gift before he'd stopped remembering dates altogether.

Before he'd stopped remembering his son existed.

"Plenty of time to tell you this is stupid, again," Tee muttered, shoving her wand into her jacket. Her hands shook slightly. "My Nana always said don't go looking for trouble. It'll find you just fine."

"As I recall, your Nana also thought magic was devil work," Blaise said, voice sharp. "Muggles know little about magic."

"Maybe she had a point!" Tee's voice pitched higher. "We about to go into the murder forest—"

"Forbidden Forest," Dean corrected automatically.

"—to summon some death spirit on Dead People Christmas. That's some white people horror movie mess right there! And you still haven't told me and Dean why you're so gung-ho!"

Blaise's fingers curled around the pocket watch. The metal bit into his palm.

"I'm not white," Blaise said flatly. "And I told you what you needed to know."

"You're white-adjacent with all that 'I speak four languages and carry a pocket watch' stuff," Tee shot back. But her voice wavered. She was scared. Good. She should be. "Oh yeah, lemme run that back—I'm going with you to have a friendly chat with Uncle Sam without the red, white, and blue to do what, exactly? Why you gotta summon something in the murder forest on All Souls Day?"

"Dean, tell him!"

Dean, very calmly, folded his garish red-and-gold Gryffindor scarf. His steady fingers trembled on the wool. "Well. I concur with that opinion. There has to be a reason why Harry acts like your personal guard dog. He turned that girl into a walking, talking blueberry. He is quite attached."

"I concur," Tee said, raising her eyebrows. "Thank you, Doctor Thomas."

Dean snorted, but didn't deny it.

"I'm not in control of Parkinson or Potter," Blaise said coolly, adjusting the strap of his satchel. The cloth bundle inside seemed heavier than it should. "You were both keen when we first spoke with Johnson. If you have doubts, stay here."

Please stay here, part of him thought. Don't watch what I'm about to become.

Dean crossed his arms. Tee rolled her eyes.

"And now you want to split the party," Tee muttered. Then narrowed her eyes. "White."

"Well," Dean said, deadpan. But Blaise heard the quiver underneath. "What she's trying to say is that if your soul does, unfortunately, get dragged to the depths of hell… who's going to help her with homework?"

He looked at Tee. "It's not going to be me. Not after today."

"It's decided then," Blaise said, glancing at his watch. The secondhand seemed to move too fast. Five minutes gone. How many more until he couldn't turn back? "You're coming?"

"I went to the trouble of becoming pals with Hagrid," Tee said, standing and brushing sugar quill dust from her lap. "Got us those nasty-ass rooster feathers. Percy put up a fight."

"Pardon?" Dean stood too, surveying the table: half-eaten sweets, snapped quills, and—

"What's that?" Blaise pointed to a scrap of parchment, where someone had drawn a tight pattern in thick black ink.

He knew he was stalling. They all did.

Dean's eyes lit up with forced cheer. Tee snorted.

"That's an S," she said, grinning. The smile didn't reach her eyes.

"Quite," Blaise replied. Another artifact of American nonsense added to his internal encyclopedia. "We're running behind."

They gathered their things with the solemnity of soldiers preparing for war. Dean packed books with surgical precision, each movement deliberate. Tee slipped sugar quills into her coat—provisions for after, she'd said. If there was an after. And Blaise checked the cloth bundle he had prepared earlier against the items Tee and Dean brought.

Rum. The finest gold could buy. Cigars. Wrapped in red string. Seven coins. Old ones, heavy with more than metal.

His hands were steadier than he'd expected. But then, his body had always been good at betraying him.

As they made their way out of the library, the hush of the reading room gave way to the low murmur of departing students. Normal students with normal worries about essays and exams.

They brushed past Harry near the front tables.

Blaise's step faltered.

Harry was with Granger and Weasley, clearly packing up and getting ready to leave too. His hair was messier than usual, like he'd been running his hands through it. Studying, probably. Or worrying about Quidditch.

Normal things.

Weasley was expected. Granger was not. She straightened when she noticed them, her eyes sharp with the kind of intelligence that saw too much. Harry's brooding expression brightened when he saw them.

"Blaise! We don't have Potions or Flying tomorrow, and I, er, heard your birthday was tomorrow—"

Who had told him that?

Blaise's eyes flicked to Dean, who was suddenly fascinated by a loose gold thread on his scarf. Of course.

"Yes, tomorrow is my birthday," Blaise said evenly. His voice sounded strange to his own ears. Distant. Like he was already somewhere else. "It happens every year. Not particularly special."

Not special. Just the day I sell my soul for vengeance.

Harry's ears turned red. "Yeah, of course. I just thought—maybe—are you free—"

His green eyes snagged on something.

No. No, don't look closer.

Blaise followed his gaze to Tee, who was doing a terrible job hiding the black feathers poking out of her coat pocket. One had escaped entirely, gleaming with an oily sheen that seemed to absorb light.

"What's that?" Harry asked, stepping closer.

Too close. Always too close.

Granger cut in sharply, stepping in like she was already Head Girl. "Harry, we're going to miss curfew. First-years must be in their dorms by midnight."

Pointed. Protective. She knew something was wrong.

"We'll be back in time, Ms. Hall Monitor," Tee said, shoving the feathers deeper into her pocket. One pricked her finger. She didn't flinch.

Harry's eyes darted between the three of them. His brows creased. "Back from where?"

"Birthday planning," Dean said smoothly, nudging Tee toward the door. "You know how it is."

The lie sat heavy in the air.

Harry looked like he wanted to argue. His mouth opened, then closed. Then opened again. Those green eyes—too bright, too concerned—fixed on Blaise.

Don't, Blaise thought desperately. Don't care about me. Not tonight.

Blaise didn't give him the chance.

"I'll be available tomorrow, Harry," he said, breezing past and into the corridor.

If there's a tomorrow.

Dean and Tee flanked him like an honor guard. Or pallbearers.

Behind them, Granger's voice rose, sharp with suspicion and misplaced authority. "Harry, those weren't normal feathers. What are they doing?"

They walked faster.

The corridors had never seemed longer.

Each portrait they passed felt like a witness. The Fat Friar drifted through a wall, took one look at them, and immediately reversed course. Even the ghosts knew to stay away tonight.

They made their way through empty hallways with purpose, footsteps echoing too loud in the silence. No prefects. No teachers. As if the castle itself was clearing a path.

Or giving them room to hang themselves.

The November night hit them like a physical thing when they stepped outside. Cold enough for Blaise to pull his pea coat closer, though the chill went deeper than weather. Frost laced the edges of the grass like nature's warning signs. The moon, though waning, cast enough light to make the greenhouse windows glint like ice.

Like eyes.

"Anyone else feel like we're being watched?" Tee whispered.

"You're being paranoid," Blaise said, though he didn't quite believe himself. The weight on his shoulders had been growing all day. Eyes from places that didn't exist in daylight. Accursed kings in mirrors.

"I'm not," Tee protested hotly. "The dead are closest to us on this day. They hear us clearly. You should know that."

She was right. All Souls' Day. When the veil was gossamer-thin and things that should stay buried didn't always listen.

Blaise ignored her as they made their way past Greenhouses 3 and 4. The familiar grounds looked alien in moonlight, transformed into something older than the school itself.

Then, a shadow moved.

Not moved—materialized.

Angelina appeared like she'd been cut from the darkness itself. She wore deep purple and black, her long braids piled atop her head beneath a wrapped scarf that seemed to shift colors in the moonlight. Her hoops were gone, too much metal for tonight. Her wand was already lit, but the light seemed reluctant, clinging close to the wood like it was afraid to venture further.

"You're late," she said, but her usual confidence wavered. Her eyes kept flicking to the treeline.

"By two minutes," Blaise said. "Do you have everything?"

She nodded, falling into step beside them. When she spoke, her accent had already started to thicken. "My mum's grimoire had very specific instructions. We need to find a crossroads where paths meet. That's where the veil is thinnest."

Her fingers worried at something in her pocket. Blaise caught a glimpse of bone and quickly looked away.

"The Lwa already know we're coming," she added quietly. "I can feel them gathering."

The Forbidden Forest loomed before them, darker than the night sky. Not dark like absence—dark like presence. Like something massive holding its breath.

Blaise had ventured a few trees in during Potions classes when Snape made them dig around for flubberworms. Those trips had been unpleasant but mundane. This was different. The forest knew their intent. It had rolled out a carpet of shadow and frost, and at the end waited something that should stay on the other side of death.

But never this deep, never at night.

Never with intent.

Nothing was going to make him turn back. The memory burned: Montague's hands. Flint's laughter. The word they'd carved into his being with their magic. After what happened in the dungeons, he wanted them to pay blood for blood, outrage for outrage.

He knew summoning would be a heavy cost. Everything in magic had a price, and the darker the working, the dearer the payment. But for them—

"Dean, Tracey," Blaise used their names for the first time, and he bit back a laugh at their collective befuddled expression. "Your loyalty to me is misplaced. Things will get bad. I will bring bad."

He needed them to understand. Once they crossed into the forest, once the ritual began, there was no clean way back. He would be marked. They all would.

They stared at him for the longest moment. Not even trading looks. The weight of the moment stretched between them like a held breath.

Naturally Tee cracked first. "Big head. We been knew that." Her smile was quick and flashing, but her hand found Dean's sleeve.

"Well, I wasn't about to miss the part where something explodes or starts speaking in tongues," Dean said dryly. His humor was armor, thin but necessary. "Still better than cramming Waffling's eight laws."

Blaise swallowed hard. It was a strange thing to realize he had friends. Real friends who would walk into darkness for him. Friends like King Arthur with his roundtable.

If King Arthur's knights were about to traffic with death spirits.

"Oh my god, is the Ice Prince tearing up?" Tee said.

"You're going mad." But his voice cracked slightly.

"Heartwarming as that was, hurry those feet. The Lwa, especially the Gede, do not operate on CP time," Angelina said, re-lighting her wand with a stronger lumos.

The light struggled against the darkness, creating a sphere barely three feet wide.

Blaise tilted his head, not understanding.

"I'll explain later," Tee muttered, lighting her wand. Her light was worse reflecting her emotions: flickering, uncertain.

Angelina moved first, her light cutting through the mist that had risen from nowhere. The others followed. With his heart steady—no, that was a lie. His heart hammered against his ribs like a caged thing. But his feet moved anyway.

He stepped into the dark.

"I never really noticed your sacrificial streak," Dean said, but his hand found Blaise's sleeve. "We're not leaving you."

The forest swallowed them whole.

For what felt like forever, they walked.

The trees started as skinny strips of bark, grass sprouting at the base like tufts on a bad haircut. Normal trees. The kind you could imagine having picnics under in daylight.

But the deeper they went, the thicker the trees grew gnarled and twisting in on themselves like they were locked in a silent argument. Or a scream. The path narrowed, swallowed by moss and roots that caught at their feet like grasping fingers. Leaves and old branches cracked underfoot. Everything smelled like wet wood and something older than dirt.

Something that had never been alive but wasn't quite dead.

Blaise wondered what was buried out here. What had been watching them long before they arrived. The forest was ancient, older than Hogwarts, older than wizards. What promises had been made in its shadows? What prices paid?

Then came the sound.

Rattling. Fast and sharp. Like bones in a jar. Underneath it, the steady pulse of drums.

Not drums. A heartbeat. The forest's pulse, or something else's.

He stopped walking.

"What was that?" Tee whispered. Her whisper seemed too loud. "Do you hear that?"

"That's the asson," Angelina said. Calm. Too calm. Like she was slipping into something or something was slipping into her. "And the drums. It means the Fèt Gede has started."

She smiled. Wide. Too wide.

"Smile. It's a party. The Gede find it rude if you don't participate."

If that smile was fake, she wore it better than anyone Blaise knew except Mamma.

Mamma, who would gut him if she knew what he was doing. She supported him in getting vengeance but this?

He watched as Angelina made the Sign of the Cross. The gesture looked strange here, holiness in unholy ground. Then she started muttering in… was that French? He caught a word here and there, but not enough to make sense of it.

Prayer or incantation? Both?

He thought he was the only one lost.

Then he saw Dean and Tee. Fingers laced, heads bowed, voices low. They weren't copying—they already knew it. Same rhythm, same weight, but in English.

Simple words. Spoken like they meant something. Like armor against what was coming.

"Amen," the three of them said together.

Blaise didn't say anything. Just listened. The drums kept going. Getting louder? Or was that his own blood in his ears?

For the first time that night, he felt truly behind. Unprotected.

"Didn't expect to do the Lord's Prayer, the Hail Mary, and the Apostle's Creed," Dean said, voice shaky. "Mãe would be happy to see me so diligent on the prayers."

Or horrified at why he was praying.

Abruptly, Angelina called out in English not the one she used with her classmates. Her usual lilt dropped low and coaxing, like she was speaking to spirits just out of sight. She rolled her shoulders back, lifting her chin. The drums answered like a heartbeat.

No. The drums answered because they were a heartbeat. Something vast and old, waking up.

"When I finish the song," she said, "you gon' have to dance, y'hear? None of that stiff lil' schoolhall shuffle. Watch me. Copy me. Think sweet thoughts."

She gave them a look all teeth and dare. But underneath, Blaise saw the same undercurrent fear tearing through them. Good. If Angelina was scared, they all should be.

"Y'all too young for real banwa, but dat don't matter. Gede nuh watch how clean your foot move. Dey watch if your spirit show up."

A pause. Her smile turned teasing, but her eyes stayed sharp.

"Move like you miss somebody real bad and you tryin' to get their attention."

The words hit strange. Who would Blaise dance for? Who did he miss?

Harry's green eyes during Quidditch tryouts, snitch over his heart. Harry's weight against him in the hospital wing. Harry's smile when—

No.

Angelina started to move.

Blaise barely caught the movements. If there was a word for it, maybe uninhibited, but even that didn't quite fit. There was rhythm—offbeat, urgent—but it made his limbs feel stiff and out of place. Her body rolled and swayed like water, like smoke, like something between states.

Dean caught on first, laughing from his throat like it surprised him. The sound was wild, uncontrolled. Tee wasn't far behind, her shy two-step cracking wide into something fast and wild.

It reminded him of the painting in the atrium back home. Bacchus with his thyrsus and crown of leaves, surrounded by naked women in mid-spinning circles and a river of purpled wine.

Someone once said it was sacred, something about frenzy and wine. Ecstasy. Divine madness. The kind of thing that didn't make very much sense to him but made the adults around him share knowing smiles.

He didn't like how much this felt the same.

"Frenzy," he muttered, slowly giving in to the beat of the drums and the pull of Angelina's song. Because she was calling to them not just with words, but with rhythm and they were expected to answer.

The song was in that strange flavor of French, but he understood it anyway. Not the words perhaps but the meaning could not have been more clear. Come, it said. Dance. Show us your heart. Show us what you bleed for.

It wasn't comforting, this feeling of being dragged deeper into the woods. It was like stepping outside his own skin. Like something else had taken the reins.

His body moved without him. The dance pulled things from deep inside grief he didn't know he carried, rage that tasted like copper, want that burned like acid.

Blaise didn't know how long they danced. Time stretched and snapped. The forest spun around them, trees becoming audience, shadows becoming partners.

They only stopped when the trees split clean before them, revealing a path that hadn't been there before.

No. That was wrong. The path had always been there. They just hadn't been ready to see it.

He felt his magic twist under his ribs. Not painful, but wrong. Like a key turning in a lock that should have stayed closed.

His breath caught.

A perfect circle of dead earth lay ahead. Nothing grew there. Nothing had ever grown there. The ground was black and smooth as glass, and two paths crossed at the center.

X marks the spot.

The crossroads.

The beginning and the end. Where the journey started, and Hekate stood as patron. Where deals were made that couldn't be unmade.

Blaise stepped forward, heart thudding. The moment his foot touched the dead earth, cold shot up his leg like lightning. Beside him, Angelina moved with swift but tight strides, like the drumbeat was pushing her feet faster than she intended.

Tee and Dean hesitated at the treeline, glancing at Blaise with alternating degrees of fear and resolve.

"Last chance," he said quietly.

They stepped forward together.

"I need your items," Angelina said. Her voice was steady, but her accent was thick—slipping between patois, bastard French, and something older, something heavy. The voice of her grandmother's grandmother, maybe. She shrugged off a thick fabric backpack, sequined and feathered, ringed with charms Blaise didn't recognize, and set it at the base of the crossroads.

When she opened it, cold air escaped like a sigh.

"Hurry up now. Go on, drop dem tings by the repowza. We start wid Papa Legba. Him open de way. No Legba, no gate. Just door lock shut."

She paused, scanning them. "Didn't tell y'all to wear purple or wrap yuh head, huh? Hmph. Wrong colors bring wrong spirits. But is a party, so maybe dey still show. Who got de rum?"

Blaise stepped forward and handed over a slim-necked bottle wrapped in black ribbon. His hands didn't shake. Pride, maybe. Or shock. "Black Tot. The finest money can buy."

The bottle felt heavier than it had in the library. Old glass, old rum. Old magic soaked into both.

Angelina gave a nod, uncorked it, and poured it slow—careful arcs spiraling across the dirt. The earth drank it too fast, like it had been waiting all day. Where the rum touched, the ground seemed to pulse.

The drums didn't stop. Neither did the rattle of bone and bead—asson, pulsing like it was inside Blaise's ribcage.

"Papa Legba, ouvri baryè pou nou," she murmured, voice quiet but carrying. Then firmer: "Open de gate. Let we talk to dem who waitin'. Feathers and eggs?"

Tee pulled black feathers and two small eggs from her pouch, wrinkling her nose. "From a rooster. A real cocky one."

The feathers gleamed too bright in the moonlight. The eggs felt warm.

Angelina took them with both hands, whispering something in Kreyòl, too low for Blaise to catch. The words made the air thick. "Cigars?"

"Told one of the Weasley twins I'd put in a good word if he coughed these up," Dean said, handing over the cigar box. His hands definitely shook. "Think he's got a thing for you." He scratched his neck, deadpan. "Said they're decent quality. Smoking kills, though. Even secondhand. Just saying."

Even now, trying for normal. But normal had left them miles ago.

Angelina didn't laugh. She opened the box like there were bones from a grave inside. Threw cigars wrapped in red string. She nodded once, eyes unreadable.

"These'll do."

She arranged the offerings at the crossroads with slow, reverent care: the rum, the feathers, the eggs, the cigars. Each item placed with precision that spoke of practice. Or possession. At the center she placed a chipped plate filled with piman, seven coins that gleamed too bright, and a small candle already burning low.

Then she added six more candles around it, their flames flickering as if from breath. Seven in total.

"Seven light for the seven gate," she whispered. "Seven flame so dey see us true."

The moment the seventh candle was placed, the temperature dropped like a stone. Blaise's breath misted in the suddenly arctic air.

Her hands trembled once. Then she pressed her palms to the dirt and started to sing.

Blaise didn't know the words, but he knew they were real. Old. The rhythm wasn't perfect. The melody cracked. But her voice carried power that made his teeth ache.

She was calling someone.

Something.

The temperature dropped sharply. Sharp enough to burn. Blaise, Dean, and Tee huddled closer to the seven flickering flames that gave no heat.

Angelina, on the other hand, burned. Steam rose off her as if the magic flowing through her veins ran hot enough to boil. Her skin gleamed with sweat that should have frozen.

Her eyes were closed, lips moving with purpose. Every now and then, she'd bark out a command in English.

"If you too tired to dance, then sing! Sway! Keep the joy in yuh heart—the Gede don't like no sulk!"

Blaise wasn't sure where, exactly, he was supposed to pull this joy from. His teeth chattered. His bones ached. The thing they were calling felt vast and hungry and—

Dean and Tee helped, in their own clumsy way—trading barbs, tossing awkward jokes, letting out stilted giggles. Performative joy. Fake it til you make it, or until something else makes it for you.

Then Tee gagged and covered her nose.

"What's that smell?"

Sweet rot. Old flowers on a grave. Perfume on a corpse.

"Si koko te gen dan, li t'ap manje mayi griye!" someone sang loud and off-key. The voice came from everywhere and nowhere. "Se paske li pa gen dan ki fè li manje zozo kale!"

A high-pitched giggle followed. Not quite human. Not quite anything.

Angelina faltered. Her eyes snapped open, pupils blown wide.

Blaise turned in time to see her shoulders stiffen and then he saw what made her stop.

Harry stood at the edge of the clearing.

"That’s death," Dean said flatly, eyeing Harry with a guarded intensity

Harry looked wrong. That hideous oversized grey jumper hung off him like elephant skin, but that wasn't it. His trousers were streaked with dirt and leaves, but that wasn't it either. One lens of his glasses was missing, the other smeared beyond recognition.

That wasn't it.

It was the way he stood. Too loose. Like his bones had been rearranged by someone who'd only heard descriptions of how humans worked.

It was the smile. Too wide. With too many teeth.

It was the eyes. Still green, but the color of poison now. Of obsession. Of things that grew in graves.

"Harry—" Blaise started, torn between indignation and concern. He moved to stand, but Angelina reached back, fingers curling around his arm, and pulled him down closer.

Her nails bit through his coat. Drew blood.

Her voice trembled, just once.

"Baron Samedi," she said. The name fell like a stone into still water. She stepped forward, just slightly in front of Blaise, her spine stiff.

Baron Samedi was in Harry? He felt the way he shook his head as if to rattle the thought loose. That wasn’t possible? Was it. There was no time to ask questions, to feel anything beyond the dawning the horror

But there he is. The one who called. No protection. No presentation. At the ready.

"You come to our Fèt? We honored! You mus' be thirsty. We got rum—come take someting for de road."

Harry clapped. The sound echoed wrong, like it bounced off surfaces that didn't exist. He sauntered into the light.

Harry ran, he sprinted, he fumbled over his feet in excitement. He never sauntered.

The flames on the seven candles roared up, heat searing the air. But the heat felt cold. Burning ice.

"We all family here," he said, voice rolling and too deep for Harry's throat. It came from somewhere behind his ribs, below his stomach. The voice of the grave. "No need for formalities. Call me Sam. Or Uncle. Or Baron. M'pa cho. I don't much care."

His eyes fixed on Blaise. Only Blaise.

Blaise scratched his throat without meaning to, unsettled by how that gaze felt like hands around his neck. Like being examined. Weighed. Found wanting or worthy. He couldn't tell which was worse.

"Bon fèt!" not-Harry sang, grin splitting his face. That confident swagger, that cock-sure certainty nothing like Harry's careful half-smiles. This thing wore Harry's face like an ill-fitting mask. "Had to come see one born on my day. Makes me feel special. Like a tribute."

Dean tensed beside him. Ready to run. The smart choice.

Tee side-eyed the not-Harry thing, her limbs twitchy, ready to bolt. The smarter choice.

Only Angelina stepped closer, her expression unreadable. Playing a game where losing meant more than death.

"Uncle Sam," Angelina said smoothly, stepping into the firelight like it bowed to her. She spun slow, skirts kicking up frost that shouldn't exist. Her mutated French curled around her words, sweet and smug. "You brought company."

She gave Harry one long, languid look. Running her eyes over him like she was shopping for meat. "A poor chwal, I'd wager. He don't look like he can handle you proper."

Blaise could feel the way her voice shifted. Too practiced. Too smooth. She was dancing on a wire over an abyss.

"Ti bèl fi, you playin' wid fire talkin' sweet like dat."

The thing inside Harry let out a howl of laughter. It was deep, guttural, wrong in every way. The sound made Blaise's bones ache.

"Keep rollin' dem hips, keep flashin' dose pretty eyes—gon' make Auntie rise up out her grave jealous, and she do bite."

It licked its lips with Harry's mouth. The tongue was too long. Black at the tip.

"Flirtin' wit' spirits like you know what you doin'. I like dat. Keep sweetenin' your voice. Gon' catch somethin' one day you ain't ready to carry."

It strolled along the edge of the firelight, shoulders loose like it didn't notice it was wearing someone else's skin. Each step left frost in the shape of bones. Blaise caught Dean’s face wear down to stone, his attention fastened to Harry. Tee was dead silent.

Even her breathing had stopped.

Blaise reached for her hands trying to rub warmth into them.

"You say he a poor chwal?" the Baron murmured, examining Harry's hands like seeing them for the first time. Flexing fingers that bent too far. "Mebbe so. Mebbe not."

Then his voice sharpened. The playfulness gone.

"He already full. Split right down the soul. Somethin' wrong. Somethin' been wrong since before he born."

Angelina didn't move. Didn't blink. Blaise watched her breathe once slow and steady. Professional.

"That body not mine to ride, but I ride it all the same." The Baron's grin turned reverent, almost hungry. Like looking at a feast after starving.

"S'posed to take him on All Souls' Night, but Maman say non. Bon Dye say wait."

It tilted Harry's head like listening to an invisible voice. Or voices.

"Now look. Still walkin'. Still open. Like a door left on the latch. Can't tell him to dig or stand by his grave. Not yet. But soon come."

Blaise couldn't explain the feeling that rolled through him. It was a queasy mix of grit and dread and gravity.

Harry was marked for death. Had been marked before—

No. He wouldn't think about that. Not now.

Angelina stepped forward, just slightly, arms loose, hips still swaying like she was mid-dance. Like this was all perfectly normal.

"I trained," she said softly. "You know I strong enough. You know I know the rites."

She bowed, not low, just enough to show deference without surrender.

"Let me carry you, Baron. Let me honor you right."

The thing wearing Harry tilted its head toward her, gaze too bright, too knowing. For a moment, Blaise thought it might accept. Might slide out of Harry and into Angelina, where it belonged. Or at least, where it fit better.

"Mmm. You built yourself a temple, oui. I see it, polished bone, hot blood. Dem Meadows? Dey my kin, yes they is."

It laughed, but there was no joy in it.

"But I ain't choose you, ti flanm. I ain't ride you."

It glanced back toward Blaise slow and deliberate.

"I ride him."

The words hit like a physical blow. Blaise felt them in his chest, his stomach, behind his eyes.

Angelina opened her mouth and not-Harry shook his head sharp. The movement was wrong. It was too fast and too far. "No more talking, ti flanm. Your party isn't the only one I attend tonight though it's the most fun."

He reached for the rum in her hands and guzzled it wildly. The dark liquid ran from his lips and drenched his shirt, but the wet spots spread like blood, not rum.

"Babies should be in bed but they called Uncle Sammy so here I am. It's only fair I listen."

The Baron wiped his mouth with Harry's sleeve. When he lowered his arm, his lips were stained black.

"So much fear," he mused, looking at Dean and Tee. They pressed closer together, hands finding hands. "Fear thick as molasses. Sweet as wedding cake. But not from you."

Back to Blaise. Always back to Blaise.

"You angry. Good." The Baron's grin split wider. Harry's face shouldn't stretch that far. "Anger better than fear. Fear make you freeze. Anger get tings done."

He produced one of the cigars—when had he taken it?—and lit it without flame. The tip glowed green instead of red. Smoke poured from his mouth, his nose, the corners of his eyes. It smelled like graves and wax birthday candles.

"Pretty ting like you shouldn't be so angry. But dey made you angry, didn't dey? Dey took something from you."

The alcohol from the Baron seemingly sloshed in Blaise's stomach. His mouth was coated in sweetened ash. Every word felt pulled from him, inevitable as gravity.

"So," the Baron said, calm as a prayer, "tell Uncle what justice you want, eh?"

The clearing went silent. Even the drums stopped. The forest held its breath.

Blaise looked at Harry's face—wrong, twisted, inhabited—and felt something crack inside him. All the careful control, all the proper behavior, all the things he'd swallowed down since that night in the corridor.

"They changed me."

It was the first time he'd said it aloud. The sight of Harry's face made it worse. Made it real. Made it matter.

Harry was always too easy to talk to. And Blaise hated that. Hated how even possessed, even wrong, even dangerous, this face made him want to tell the truth.

"They made me a thing. An animal."

The words tasted like copper. Like the blood he'd bitten back that night.

He hadn't known how to name what happened. Not until now. One day, he'd been whole. The next, he was cleaved in two caught between what he knew he was and what they forced him to be.

The tail. The teeth. The way they'd laughed.

He wet his lips. The Baron leaned forward, smoke wreathing them both.

"I am the son of Ruqayyah bint Amina al-Meroë. The last child of Rome. A prince. King of kings. Queen of queens. A crown is my birthright. That's what my blood says."

A breath. The titles felt hollow here. What did old names matter to older dead?

"But they look at me and see something else. And I don't know how to hold both."

He fell quiet. The confession scraped his throat raw.

"I'm not enough. Or I'm too much. Or both."

His hands curled into fists in his lap. The neat, trimmed nails bit into his palms.

"And I hate them for it."

He had never questioned his place in the world. Not until now. The Zabini name had been shield and sword, had opened doors and closed mouths. But here, in this cold place of fog and stone, none of that mattered.

Now he stood on shifting sand, watched by people who looked at him with either contempt or pity.

Like he was the last to understand a truth they'd all already known.

That he would never belong. Not really. Not fully.

He blinked. Once. Inhaled decay, exhaled resignation.

He wouldn't give them more. But the Baron waited, patient as death.

"Outrage for outrage," Blaise told the thing wearing Harry's face. Its jewel-bright eyes gleamed like coins pressed on the eyes of the dead. Like the gems he'd seen in that mirror, circling his throat.

"Blood for blood. I'm not to be messed with."

The Baron let out a low whistle, long and slow. "Mmm." He dragged smoke from the cigar like it was a secret. The smoke made shapes—reaching hands, open mouths, things with too many teeth. "Li pa timoun sa a. Not no more. You hear dat?"

He leaned in, and the firelight curled around his face like it knew him. Like it feared him.

"A crown, oui. But you wearin' it crooked. Gon' need to fix dat. Power heavy, cher. Real heavy. But you got de bones for it."

He laughed again, sudden and wild. The sound scattered night birds from the trees. Or were those birds?

"Justice, he say! Big words for a little prince." A pause. "But I like it. I do. Maybe Uncle stay a while."

The Baron stood—when had he been sitting?—and circled Blaise like a buyer at market just as Angelina had done moments ango but this felt heavier and Blaise dared not move. Each step left deeper frost, darker shapes.

"Dem boys and girl who hurt you. Montague. Flint. Parkinson. Names like knives, bitter on de tongue." He spat, and where it landed, the ground hissed. "Dey think dey know power? Dey know nothing. Dey children playin' with matches in a powder keg."

He stopped directly behind Blaise. Cold breath on his neck. Blaise didn't turn. Couldn't turn.

"Ou vle kraze yo?”


“Yes.”


“Fè yo pè?”


“Yes.”


“Fè yo manje sa yo te mete nan bouch ou?”


“Yes.”

The Baron smiled slow, like the idea tasted good. “Wi, ti prens. That kind of rage? It sacred. Sacred like fire. Sacred like blood.”

He tapped a finger to his temple. “But fire burn both ways. You callin’ justice, but you openin’ door. You know dat, non?”

Always a price.

The Baron moved back into view, Harry's face serious now. Ancient. The eyes weren't just sickly green anymore. They held depths, like looking into underground lakes.

"Tout bagay gen pri, ti prens. You know dis.”

Blaise nodded.

“Blood magic, revenge magic, justice—non se menm Lwa. Just wear different clothes.”

He tilted his head like listening to something behind Blaise’s heart.

“Ou pare pou sa?”

Blaise nodded slowly.

"Blood magic, revenge magic, justice magic—all de same to us. But de price..." He tilted his head. "You ready to pay?"

"What price?" Blaise asked. His voice came out steady. Good.

The Baron grinned. "Clever boy. Always know de cost before you buy, Maman taught me dat." He blew smoke rings that became skulls, then butterflies, then skulls again. "For what you want—true justice, not just schoolboy hexes—price steep."

He held up Harry's hand. Counted on fingers that bent wrong.

"One: you marked. Not just by magic, by us. De Gede will know you wherever you go. You smell like crossroads now, forever."

Blaise could live with that.

"Two: what you send out come back. Not karma—dat's different ting. But you open door to dark, dark can visit when it want. Your dreams won't be yours alone."

Blaise's dreams were already haunted. What was a little more company?

"Three..." The Baron paused. His grin widened until it nearly split Harry's face. "You tied to dis one." He gestured to himself—to Harry. "What you asked for, it big. Need anchor in living world. He already marked, already open. He perfect for it."

Blaise's blood chilled. "What do you mean, tied?"

"Mean what I say. Your justice work through him. Your anger flow through him. And maybe—" The Baron winked. "Maybe some of him flow back. Balance, tu compwann?"

"No." The refusal came swift. "Not Harry. Use me. I'm the one who called you."

"You called, but he answered." The Baron's voice gentled, almost kind. "Don't worry, ti prens. Won't hurt him. Much. Boy got death walking with him already. What's one more shadow?"

Blaise stood abruptly. "Choose something else."

"Ain't how it work." The Baron shrugged. "Magic like water find its own level. You and dis boy, you already connected. I just making it... official."

Dean grabbed Blaise's arm and Blaise startled giving him a long blink. He had almost forgotten who he had invited to his birthday party. "Don't," Dean whispered. "This is too much. We can find another way."

Tee nodded frantically. "Open your eyes. This is a fucked-up deal. He’s a damn lie, sweating more than a sinner in church." Her brown eyes glittered with candlelight—furious and scared.

Dean’s fingers dug into Blaise’s arm, hard enough to bruise. “He’s wearin’ Harry’s face, mate. He’ll say whatever he needs to get you to agree. I didn’t know what those knobheads did—swear on my life—but if I had…”

"My Nana had a talk with me," Tee added quickly.

Dean glanced at her. "Yeah. My Da too. Said—"

But Blaise didn’t hear the rest. Their voices blurred, muffled like he was underwater.

He looked at Harry's face—possessed, wrong, but still Harry.

The boy who'd defended him. Who'd turned Parkinson into a blueberry for him. Who'd slept beside him in the hospital wing, pretending not to notice when he cried. Who gleamed like goblin gold whenever he was around.

Who trusted him.

"If I say no?" Blaise asked quietly.

The Baron shrugged again. "Den you go home. Dey win. Maybe dey come for you again. Maybe worse next time. Maybe dey come for your little friends." His eyes flicked to Dean and Tee. "World full of maybe."

“Shut up you absolute toe rag!” Dean blazed with an high voice. “I’m the first to admit I don’t know much of this world but that doesn’t mean I can’t handle myself. OK. I’m safe.”

Tee nodded furiously next to him. “That oldhead is just talkin out the side of the neck, you have to see that.”

Even Angelina stepped forward with dawning realization. "Baron, please. They’re eleven. There must be another—"

"SILENCE."

The word hit like thunder. Angelina fell to her knees, hands pressed to her ears. Blood trickled between her fingers.

Dean and Tee both convulsed on the dead ground, writhing with their mouths clamped forcibly shut.

Blaise was the only one left standing. Alone.