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Chapter Text

CHAPTER TWO

Sunlit

Astarion was jerked out of rest this morning, with brutality and without mercy.

It wasn't the world that had woken him up, however. No sound to be heard, no motion to be spotted, the room had tried its best to preserve the peacefulness of its guest. No, what woke him up was his deeply rooted knowledge that he had chores to tend to. Astarion wasn't supposed to rest for more than a couple hours. Past that time, it was terror itself and the dreadful knowledge that he would soon be in trouble that would creep to his bed, shake his shoulders and drag him out of slumber.

So here he was. Awake and with nothing to do. No guest to entertain, no food to bring back home, no masterful desire to fulfil but awake he was.

With a groan of discomfort, he pushed himself off the hard stone floor. He had curled up in a corner of the room an hour or so ago, not sure what to do with himself. He had eyed the coffin left in his room. It had been placed there with care and it had been accommodated with an obsession for comfort that was bordering absurdity. A padded lining had been placed at the bottom of it, to make the wood softer to lie on. A thick, heavy blanket was waiting for a small body to crawl underneath it and pillows, round from too many feathers, were piled up next to it.

But Astarion had not rested there, for two reasons though each would have sufficed on its own. The first one was that this was not his coffin. His Master had provided one when the school had asked for it but it had nothing to do with Astarion and was not a place of rest he could use. The second one was that Astarion was not allowed to rest in his or any coffin anyway. Rest was the privilege of those who deserved it and Spawn, by their very nature, didn't. It was the Master's law and, even here, even so far away from home, the compulsion magic was as strong as ever. Astarion's body physically couldn't lay itself on anything but hard stones. It had been told so and it was a body that was very obedient to its owner and maker.

He carefully rolled his shoulders. No matter his power of regeneration, he always felt a latent pain there, embedded within his bones. Dalyria, who felt it too, was convinced that it was from all the hanging in chains they were doing. Astarion, as for him, was of the opinion that they were simply getting old and that rheumatism didn't spare cadavers.

    After a few cracks that weren't without reminding him of the animated skeletons in the dungeons under the palace, he stood up. The bat was still here. Her depthless eyes were on him, her claws still sticky with his blood. The school had kindly provided a comfortable perch; they were certainly convinced that Astarion would be more at ease if his 'pet' felt welcomed as well. It was from there that she was hanging, following from afar Astarion's every gesture.

Trying not to pay her too much mind, Astarion walked to the suitcase he had been made to bring here before kneeling in front of it. He lifted the lid and looked inside to see exactly what he had available. There wasn't much. It was still noticeably more than the scraps Astarion owned at the palace but since he didn't own what was before his eyes, he could only judge compared to the full storing capacity of the suitcase and it could have contained thrice what was presently there.

Firstly, under the neat pile of identical sets of uniforms, there was a small case of lacquered, dark wood that was crafted with care and skills. There was no inscription on it but Astarion could guess what it was. He opened it and, as expected, on a lining of red velour was resting a wand. 

Though made of wood, it was of noticeably lesser quality than the box containing it. Made out of the pine of Astarion's own coffin, it was rough to the touch, covered here and there with patches of moss. The handle had been carved to welcome, in an intertwining of thin branches, a small red gem to try and pretend at some sort of care and value but, to Astarion's knowing eyes, it did little to hide that the wood itself showed a lack of will to make this wand threatening. As for the core, Astarion had no idea, but whatever it could be, it didn't change a thing. He had been made aware that, of poor magical disposition, it would never be a tool of true power. The Master certainly didn't want any of his Spawn to be endowed with any sort of potency. Astarion was the first of them to ever touch a wand at all, and he was toying with his Master's potential displeasure. He was even relieved that it had been fudged in that way. He wouldn’t have to pretend to be a badly performing student. Having never practiced magic before, he wasn't sure it wouldn't be true even without active taming. Whether or not it was, what mattered was the fact that, even though both were a danger, it was always better to be weak to others than to be strong to the Master.

Astarion took the wand out and closed the box before putting it back in the suitcase. He moved it around but, apart from a flare of his reluctance to perform magic, nothing happened. The attempt was quickly forgotten. Once dressed in the local uniform, he slipped it in his pocket and it disappeared from his sight and mind. He eyed the pile of books that had been asked by the school in that letter Astarion had never seen and, not knowing which one would be of use, he only picked up the one about transfiguration. He wouldn't be very good at magic but he had to be liked by Dumbledore if no one else. Negligible in power but appreciable in eagerness was the dual persona he wanted to try for this man. He was certain that he had picked up on some sort of pride. Those were weak to others' adoration.

His bag light from his lack of care, he brought the strip over his shoulder and, after having tidied up his hair by muscle memory alone, he got out of his room. The bat followed him and made an aching perch out of his shoulder. It couldn't be sorer than it already was anyway.

The business of that house's common room hit Astarion like a wave. He was  not used to big gatherings of people. Even during his Master's soirees, the crowd was kept at a reasonable size. Not so many wizards of high importance were willing to travel all the way to a castle lost in a forest, no matter how sumptuous it was. Here however, the common room was cluttered with people, short and tall, talking loudly and with excitement. Some were eager and pressing their friends, others were going through their belongings, worried that they might have forgotten this or that. Astarion was stunned by all the noise and motions, his eyes burning under the vivid light and his head already throbbing from all the things around that were forcing his attention on them. It wasn't so much that Astarion knew to pay attention to everything and foresee every danger, it was that he simply couldn't prevent himself from doing this and putting his vigilance to rest. It was hard to get to the exit of the common room while keeping an eye on everyone but he managed it and, with relief, got out of there. He was prompt to put some distance between him and the painting guarding the entrance.

Even when the sound started to fade away and students were now rarely met, Astarion only stopped to let the bat fly away. Or so he told himself. In reality, he didn't stop as much as he was struck.

Here. Right in front of him.

The sun.

On the other side of a window, Astarion could see it. Big, bright, radiating a light Astarion had no memory of. It was everything like he would have pictured, had he ever allowed himself to do that. Round and with impossible colors, that was how he would have drawn it. As he was looking at that roundness and impossibleness, he felt something swell inside him. Something that was terror, fascination and subjugation all at once, without truly being any. For a moment he remained speechless. He often was, as Spawn should be seen and not heard. But, what was much rare, he remained thoughtless. Nothing was moving under his skull, nothing was flashing behind his eyes. Astarion just... was. And that was already a lot.

The only time when Astarion's head was as quiet, as still, was during the lessons in the kennel. But there was no kennel here. Astarion knew it for he had been taught the layout. There was no kennel and yet his thoughts had flown away.

The sun was in front of him.

Damn.

So that was what it looked like?

Astarion walked closer to the window. It was closed and, he didn't notice, locked. Without seeing anything but the sun, Astarion brought his hand to the glass, pressing his palm against it.

It was cold. Rays were shown, not felt. Or so Astarion guessed. Astarion had read most of the books in the palace's library, sneaking in and out of it when the Master was busy with allies and enemies. He had always read that the sun was hot. And his baby brother Leon, who had been turned only a few years ago, had told him that it was no myth.

Yet he couldn't feel it. And Astarion, now closer to the sun than he had ever been, was presently yearning for it. So terribly so that it was physically painful.

Astarion had never missed the sun as he didn't remember it. And he had never been of those who thought that they would be willing to pay any cost to get it back. There was nothing that Astarion was willing to pay any cost for besides his survival outside of the kennel and his death inside. But, now that he was seeing the star with his own two eyes... God did he yearn for its warmth.

Far away, a red flash crossed the sky and brought him back to the present. The Master would certainly not appreciate those thoughts. Even though there were no rules about it, they had to be forbidden in one way or another. Throughout the years, Astarion had developed an instinct specifically designed to foresee rules and punishments that had yet to be voiced. Thus, helped by dread, Astarion had no trouble stepping back and resuming his fast walk.

He had been right before and still was  right, the sun just wasn't worth it, no matter the glance it ripped out of Astarion the entire walk.

He reached the dining hall while very few students were already seated. He wished he could say that his eyes had immediately turned to the teachers' table to see if he could spot Dumbledore. They did not. They went up. On the ceiling that, the night before, had displayed the night sky.

The bright , absurdly blue sky was there indeed. But no sun could be seen. Keeping his disappointment to himself, Astarion forced his eyes down. It was better this way. He had more important things to do than diurnal stargazing. He needed to find Dumbledore. Was he a late riser or an early one? What sort of breakfast was he eating? If it was meager, did it mean that he was weaker in the morning compared to the afternoon and the evening?

While going over his many questions, Astarion noticed that the Professor wasn't sitting on the right side of the Headmaster, like he had been the day before. Instead, the seat was empty. Was he in his classroom, working? Was he of that sort of person who couldn't stop themselves from…

"Ah, Astarion, you found the Great Hall easily enough, it would seem."

Astarion turned around to spot the Professor himself. Though he had been in Astarion's back, he didn't look like he had just arrived. Early riser then. Mornings would be no time to take him by surprise but perfect to investigate important places.

"It is rather rare for a First Year to be so efficient at navigating the castle."

Few First Years had been made to study the floorplans by their merciless Master then.

"I remember from yesterday," Astarion simply shrugged. "The Slytherin common room is not all that far."

"This is true. Was the blood that was left in your room suitable?"

Astarion had gulped it down in a few seconds and had licked every droplet of it.

"Yes..."

He remembered in time:

"... thank you, sir."

"You're welcome, it's only natural. Oh, something else as well. Once class is over, Professor Faustus is expecting you in his office. He is the head of your house. His office is near the bottom of the stairs leading to the upper floors of the Astronomy Tower. If you go to the Central Hall, there is a covered corridor that allows you to get around the Transfiguration Courtyard. Professor Faustus' office is right next to the main staircase, you cannot miss it."

Astarion knew exactly where it was; he could see the location clearly in his head and he came up with a way to reach it in less than a blink of a second.

"I don't know what any of these places are," he said. "Or how to get to them."

To look ignorant was to look harmless.

"You can ask a Head Student to bring you there."

It would be better yet if Professor Dumbledore could do that himself. Any shared moment was worth the attempt. How else would they manage to build their one-sided trust otherwise?

"But Minthara said that we shouldn't ask her anything. She said we are Slytherins so we have to figure it out but I don't know how."

He made his eyes just a tiny bit teary for emphasis. Not enough to look like he was on the verge of crying, but wet enough for the reflection of the light to give him a slightly desperate and anxious gaze.

"Yes, it does sound like something Minthara would say indeed," Professor Dumbledore said with an amused though exasperated smile for himself. "Well. Ask Halsin Silverbough then. He guided you before; he will guide you again. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to hand out their class schedules to my students."

There was little Astarion could do to hold him back and thus he watched the teacher walk away without a word. It would be for another time then. Astarion was worried about many things but not this one. He had a whole year to do what he had to do. He had never been given as much latitude before.

Replacing the strip of his bag on his shoulder, Astarion joined the Slytherin table.

Each student, from the second year and above, already had their group of friends formed, all sitting together, which meant that the first years students were more or less all obligated to sit at the end of the table. Astarion found there all the faces that he had registered the day before. As he was now a few feet away from his seat, he slapped a smile on his face. Yesterday had been about understanding his surroundings, today was about being charming.

"What a joyful little bunch we have here," he said in a voice that he forced to be sing-songy and high-pitched. "Did someone's pet die?"

The group of children had their exhaustion written all over their features. Yesterday had been a long day and the anxiety, paired with the thought of what was left to come, had apparently kept them awake at night.

"We're not joyful," Lae'zel said with a frown. "And why would a pet's death make us joyful anyway?"

"Oh, you will be a funny one," Astarion said, though his sarcasm was fully lost on the girl.

"You weren't in the dormitory last night," a boy who, Astarion knew, was called Lycaon Yaxley said. "Where were you?"

"Already paying attention to my whereabouts? I didn't know I made such a strong first impression."

The boy seemed puzzled as to what it was supposed to mean and Astarion silently sighed.

"I was in the common room," he said. "I couldn't sleep."

If their faces were anything to go by, they hadn't slept all that much either. Wasn't Astarion just so relatable?

"But you don't even have a bed," another boy, Detrocius Rosier, said. "There's only three and we're four."

"Oh. Strange. I will ask a teacher what it's about then."

As the other students started to speak about beds and mattresses, Astarion noticed that, among the plates filled with sausages, the flagons of juice, the cutlery and goblets, there was a bottle that had just appeared. Made of black, opaque glass, it was carefully sealed by a strange cork that Astarion had seen yesterday evening. The part of it that was out of the neck was longer than the hole and shaped like a crescent of sorts. It was made out of some sort of gum that, though soft, was magically glued to the glass. Even if Astarion hadn't recognized it from yesterday, he would have been able to tell what the content of the bottle was anyway. It was embalming the air with the delicious smell of blood.

Astarion eyed the other students around him, waiting for an opening. He didn't have to wait for too long however because, a few seconds later, papers started to fly in every direction, distracting everyone. Astarion, before even wondering what the commotion was about, snatched the bottle and slipped it in his bag. Only once it was done did he look around.

Pieces of paper were sliding above the Slytherin students head, finding their ways to the specific hands they were meant to be caught by. Astarion followed up the general flow of papers and, spotting its source, he noticed a teacher who, with his wand raised, had obviously cast the charm they were now witnessing.

It was a tall, lean man, with the pallid skin of those who remained inside. His grey eyes had an expression of boredom that seemed to be ingrained in the irises themselves and were telling of how effortless the spell was for him. Even from afar, Astarion spotted old, faint burn marks on his hands as well as the general shape of a tattoo in his palm though most of it was hidden behind his wand.

Astarion was trying to figure out what it could represent when his eyes met the teacher's. It was brief. Hardly a full second. But that was enough for the man's face to let a very tepid, very fugacious expression flash through it. Astarion had no idea what it was and it was gone before he could make sense of it. The teacher's eyes were now elsewhere and Astarion looked away as well. He mindlessly grabbed the sheet of paper that was trying desperately to shove itself into his fist.

That had to be the Head of House that Professor Dumbledore had spoken about.

Still paying it little attention, Astarion turned the sheet over to see what it was about.

"Is that our timetable, you think?" a girl named Lysandra Yaxley and who looked an awful lot like the other Yaxley asked.

"I don't know," Astarion said. "A table with hours, days and subjects. Do you think it could be it?"

There was a vague chuckle coming from the girl named Shadowheart but Lysandra, who had asked the first question, didn't seem to pick up on his tone and she nodded.

"Yes," she said with a thoughtful tone. "I think it could be it."

That would be a nice year. They would nearly make him miss Petras. Nearly.

Astarion eyed his own sheet. As he had said to the child, it was subjects organized by days and periods. Nothing that was provoking any sort of reaction from him. But, given how absorbed everyone around him was, Astarion knew he had to seize that occasion to be like everyone else.

"It's so full," he exclaimed. "We have too many classes."

Children hated schools, didn't they?

Some of the students seemed to agree with him though most were still too focused on their sheet of paper to listen to him. ‘Some’ was enough for now. Astarion would work on the rest later.

"What's Magic Theory?" a girl, Soress Selwyn, asked. "We have it everyday, first thing in the morning."

"A most dreadful subject," a boy, Horace Slughorn, said in that sort of voice that was affecting mature nobility. "According to my cousin thrice removed, Hesper Starkey — whose wonderful book about the effect of the moon's phases on potions is now studied as a part of Beauxbatons’ curriculum — told me that it was little more than repeatedly copying the same book ad nauseam. She added that it will compose a good portion of our time dedicated to homework. We can only abandon that subject after our O.W.Ls and by then, or so she said, we are supposed to know all the laws, principles and foundations of magic."

"Sounds boring," Lycaon mumbled.

"We don't need that," Lae'zel agreed though she didn't seem to have even heard her fellow student. "When do we learn real spells?"

"We have transfiguration at the end of the day," Astarion said, having instantly noticed all the classes he had with Professor Dumbledore.

Lae'zel didn't seem won over. Lysandra pointed at the last one of their morning classes.

"'Offence Against Dark Arts & Dark Creatures',” she read aloud. “That sounds like something where we do magic."

"Look like we aren't supposed to choose our side," Shadowheart said with a disdainful moue.

"It's a school," Astarion pointed out, pretending that he had extensive knowledge about what these were. "Becoming evil doesn't tend to be part of the curriculum."

"Dark arts are not evil," she said, on the defensive.

"Dark creatures are evil all right."

"We will have to disagree then."

Astarion didn't argue further. He was pretty sure that it was common in children to want to have diverging opinions from their elders. Astarion understood being attracted to the dark arts. Power was alluring. But there was no point in denying their nature.

The children around him continued to talk about their schedule, commenting at length on every subject and giving their enlightened opinion but, after a while, they abruptly stopped when all food disappeared from the table at once. Astarion instinctively shoved his hand in his bag. Yes, the bottle was still there. All was well.

Bringing his attention back on his surroundings, he distinctly heard students sigh deeply. Which ones, he couldn't tell, but there were enough of them that the sigh felt like a wave of quiet noise crossing the entire hall from one end to the next. Most students started to look in their bag, taking out scrolls of parchment, pots of ink, colorful quills and a ridiculously thick book with covers displaying different but always noticeable signs of damage from old age. Simultaneously, teachers started to exit the hall, apparently on their way to attend one task or another. Only one of them remained behind, the Potions teacher Astarion had met the day before. She tapped her wand a couple of times on the Gryffindor table and books appeared on it, one in front of each first year student. She walked to the Hufflepuff table then the Ravenclaw one, repeating her conjuring spell. Once she finally did so for the Slytherin students, Astarion was able to read a title the gist of it he had expected.

'The Theory of Magic, Vol I: Bases for Beginners and Blockheads'

Astarion turned the book around. The 'bases' were as thick as his whole palm, it seemed.

As the older students had all opened their book and started to write, the Potions teacher was going from table to table again, quietly whispering to the First Years.

"You can open the book at the beginning of the first chapter," she smiled at them when it was their turn. "During this hour, you are to understand and copy the day's chapter."

Astarion went to the end of the book. It had a hundred and fifty chapters. Dreadful, the thrice-removed cousin had said.

"Every Friday, you will have a little test of your knowledge on the week's chapters but don't worry," she said to the students who were noticeably more horrified than they were worried, "it is not graded. But you will be made to copy again any chapter you didn't know enough to pass. It may be overwhelming at first but, if you put your heart into it, there is no reason why you should fail."

The children around Astarion didn't look like they were on the verge of putting their heart into anything.

"Oh and be very attentive, one misspelled word too many and you will be made to start again from the beginning. And that would be such a waste of your time and effort. So do your best during that hour, make sure to reread in the evening to prevent that as much as you can. Most importantly, do not get too worked up when you fail, all right? We have all been there."

Misspelled? Did it mean that it necessarily had to be written down? Astarion looked around. Everyone was bent over their parchments, their quills scratching the paper.

Astarion hadn't brought anything to write, had he? He searched in his bag but he already knew the answer. He hadn't thought of that. He knew schools were places where one learned, but Astarion had always been taught by being told something once and being flailed if he didn't manage to memorize it right away. And that was when he was being told something at all and not made to guess.

But notes? Astarion had never learned with those and hadn't even thought about them.

Damn, Astarion was failing before classes could even begin. He tried to tell himself that it didn't matter, that he was not here for that, but he couldn't. He could try all he wanted, there was one thing that every fiber of Astarion's body knew by heart and it was that failing hurt . And that instinct, only meant to guess the Master’s wishes, had no doubt that nothing but perfect scores would be tolerated.

"What is it, dearie?" Professor Abbott said, having seen him search his bag frantically.

"I..."

Should he hide his failure? Or should he fix it before it could become even worse? His instinct was telling him one thing but, thankfully, his brain managed to be louder today.

"I forgot my quill. My ink pot too."

"Oh, it happens. There is nothing for you to be upset about. Here..."

She waved her wand and a quill appeared in front of Astarion as well as a pot filled to the rim with black ink.

"See? All is well, now."

Her smile was supposed to be warm and reassuring but  it was not what brought relief to Astarion. No, it was that he wasn’t failing anymore. He still had a chance to not make the situation too terrible for himself.

"Do you need anything else?" the teacher asked.

"No..."

Once again he nearly forgot.

"... thank you."

The next hour took place in a silence made heavy by boredom and annoyance. No one wanted to be here and it could be felt in the air. Astarion didn't mind all that much. Or at all, really. Copying words on a scroll was hardly a tedious task. It didn't involve a knife and skin, and it didn't involve a kennel or an over-exerted smile. All things considered, it was a very decent class. Astarion was certain he would pass it with no difficulty.

It couldn't be said for everyone around, however. Some students were hard at work, writing lines after lines. Others couldn’t prevent themselves from letting their eyes wander away from their scroll, their gaze lost in the blue sky above their head or on the old stones in front of them. Others again had completely given up and had managed to fall asleep on their parchment, drool joining ink to stain the paper alike.

Astarion finished his chapter well before the end of the hour. Looking at the students around him, it was obvious that they were not writing as quickly and deciphering as easily as he was. The centuries he had over them couldn't be ignored and Astarion was not unhappy about it.

Of course, he was above being happy about outperforming toddlers.

But not by much.

The end of the hour was getting near when something was thrown at Astarion. It was light and small and it bounced back and fell on the table. Astarion picked up what was a piece of parchment crumpled into a tiny ball. He opened it and flattened the paper.

'I was in our common room last night. You weren't there.'

Astarion raised his eyes to spot Shadowheart looking at him intently.

"Where were you?" she mouthed without making any sound.

"Who knows?" Astarion answered in the same way.

He crumbled the piece of parchment back into a ball and slipped it in his bag for later disposal.

When the hour was up, the books didn't disappear, which was very unfortunate for the small backs that would now have to carry them every day. Astarion didn't mind it too much; the scars only hurt on the bad days. The children got up, all leaving the Great Hall for their next class. Astarion's classmates followed their seniors out of the large room but, once outside, they stopped, unsure as to what to do.

"Our first class is Charms with Ravenclaw," Horace said. "It says that it is on the third floor of the Astronomy Tower."

"But where's the Astronomy Tower?" Soress asked.

"It should be... this way."

Horace pointed at the large stairs on their left.

"Or... this way."

He pointed at the wide door in front of them. The door and the staircase being the only ways out of the entrance hall where they were, the boy was probably right.

Astarion knew where the Charms classroom was, of course he did. But it was the sort of unsuspectable knowledge that gave power and opportunities, which were two things that should never be given away. But being late to class would make people notice him and this was the exact opposite of what he wanted.

Before he could even hesitate as to what to do, he spotted someone from the corner of his eye.

"Ravenclaw, you say?" he asked rhetorically before walking away from the group of Slytherins.

He bridged the distance separating him from the boy he had met yesterday, one Gale Dekarios.

"You seem to be of the clever kind," he told the child in lieu of greetings.

Compliments were always welcome in every conversation; that was Astarion's empirical conviction.

"Well... I guess I am not poor in the way of the mind, if I may say so myself. Why?"

"Surely, you know where the Charms classroom is."

"I admit that I read much more about Hogwarts' history than about its layout, but I did ask one of our prefects for a detailed itinerary. You can follow us if you want."

Astarion didn't want to, but it solved his problem nicely. When they saw him walk away after a group of Ravenclaws, his housemates ran up to them, following the helpful guides.

"We could have asked my sister," Detrocius whispered to Lysandra. "It wouldn't have been better than asking them ."

The boy's disdain was hearable and so were the words since the two children were terrible at whispering quietly. Gale, who was still next to Astarion, ignored the remark though there was no way he hadn't heard it. A short Ravenclaw girl heard it as well however and she asked Gale.

"What's that about?"

"Nothing that you have to pay any mind to."

"They don't like us?"

"Slytherins don't like anyone," a Ravenclaw boy said.

"This is not true," Shadowheart said. "We like people who are interesting. Admittedly, this is not a lot of people."

"You have family that went to Slytherin?" Gale asked her.

Astarion had heard a girl who shared her last name but she had been sent to Hufflepuff.

"A few siblings, yes," Shadowheart answered.

It had to be older siblings then but it was not what mattered. No, all that mattered was that this remark was an opportunity for Astarion to start growing, here too, one-sided bonds and a deceitful feeling of complicity.

"I have siblings too," he said. "How many do you have?"

Shadowheart sighed with a sober expression.

"Too many."

She didn't seem to like them. Astarion took note and changed his angle of approach.

"One sibling is too many siblings, if you ask me."

Her quick smile was telling Astarion that he had chosen the right reaction.

"I gather you have a lot of siblings too," Gale said, suddenly including in their conversation Lae'zel, who had been following them without saying a word.

"Why would you think that?"

"Well, doesn't K'liir come from the preserve?"

"You've heard of it?"

"Of course. One large family, I’ve been told. And no better dragon tamer than them."

"We don't tame them," Lae'zel said in a tone that sounded like she wasn't sure whether Gale was trying to be offensive or if he was simply stupid. "They're dragons."

"All right..." Gale simply concluded, not adding anything after the display of sensitivity hidden behind coldness.

Astarion had seen a few dragons before. One of them had been ridden by some evil-hunter who, a good century ago, had picked up on the magic around the Master's lair. The Master had made quick work of the hunter, defeating her with magic before finishing her with fangs. But Astarion and his siblings had struggled with the dragon. Astarion still remembered the extensive burns he had suffered on that night, both from the dragon and the punishment that had followed for their unacceptable lack of efficiency.

After that failed attempt at conversation that Lae'zel had shut down with confused disdain, the small group walked in awkward silence. The Ravenclaws in front of them were talking excitedly about what could possibly await them in the classroom. Behind them, the Slytherins were whispering among themselves about matters Astarion quickly understood he didn't care about.

As they were getting closer to their objective, Astarion stopped in front of a door they were passing by.

"What is it?" Gale asked, slowing down and waiting for Astarion for some reason.

"I just need to use the bathroom. Don't wait for me."

"But how will you know where the classroom is, then?"

"Go ahead. I'll ask another student."

The boy ultimately did as asked, walking away after one last glance.

Astarion hadn't lied. He needed to use the bathroom indeed, though not in a way anyone would have expected. He pushed the door and, ignoring the three chatting boys by the sink, he entered one of the stalls. They were all empty so, after having chosen the one farthest from the entrance of the room, Astarion closed the door behind him and locked it. He turned around for the sake of appearances if anyone was to see his feet under the partitions but that was all he did. He didn't sit down; instead, he opened his bag.

The Master hating noises, Astarion had become very good at being silent and it was without making any sound that he slipped his hand inside and retrieved the bottle he had snatched. He observed it for a little while, trying to understand how it worked. He couldn't uncork it. Yesterday, he had ultimately managed to rip it out of the hole but given how it had torn into pieces in his fist, it probably wasn't the way.  He was wondering if he needed to do any magic about it. A part of yesterday's blood had ended up having to be licked off the floor and he would prefer to prevent a repeat of the last time, if he could. But if it was magic indeed, Astarion was in a rather tricky situation as he didn't know any spell.

He was about to give up when he thought of something. The strange texture of the gum, its shape... Unsure of what he was doing, Astarion brought it to his mouth and, still unsure, he bit into the appendix.

His fangs pierced it effortlessly and the second they did, something shrank inside the bottle and the blood bursted out of the twin tears with the exact same force as if it had been coming from a pulsing jugular. The spray hit the back of Astarion's throat and, even though he gagged, he didn't stop drinking. Astarion knew better than to ever let go of food.

He only took his fangs out of the tears when the blood had definitely stopped spurting out. They slid out with a quiet noise of suction. It was then that he realized, looking at the bottle, that its punt had been pushed up, all the way to its shoulder. It had been that shrinking that had sent the blood flying, imitating the pressure of a living artery.

His tongue mindlessly licking his teeth to collect what was left of the blood, Astarion was about to put the bottle back in his bag when it vanished from his hand. He didn't know when he would have the next one but at least he was satiated for now and much more so than he ever was at home.

Would the Master make him pay for this? The thought was frightening and Astarion barely noticed that he was throwing Shadowheart's note before flushing it away. He stepped out of the cubicle and, still in that weird and stunt state, he walked to the sink, washed his hands for the sake of pretenses he never let go of and exited the bathroom.

He continued to make his way toward the classroom but there was one thing that he hadn't thought about and that hit him a few seconds later. He was standing on the threshold of one of the doors leading out of the Ravenclaw tower. There was a bridge linking it to the Astronomy tower. A suspension bridge more exactly.

And it was outside. Under a shower of sunlight.

Once again, just like before, Astarion froze. He tried to snap himself out of the contemplation but it wasn't fascination that was keeping him stunned. Or not just that. Astarion could feel a warm breath of wind against his skin. Air heated by the sun. It wasn't just light. It was direct rays.

With a mixture of fear and curiosity, Astarion fought against everything his instinct was screaming at him and he took a step closer. Then another one. Then a third one.

He was now just at the threshold between shadow and light. He knew he shouldn't. He knew even more that it hurt. But…

It was right here. Within reach. It had never been this close, this... tangible.

So, even though he knew exactly what would happen, he did it anyway. He extended his hand and, palm up, he collected the light. He watched, both horrified and entranced, the droplet of light falling on his skin like rainwater.

It lasted two full seconds. When the third one came, his hand burst into flames. With a yelp of pain, he jumped back, bringing his hand back and hugging in against his chest to smother the flames. There were a few students around and, though they hadn't been looking and thus had missed the flames, they heard his cry perfectly. Astarion heard a few snickers as all thought he had somehow scared himself but Astarion didn't mind them.

The pain was nothing, he was used to it. The disappointment, on the other hand, a burnt one... Astarion felt on the verge of throwing up. He had known it would happen. What other outcome could he have expected?

"Astarion, is it? Are you all right?"

Astarion turned around, hiding his burnt hand in the fold of his uniform. He recognized the Head Boy who had guided him to the Headmaster's office the day before.

"Perfectly yes," he said though he crafted a slightly scared expression for himself. "It's just that I saw a spider."

Children were skittish like that, weren't they?

"Oh, you don't like those?" Halsin asked. "They are often found scary, yes, for some reason."

Astarion liked them a lot. He was allowed to eat them.

"They are. Everyone is scared of them, me included."

 He was sounding very normal right now. He had even said it a little bit louder so that the student walking by them could unconsciously hear it.

"I wonder if it is their number of legs," Halsin mused aloud.

"No, it's the bite. Things that bite are scary."

"Perhaps... Now, I truly wish I could stay here and talk about arachnids and unloved beings but sadly, I have potions. Are you certain that you are all right?"

"Yes, absolutely."

With a pat on Astarion's shoulder, Halsin walked away, leaving Astarion alone. The few students who were still around left as well, going to their class or to better places to enjoy free time. Soon, the corridor was deserted.

Astarion looked at the bridge and at the light pouring over it. Ah, it was back. His screaming survival instinct. It had never left but now there was no other noise preventing it from being heard. So Astarion stepped back. Getting his hand out of the fold that had hidden it, he brought it to his chest and sat down on the cold step of a stair leading to more shadows. He stayed there, looking at the bridge. He knew he should be going to class. But how? He had studied the maps and yet he couldn't come up with a single path leading to the other side of the bridge. The thoughts were stuttering in his head and they just wouldn't tell him the answer.

Godey had not done his job correctly, it seemed.

So he stayed there, as the hour was passing him by. He could have stayed longer without thinking anything of it. He was aware he was doing something forbidden. There would be retaliation for it. But what could he even do about it?

When a distant clock started to strike ten and the first break, students poured out of every turn and every door, eager to get to whatever courtyard or room they preferred. While everyone walked around him, in every direction, Astarion stayed where he was. He vaguely brought himself an inch on his left, pressing his shoulder against the wall to not be in the middle of the way, but that was all he did.

His hand was slow to heal. Sunlight felt exactly like running water, both of which were not that easy to regenerate from. But Astarion was barely registering the pain. It was mild, all things considered. And, when it came to pain, there were a lot of things that Astarion could consider.

"Astarion?"

Why was everyone calling him? He was already in trouble, couldn't he be left alone?

"Is there something wrong? Professor Thaddeus told me that you didn't go to your Charms class."

Astarion kept his eyes on the floor. It had never worked on making everything disappear.

Why did he always find a way to screw things up?

Someone walked around him and crouched in front of him. Dumbledore's face and its shallow smile forced themselves into Astarion's line of sight.

"What is it, Astarion? Tell me."

"Nothing. It's just the morning break."

"It is, but your class before that was n-"

Dumbledore stopped in the middle of his sentence, his eyes on Astarion's hand. With slow, careful gestures, he took Astarion's wrist to bring the injured hand closer, where it could better be observed.

Astarion badly wanted to jerk away, but he knew better. Dumbledore had to believe that his 'student' liked him. Trusted him even. And it was not because he had already screwed up that his situation couldn't get worse. If the bat was watching, she would remember everything when they would be alone once more. So he let Dumbledore take his hand away.

The teacher observed it for a moment, taking in the sight of the limited yet serious burn that had melted the skin and had reached the flesh. Then he looked over his shoulder before going back to Astarion.

"Did you try to cross the bridge?"

"Yes, sir," Astarion stoically answered.

"Why didn't you use the underbridge?"

"The underbridge?"

Nothing like that had been on the maps. Or perhaps Astarion had forgotten. He would be in so much trouble tonight, when he would be back to his room.

"Yes, the underbridge I conjured for..."

Understanding that Astarion had no idea of what he was talking about, Dumbledore sighed.

"Professor Faustus was supposed to tell you about them. I gather that he did not."

"I'm sorry, sir."

"Don't be. It is not on you. It is our fault entirely, we should have made sure you knew everything you needed to know to safely go to class."

Astarion, who was an expert on façades that needed to be kept, could tell that Dumbledore wasn't thinking that the blame was on him. On someone else, however, that was for sure.

Astarion took note of it. All kind and helpful that he was acting, Dumbledore seemed to have no doubt in his mind that he was in no way similar to his colleagues. As for whether he believed that they were simply different or that they were inferior, Astarion had yet to figure it out.

"Come with me," Dumbledore told him, grabbing his elbow to help him to his feet. "I will show you the way to your next class but first, you and I will have the great privilege to tour the Hospital Wing. You will see, it has very lovely curtains and arches that are worth visiting."

Turning away from the bridge, Dumbledore began to guide Astarion toward the Hospital Wing. He kept his hold on Astarion's elbow and wrist, making sure that, in the sea of excited students, the injured hand wasn't bumped into and that no fabric was coming in direct contact with the burns. As they were walking, Dumbledore didn't let themselves fall into an awkward silence. Instead, believing that Astarion was not in the mood for conversation, he commented on what was around them, like a guide would have during a tour. He shared some anecdotes about this tapestry, some tidbit of knowledge about that specific step of that forgettable stair. A part of Astarion's brain registered everything that was being said to him for later use, but nothing else was truly reaching him. Dumbledore's cheerfulness was perhaps genuine, certainly even, but there was no doubt that it was there to distract Astarion from a pain he didn't mind.

Far away from his hand, Astarion's thoughts had managed to turn away from the bridge as well and were now completely focused on what would happen tonight.

The bat was not the Master. She was his spy and his slave but not him per se. But even without the Master around, even though she had yet to fly back to Transylvania to make a report about his Spawn, she was a tool and she was imbued with his will. If the Master would have been displeased by something, then she already was. And she would let Astarion know, since the Master couldn't for now.

"Here we are. You will soon be fully healed."

Thankfully, the bat couldn't read his thoughts and the Master was too far away for that. At the very least, they wouldn't know about his distraction while in the mark's presence. Bringing himself back to the present anyway, Astarion looked around.

If he had already known the proportion of this room, he was seeing it for the first time. His eyes lingered on the curtains. They were very forgettable as well.

"Oh, a new patient," a velvet voice said from behind a curtain. "Delightful."

With the clicking sound of heels hitting the stone floor, someone got out from behind one of the many curtains. It was a man who was already tall but whose strange silhouette was making even taller to a slightly intimidating degree. His eyes hidden behind amplifying glasses, he still had a clip-on magnifying glass that was resting against his forehead for now. He was dressed in a ostentatiously dandy outfit, with a generous ruff. Even though he had no idea what his 'new patient' was suffering from, he was already holding pointy and cutting tools in both hands.

"Astarion," Dumbledore said, "this is Nurse Thorm and he is our resident Healer."

"What may we do for you, patient of mine? There is nothing that we can cure you from."

Dumbledore encouragingly squeezed Astarion's elbow, as if to reassure him. Which wasn't all that necessary. Astarion knew many more scary people than this one.

"A burnt hand," Dumbledore told the nurse. "Sunlight."

"Sunlight? Oh, is it our new local vampire? Most fascinating. Now let's see that hand of yours."

      Nurse Thorm grabbed with his left hand the instruments that had been in his right one, right hand that he then used to grab Astarion's shoulder and drag him away from Dumbledore. With each of his steps, his heels and tools were clicking to create an anarchic polyphony. Leading Astarion to one of the beds, he sat him down on a mattress. He then bent over to bring his magnifying goggles an inch away from the burnt skin. After a second of observation, he pulled down the second lens over the first one and whispered to himself.

"Very fascinating, yes."

He looked up, his two layers of lenses now on Astarion.

"It will be very easy to heal; there is nothing to fear. We will simply skin your hand and get rid of all these painful burns. You will feel much better than."

"I am sure that there are less invasive methods," Dumbledore intervened.

The nurse's head snapped away, now fixed on Dumbledore and, even without seeing his eyes, Astarion could tell on some kind of sharp displeasure.

"Are you, now? Then pray tell, what methods are you thinking of?"

"Oh, I am not a Healer but... healing potions? Some Burn-Healing Paste perhaps. To use on burns."

The nurse straightened up with a dignified disdain.

"Such lack of creativity is verging on bad tastes. My patients do not come to me for such trivial, shallow cares. I expected better from you, Albus. You are more audacious in your essays."

Dumbledore chuckled lightly, his amusement here though moderate. Astarion detailed him intently, trying to see what effect insults had on him but he didn't spot anything beyond what was written on his face.

"Astarion has to go back to class in a few minutes. Skin on his writing hand would be most useful."

"If such is the decision, then I shall abide. But let it be remembered that my primary method would have brought much more beneficial effects."

"I will make sure to remember, Malus."

It wasn't long before Astarion's hand was generously covered with a thick layer of white ointment.

"It will not regenerate a skin that is already dead," the nurse said while bandaging the hand. "But it will clean what was burnt."

He didn't have to say it aloud to make it clear that he was still convinced that a skinning would have given off better results. Astarion knew from experience that he was right. No skin regenerated much faster than skin touched by consecrated water or light.

Once everything was bandaged, the nurse went back to his instruments, having lost all interest for his former patient.

Dumbledore guided him out of the hospital wing, in silence as the nurse was humming to himself. Once he had closed the door however, he turned to Astarion.

"Some students are a bit afraid of our Healer. Well... given how many students ask me to accompany them every week, most are I gather. But he is harmless. Most of the time. There has been very few skinnings."

"Thank you for telling him about the balm," Astarion said, creating a timid smile of relief and a pair of shining eyes to convey gratitude. "I'm not very fond of skinning."

For a strange reason, it made Dumbledore laugh. It was with a few seconds of delay that Astarion understood that his sentence had sounded like a joke.

Children weren't skinned, were they?

He hoped the bat would listen to him and let him explain that it had been on purpose, to grow complicity with Dumbledore. The hope wasn't high, however. Explanation never changed a thing.

"The break is over already," Dumbledore said, having checked his pocket watch. "You will be a bit late but I am sure he will understand."

It was Astarion's time to laugh. Dumbledore didn't follow him.

"What is it?" he asked.

Oh, so it hadn't been a joke.

"Nothing, sir. Nervousness."

When in doubt, always display harmlessness.

"I understand. It has been quite a morning, even by first days' standards. But you will see, before the end of the week, you will feel like you have always been here."

Someone would make sure that it wouldn't happen.

"Now, let's get ourselves on the way. We have a whole castle to cross."

Dumbledore began to walk away and Astarion followed him diligently. The teacher had much longer legs than him yet, unlike every tall person Astarion was used to being around, he made sure to keep a pace that Astarion could follow without trotting.

"I would like to ask you if you enjoyed any subject so far but you only got to experience a class of Magic Theory, didn't you? Not the best profile of Hogwarts' curriculum."

"I don't hate it," Astarion said.

He had learned about Dumbledore that the man had published many articles on the matter and was believed to be rather fond of it.

"I actually like it very much," he added.

"Really? Most unusual. Though I have to admit that I have a soft spot for it. Perhaps because of its niche charm."

"You liked it? Just like me?"

How conveniently similar they were.

"I did, yes, and still do. Though, in my time, it was three hours of it every day. It was believed to be the basis of everything. Now, more people start to think that teaching theory through practical prisms leads to students growing a better comprehension of it, if a bit less knowledge. It becomes more and more a teacher's responsibility to educate on the theory relevant to their subject. Which is for the better really, what is knowledge without comprehension."

"Not a lot," Astarion commented, guessing that it was Dumbledore's opinion.

"It is my opinion as well."

He had been right.

"Magic Theory is doomed to disappear and it is for the better. My colleagues are convinced that there will always be at least a few hours of it but I disagree. In a few decades, students won't be asked to blindly copy pages and pages of books. Or only by resolutely hidebound teachers."

Astarion nodded along.

"I think you're right, sir."

That made Dumbledore smile.

"I am glad to meet a bright idea-sharer. We shall see if time proves us right against all odds."

"It's us against them all," Astarion, Dumbledore's now sole ally, said.

Astarion wanted to check what effect his words had but he spotted from the corner of his eye a door he knew.

The burning bridge.

Astarion, taken by full surprise, immediately jumped back. He didn't want to burn!

"Everything is all right," Dumbledore said, his soft voice hardly covering the sound of sizzling skin in Astarion's ear. "There is nothing to fear; you are perfectly safe."

Astarion didn't want to come closer. Godey was not here, the Master was not here, he had no order and he didn't want to go into the fire

"Astarion?"

When he was near sources of pain, Astarion always answered when called.

"Yes, sir?"

"You won't be hurt, I promise you."

Dumbledore, who was now facing him, took a few steps back. He soon reached a small door which, though near the wall separating the corridor from the outside, was actually perpendicular to it.

"Come here," he told Astarion. "The underbridge is safe for you to cross."

The door being away from the sun, Astarion obeyed and came closer. Dumbledore  opened it and Astarion saw, on the other side of the panel, a tight spiral staircase that was going straight down. It was darker there so Astarion was willing to follow the teacher down. There were very few steps and it was leading to a corridor that was just as narrow. With a single turn, there was only one way to go. When he took it, Astarion understood that it was leading to some sort of under layer of the bridge. The wood bathed in sunlight was above his head and sturdy ropes were securing the planks on which Astarion was staying. Thick pieces of linen had been stretched between the vertical lines of ropes, keeping the bridge isolated from any light.

"Lumos," Dumbledore cast, making the tip of his wand shine.

Astarion didn't need it, perfectly able to see in the dark, but it allowed the teacher to see where he was going.

"Such passage has been built under every bridge of this castle, apart from the south exit one but as it leads to nothing but the park, it will not be of much use to you during the day. Those underbridges will make sure that you can safely go anywhere in the castle."

Dumbledore had started to cross the bridge when he noticed that Astarion was still on the threshold between the stone and the wood.

"Is there something wrong?"

"No, sir. Nothing at all."

The uneasiness that came with bridge-crossing was the purview of ancient vampires such as the Master and his Spawn. The vampires who grew and aged didn't mind them. Astarion couldn't afford to display unwellness.

"I'm simply... happy that you did all that for me. No one ever bothers."

He tightened his tie and, hiding his disquiet under a moved emotion, he crossed the bridge.

"This is quite normal. Every student here is entitled to have their needs be met."

Astarion was all too glad to reach the other side of the bridge.

How many times a day would he be made to do that, exactly?

The rest of their walk to Astarion's next class was short, as the bridge opened directly onto the wide and high hall making for the base of the tower and where most classes were taking place. Astarion feigned lostness and Dumbledore guided him to the right door. He knocked on it a couple of times and waited. A few moments later, the door opened and a small child appeared. Astarion recognized her as one of the Ravenclaw students.

"Professor Faustus, he said that lateness can stay at the door."

She was obviously repeating something she had been told and she looked over her shoulder to make sure that she had gotten it right.

"Very understandable, Rosia," he smiled to a girl who was stupefied by the fact that he knew her name. "However, I am sure that Professor Faustus is willing to be understanding given the situation."

There was a moment of silence and, given how the girl simply left them at the door, she had to have been told to go back to her seat. Not long after, the teacher that Astarion had noticed earlier today appeared.

"I am bringing you your student," Dumbledore told his colleague. "He would have arrived on time if I hadn't made him go to the hospital wing first."

The other teacher looked down, eyeing Astarion and his bandaged hand.

"I gather that he wouldn't have to be sent to the hospital wing if he had been more careful."

His voice had a soft and rich complexity to it that was skillfully hiding its cold undertone.

"And he would have had the opportunity to be careful if he had been told how to cross bridges safely," Dumbledore continued without losing his polite smile. "We could continue to wind up the thread of causes for the sake of enjoyment but we already took enough of your time. Astarion is eager to learn and I am eager to get back to my own students."

There was a short battle of will between the two teachers and thought Faustus didn't seem to have lost it, he did step aside.

"I hope we will get to enjoy your presence at lunch, Monarch," Dumbledore said cheerfully before turning around and walking away.

It was with a mere gesture of his chin that Faustus ordered Astarion to come inside and find a seat.

The classroom was organized in groups of students, all gathered around complex glassware and vials of all shapes and sizes that weren't without reminding him of the palace's laboratory where the Master was doing some of his research.

There were multiple seats available, the space taken by the glassware too large to be fully surrounded by the students. Astarion's eyes skimmed over the whole room, registering everyone's position in a second.

Wanting to be seen as a pleasantly good student — and also wanting to prevent the Master's anger if he was to fail a class —, Astarion walked toward the boy who appeared to be the most knowledgeable about magic. Gale didn't hesitate to move his book and parchments to make some space for the late comer.

Once Astarion was seated however, he glanced at the bandaged hand and the sight brought a prideful smile to his face.

"So you are a vampire," he stated as the teacher was resuming his lesson. "Who could have thought?"