Finished Linger No More

Aamon’s breath hitched as he stepped inside the greenhouse, his fingers clenching around the strap of his satchel. His cousin’s presence filled the room before he’d even looked up, the kind of confidence that didn’t need words to announce itself. He’d always admired that about Jurgen—how he could own a space without having to fight for it.

But today, admiration was the furthest thing from his mind.

“Thank you,” Aamon started, his voice thin but earnest. “For coming, I mean.” He shifted his weight from foot to foot, his knuckles white where they gripped the strap. “I—I didn’t know who else to go to.” There was of course his brothers, none of whom he trusted. Mathias and Gideon were playing their own games, if he got in their way he would likely lose his head. Vladimir had changed in the months following his death, he had a simmering anger and a darkness that took away the fragile spark of life he once had. He was not even sure what Vladimir was anymore. Then there was his other cousin, Erin. She was always crazy. Her branch, the black sheeps of the clan, she was unpredictable, nonsensical and dangerous. He did not trust the Professors, they had hired a hitman to teach them defense against the dark arts. The vetting process was deplorable he reasoned. As for peers, they had proven themselves as untrustworthy and dangerous in their own way, his thoughts landing on Avis and even older students like Finnegan and Percival who seemed to have a vendetta against him.

He looked up then, and the words came tumbling out faster than he could stop them.

“It’s been a nightmare,” he said, his voice raw. “Everything’s—everything’s falling apart, and I can’t—” He cut himself off, drawing in a shaky breath. “I don’t even know where to start.”

His fingers trembled as he pushed back his sleeve, revealing faint marks where nails had clawed at his wrist during one of the dolls’ attacks. He shoved it down quickly, as though seeing it made it worse.

“There was this upperclassman—Percival Grey. He cornered me in the dungeons, asking questions about Mathias. Then it was Vladimir—he wanted his address. I didn’t—I didn’t give him precisely what he wanted but close, he wouldn’t let up.”

Aamon’s voice wavered, but he forced himself to keep going.

“And then the dolls… Merlin, Jurgen, I don’t even know how to explain them.” He took a shaky breath, his eyes darting to the cracked glass. “They—they look like me. They started out faceless, but they changed. And they move. I’ve seen them—I’ve felt them.”

His voice dropped lower, the words barely above a whisper now. “They’ve hurt people. Other students. And me.” He swallowed hard, his hand tightening around the strap again. “They’re trying to drag me into the forest, especially on the new moon. But I know better. I do. I’m not stupid—I know what’s out there. Hags—creatures. It’s not safe. But they keep trying.”

Aamon exhaled sharply, his shoulders trembling now. He looked smaller than ever, his eyes wide and darting, searching the shadows as though the dolls might slink out of them at any moment.

“And then Professor Lécuyer—he’s a hit wizard, Jurgen. You know what that means. He’s dangerous.” His voice cracked. “Finn—Finnegan Connor dragged him into this. He thinks he’s helping, but he’s not. He—he... Finn, that is, petrified me.”

Aamon’s fists clenched. “In the courtyard. I couldn’t move, Jurgen. I couldn’t breathe. And then Lécuyer shows up, and he’s asking me questions, and—and I can’t trust him. I can’t trust anyone. Not when Finn’s out there playing hero while—”

He swallowed hard, his voice barely holding together.

“While he’s obsessed with our family and up to something with Gideon,” he spat, the words bitter on his tongue. “In Hogsmeade they were caught making out. Like it’s all just a game. Like none of this matters.”

Aamon’s breathing quickened again, his chest rising and falling unevenly. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to steady himself, but when he opened them again, the fear was still there—wide and unrelenting.

“Please, Jurgen,” he said, his voice cracking. “You know things. You’re smart—you’re careful. There has to be something. Anything. Some spell, some trick, some—something. I can’t—”

His voice faltered, and for the first time, he let the words out.

“I can’t do this alone.”

Aamon’s shoulders slumped, his hands trembling as they fell to his sides. He looked up at Jurgen then, his expression raw—fear, desperation, and just the faintest flicker of hope.

Jurgen leaned back against the crooked frame of the greenhouse, arms crossed tightly over his chest. His sharp eyes didn’t waver from Aamon, studying the younger boy as if trying to peel back every layer he’d built up to protect himself. Fear clung to him like smoke, choking and inescapable.

Jurgen had seen that fear before—years ago. Vladimir, younger, brighter, before everything about him had calcified into the polite, calculating stranger he was now. And yet, even back then, there had been something dangerous simmering under the surface. Aamon, for all his fear, didn’t have that. Not yet.

But fear had a way of turning sharp edges jagged.

Jurgen exhaled sharply through his nose, trying to focus. Yet he smelled blood. "You’re sure about this?" he asked, his voice low and measured. "Everything you just told me? The dolls. The forest. The professor. All of it?"

He already knew the answer. Aamon wasn’t like the others. He didn’t lie. This fact made young Aamon a liability in a family built on secrets, but it also made him easier to trust.

Jurgen’s jaw tensed as he pushed away from the wall. "This isn’t just bad luck, Aamon. These dolls—you said they change, look more like you over time? That’s not just dark magic. That’s binding magic." He began pacing, boots scuffing against the worn stone floor. "What you’re describing sounds like hagwork—or worse. Those things aren’t just tormenting you; they’re trying to become you."

He stopped, staring down at his cousin with something close to pity. "That kind of magic isn’t random. It’s crafted. Like a curse stitched together piece by piece." He hesitated, the words sharp and bitter on his tongue. "There was a man—a squib. They called him The Toymaker."

Jurgen’s voice dropped lower, edged with something like disdain. "He was a lunatic. Made deals with the wrong people—hags. Spent his miserable life making toys—dangerous ones, ones that twisted and moved and obeyed commands he barely understood. He didn’t stop until they found him dead in the castle’s basement." He was referring to Hogwarts castle a few years prior. he was not among the students that had stumbled upon him in the maze that was the bowels beneath the castle. He was glad of that. Oddly enough, nobody really asked too many questions after he was found and buried as a John Doe. The strange toys found there destroyed before they could tether themselves to an unlucky child, perhaps they missed a few he considered.

His mouth pressed into a thin line. "The only thing left of him was bones and that glove. It’s an artifact—old magic, dangerous magic. It was bound to a mask that could make people do whatever the wearer wanted. It was stolen from the Ministry and its true purpose in all of this remains unknown. But the Toymaker’s death should have ended everything. He no longer exists to make his terrible creations. The dolls—those dolls—shouldn’t even exist anymore." He paused, this happened before many of the present faculty had come to Hogwarts. "What did the Professor have to say about these dolls, did you tell him?"

Jurgen let out a breath, his voice sharp with certainty. "And the hags? They’re dead too. I saw it happen. Your father paid good money—more than I care to think about—to end both covens. Vladimir killed the last one himself. You remember that, don’t you? He never talked about it, but he did it."

He leaned in slightly, his tone hard. "So whatever’s happening now? It shouldn’t be possible. Not unless someone—something—is trying to bring it all back."

He stopped suddenly, his expression hardening as his eyes fixed on Aamon. "You said the dolls came from who?"

Aamon’s mouth felt dry, and his heart hammered against his ribs. His eyes darted to the door, as though expecting shadows to crawl in through the cracks and drag him screaming into the forest.

"They—" His voice caught. He swallowed, tasting bile. "They came from a nun I think. Sister Mary. She—she gave them to me."

He exhaled shakily, looking down at his trembling hands. "It was supposed to be a gift. Something to—to help me feel less alone. But they weren’t right from the start. They… watched me." He smiled strangely. "And I was stupid," he admitted, looking down, afraid to meet Jurgen's gaze. "I thought... I could use them," he admitted without going any deeper. "But, it did not work that way."

His voice cracked. "They changed. I woke up one night and—and this strange caricature of myself was sitting at the edge of my bed, just looking at me."

Aamon squeezed his eyes shut, trying to push the image out of his mind. "Another time, looking at one of my dormmates while they slept with this terrible look on its face. I thought I was losing it. Getting paranoid y'know. Thought maybe it was me—that I was cursed, or broken, or…"

He sucked in a breath, trying to hold himself together. "But then they came after Avis," a girl that Jurgen did not know so the name was not particularly relevant. "And another one in my dorms. They ended up cutting off my hand," his voicer quavered with the recollection. "And I knew it was beyond me."

His voice dropped lower, barely above a whisper. "I don’t understand. You said the hags are gone. That they’re dead. But the dolls—this—it’s happening anyway. What if something’s still out there? What if it never left?"

The greenhouse suddenly felt smaller, the air heavier. Jurgen’s sharp features darkened, his shoulders tensing as he took in the name, Sister Mary.

"Sister Mary?"

Jurgen's voice came out low and cold, a dangerous edge creeping into it. "Are you sure?"

The Gryffindor didn’t wait for Aamon to answer. He already knew the truth.

"Merlin’s rotting teeth." Aamon was an absolute idiot. What nun did he even know? They had told him enough stories about hags, dark magic, the crueler elements of the magical world and of man. Jurgen dragged a hand down his face, pacing the length of the greenhouse again. "That name—it’s not just a name, Aamon. It’s a title. Hags—when they take a title like ‘Mother’ or ‘Grandmother’ or ‘Sister,’ it’s more than just what they’re called. It’s a rank. A status." The only positive he could take from the exchange was that she had used the term sister.

His eyes narrowed. "Vladimir was supposed to end her. Marion, that is. She was the one he hunted, the one he hated." His voice dipped lower. "And he did. Or at least, he thought he did." Marion had been the source of torment for Vladimir for years, but Jurgen did not understand the full extent of what she had done or if she was always a hag or if she had undergone the change like their cousin Erin nearly had. She did not have the same terrible symptoms. The same descent into madness, and he wondered if it was different for others. If Erin was simply unique. he did not think she was.

Jurgen’s pacing stopped abruptly, and he turned back toward Aamon, his gaze sharp. "But if she’s back—or if someone’s using her name—then this isn’t just about the dolls. It’s about revenge."

He paused, his jaw tight. "The hags have had their hooks in your family for years," he called the family Aamon's rather than his own. The distance made the teen feel better about his blood bonds. "Uncle Thaddeus, your dad, made sure of that. Deals, pacts—broken promises. It was why there were no women left in the line. None, except Morgantha and she is not one of us by blood."

Jurgen’s voice dipped, his words bitter. "And now? Now it’s you. And if they can’t take you, they’ll replace you or kill you."

He straightened, his expression unreadable. "You’re not safe here, Aamon. Not in this school—not anywhere."

Jurgen stepped closer, his eyes hard. "You need to tell me everything about this Sister Mary. Every word she said. Every detail. If she’s back—or if someone else has taken her name—we’re out of time."

Aamon’s hands trembled as he sat hunched over the edge of the bench, his voice barely above a whisper. "I—I never met her. Not once. She—she sent me a letter. Just before I started at Hogwarts." His breath hitched, and his eyes darted nervously toward Jurgen, searching for reassurance he doubted he’d find.

His fingers twisted anxiously in his lap as he continued, his words quick and panicked, like if he didn’t let them out now, they’d choke him. "It came with the dolls. Three of them. I didn’t—I didn’t think anything of it at first." He swallowed hard. "I thought—I don’t know what I thought. That maybe someone actually cared?"

Aamon’s voice cracked, and he squeezed his eyes shut. "The letter—it said things that I… things I felt. It was like she knew. Like she’d been watching me."

He swallowed again, the words bubbling out faster. "She said I was alone. That my family only cared about their legacy and their bloodline, not me. That I’d never be free of them, not really. And then she sent the dolls, called them my ‘friends.’ She said they’d take care of me—keep me safe."

He laughed, sharp and bitter. "Safe," he spat the word like it was poison. "Maybe at first..." he muttered darkly.

His hands gripped his knees tightly, his knuckles going white. "I never wrote back. I didn’t even know where to send the letter," come to think of it, that was a bit weird. "But I didn’t destroy the letter, either. She told me to, but I didn’t. It’s—it’s at home. Hidden under my mattress. No one would’ve found it." The confidence of a child who honestly believed nobody else had ever thought of hiding something beneath their mattress.

His voice dropped lower, barely audible. "And I never heard from her again. Not once. Just the letter, and the dolls, and then nothing."

Finally, Aamon looked up, desperation clear in his pale, mismatched eyes. "What do I do? What if she’s still out there? What if she’s watching me?"

Jurgen let out a low breath, trying to steady the roiling sense of unease in his gut. It didn’t work. He felt sick. Jurgen had thought he’d heard everything. That nothing about his family could still shock him. But this?

This was bad. Real bad.

He stepped back, raking a hand through his thick, dark hair as he let Aamon’s words hang heavy in the air. He needed a moment—just a moment—to think. His sharp, calculating mind latched onto the details, dissecting them with the efficiency of a man who’d learned long ago to hide his own fears and shortcomings behind logic.

Sister Mary.

The name rang in his ears like a curse. A shadow dragged out of the grave. Marion Davenport. Marion was a girl in Slytherin two years ahead of him. Pretty muggleborn that had caught Vladimir's eye unsurprisingly. She was not particularly interested in Vladimir, but she gave him the attention he desired. Stringing him along with unspoken promises of something more. For years he had thought Vladimir was the villain in the scenario, and to this day Vladimir deserved a portion of the blame. He pursued that girl dangerously. When she found herself entangled with Vladimir's bully, the son of a man that worked for his father, Thaddeus, Vladimir was incapable of accepting the rejection. He sought out the hags that had moved into the Forbidden forest, the hags his father had warned him away from to seek vengeance.

Jurgen knew now that he was baited, but that did not make what Vladimir had done any better. He still made the cruel and terrible decisions he made. His arrogance was his undoing.

But in the end, Marion was the villain. Vladimir could vindicate himself by killing her. He killed her. Jurgen had seen the aftermath. The bones. The ash. Did he lie? But the letter… the words… sounded exactly like something a hag would write. Coaxing, manipulative, preying on fear and insecurity. He could almost hear it, slithering off the page.

He looked at Aamon—the trembling boy with too many questions and too few answers—and felt the weight of responsibility settle in his chest like lead.

"You’re right to be scared," Jurgen finally said, his voice steady but edged with tension. "This isn’t just some coincidence, Aamon. It’s not just bad luck."

He sat down across from him, his sharp features hardening into something unreadable. "What you’re describing? That letter? That’s a hag’s voice. It’s exactly how they talk. And the fact that she knew what to say—how to get inside your head? That’s not random." That is calculated.

Jurgen leaned in, his dark eyes sharp and unwavering. "They know you. They know us. All of us. They have been hovering about our family for a generation."

He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in. "And Marion? Sister Mary? She was the worst of them." Not because she was powerful. No. Because she was able to make it seem as if she was one of them.

Jurgen’s voice dipped lower. "Vladimir was supposed to end her. I don’t know how. I don’t know what he did, exactly, but I know it wasn’t clean. It wasn’t easy. It should not have been easy in any case. And if—" He stopped, his jaw tightening before he forced the words out. "If she’s still out there—if someone’s using her name—it means something went wrong. Badly wrong."

He pushed himself back to his feet, pacing now as he thought aloud. "Those dolls—if they’re what I think they are, they don’t just appear. They’re made. Crafted. It takes time. It takes intention. And the fact that they’re tied to you means someone—something—wants you replaced."

Jurgen stopped pacing, turning back to Aamon with sudden finality. "We can’t handle this alone."

His voice was low but firm. "We need to take this to Vladimir."

Jurgen held up a hand before Aamon could protest. "I know you’re scared of him. Hell, sometimes I’m scared of him too. But if there’s anyone who can deal with this, it’s Vlad. He knows the hags better than anyone. And he won’t let anything happen to you."

Jurgen stepped closer, his gaze serious. "I’ll go with you. But you have to trust me, Aamon. This isn’t going away on its own. If we don’t do something—fast—you won’t be able to fight it. And neither will I."