Barter and Bargains Private Closed

Oh, the power of alcohol. Many of us encounter it during our teenage years at social gatherings. For some, it has the power to reduce the awareness of your own feelings, allowing one to let go. Then, after the affects wear off and we wake the next day, there’s instant regret. Not only for that pounding headache or that late night trip to the refrigerator, but for the actions you took. Exposing your feelings to your crush, taking off your clothes and jumping into a pool, or worst of all, getting on the broom. The dreaded FWI.

In the case of Thomas Lestrange, his initial experience differed from the norm. Once he passed the lackadaisically giddy stage, he found himself losing control. Not like a drunk wandering down a street. The neurons failed to fire to his muscles, freezing him in place. One by one, the other students drifted away while Thomas stay there, fixed on a new presence. This loss of control would not be immediately defined by the boy, was it fear?

Then came the screams. A boy’s voice he was familiar with, the same scream he heard in the library before the bookshelves came crashing down like dominoes. But this time was different, the scream was not consumed by rage, but horror. Thomas’ heart rate quickened pace, he trembled in place, though still unable to move his body. He was helpless with no time to contemplate; a new presence emerges.

Gentle splashes of water mixed in with the occasional gusts of wind, trees gently shaking in the distance. Something was nearing, but the boy could not see it through the dark mist. First came the rancid odor, comparable to his hockey pads after a game. Next, he saw it. That twisted nose, wide sinister grin, the protuberant warts littered across it’s shape. If he was now able to move, he would not anyway, frozen in fear. I’m never drinking again.

Thomas tried to fathom what he was witnessing. Was the butterbeer also a hallucinogenic? Not the case, the pungent scent overwhelmed his senses in disgust. And then it spoke. A feminine tone that creaked like an ancient door, each word carefully spaced out.

"My... my...A little boy who wandered too far..."

In his defense he hasn't moved.

SNAP!

Thomas shuddered in place, the water crashed against his shoulders, splashing towards his neck. It circled his frame with meticulous examination. His fingers curled under the water as this thing began to sniff. He could feel the air circulate along his neck, if not dampened the hairs would ascend. Bumps formed with chills spreading through his frame. Complexion faded as if a white pastel colored in his cheeks. An apprehensive move with his left hand to grasp his side, fingers frantically feeling out for his wand. It was not there. Was he to talk his way out of this one? No, with each moment Thomas took in his surroundings, counting each breath. I die here today.

Thomas collected all the courage he could latch onto, and searched for the words, a simple question. He closed his eyes, tilting his head to the side, attempting to avoid the creature’s touch. “Wh-what do you want with me?” If he was to die on this day, Thomas would in the very least try to understand why.

The crone would hover and linger, so close he could feel her lack of heat. It seems to take his. There was this primal hunger, this instinct to... eat. Her sallow, sunken eyes looked hungry. They always did. He would incline his body away from her touch. The tips of her jagged, rough nails would scrape the threads of his shirt, cutting the threads as if a razor had sliced through his clothes. 

The creature was not only dangerous but also intelligent in a primal manner. 

“Wh-what do you want with me?”

"No," she cackled. He did not ask a yes or a no question. "But as your kind often does..." her voice trailed off as she circled the boy. "You never ask the right question. And it is not a part of the game to ask what question you should ask." The water murky outlining the trail she walked. "But we want to play a game... with you." There was not a single game in this world that boy should play with this old woman. 

"The sort of game you live," she raises a hand and lays it down upon his shoulder. The nails with blackened and filthy. The phalanges gnarled but adorning each a gaudy ring. The metal tarnished, the gems dim and dirty. Her would feel the weight of her hand, it was like a ball of lead. The palms rough, like sandpaper that he could feel even through the thin, warm-weather clothes he donned. "The sort of game you cannot help but play," she continued. "The sort of game you will want to play," she declared with the arrogance of a queen and the face of a leper.

The question was not What but rather Why?

The question unasked, but not unanswered. Consider it a favor. A freebie. "Bile in your blood. Fetid flesh. The rancor goes all the way to your bones. A treasure rather than a treat." Despite her words however her face would hover closer to him. Just a little nibble even if he was not her flavor. Her jaw snapped as if it popped from socket. Like a snake that dislocates its jaw to swallow a mouse whole.

"No-no!" She rebuked herself out-loud. "Upsets our tummy. Bones no good. The meat has already gone bad" she was not talking to Thomas but rather herself or perhaps an unseen observer. "But we wants just a taste," her jaw agape the halitosis that escaped her chapped lips through opened maw had an almost visual quality. The sort of stench where the mind manufactures a cloud that can be seen, this pea green cloud that lingers. Of course, that was only imaginary. 

"We can see it, how you are wrong."

He did not look wrong. He looked like a normal boy. But mundane or pretty packages can hide a wicked surprise. No it was something inside of him. This ticking time bomb. This knot of frustration. This muted aggression. This dangerous quality that is only restrained by social norms, weakness and fear.  

"Always wrong."

She continued.

"And now in a place where darkness and light come together. Rather than die in the same puddle you pissed in, we have an opportunity for you. One where you get to live. One where you get to have fun. One where you get to laugh rather than be the punchline... All we need from you is a statement," she announced. Thomas did not realize it, young wizards rarely do. The power of everything. Their intent. Their stance. Their motion. The sinew and hair of something magical. That he was magical. That his very blood was flooded with magic. The power of his words. 

"Tell me, what is it that you most desire?"

To a child this is never something well thought out. Something carefully planned. Often ambitious, lofty, childish, thoughtless. But more than that, a reflection of their heart. Sometimes of things that he did not even realize he wanted, not until he said it. 

• His father's love.
• His secret resentment of the one woman he truly 'loved' -- his mother.
• Power.
• Revenge.
• Wealth
• Fame

Of course, nothing good would come from what he says. He might earn briefly his heart's truest intent, but every want comes with a cost. A terrible price that one should never pay and the reward misery. Wishes granted to the letter of the world but there is an old adage about being careful about what you wish for. Regretting your victory when the time comes to pass.

As it spoke, the boy stiffened, muscles tense—with enough exerted force he would snap like a brittle twig. His jaw clenched, staring up to the sky, squinted lids providing a slight glimpse of the moon illuminating on the still waters. She circled him like a shark, thick nails cutting through the fabric across his chest, as if threatening with a sharp blade.

Thomas did not move, he waited helplessly for the pain that has yet to come. He did not know what this thing was, but it did not give him the impression it would take long to strike. More words. His breath steadied, hesitantly offering a glance in its direction. This state of attentiveness was not often achieved. It was like a lecture from his mother after a school fight, he glanced in different directions, unable to maintain visual contact for more than a second. Awaiting the go to your room! Or, in this case, stab stab.

Then it mentioned a game, a choice, or as Thomas would receive, a way out. His will to live has never been stronger, only surpassed by his willingness to do whatever was asked of him.

"Bile in your blood. Fetid flesh. The rancor goes all the way to your bones. A treasure rather than a treat. No-no! Upsets our tummy. Bones no good. The meat has already gone bad. But we wants just a taste,"

The horror tropes did not do this development justice. Other than the inaudible underwater kicks to tread, the boy was motionless, watching this thing debate his role as a late-night snack. Like a person at the drive-thru of McDonalds, she went through the full cycle aloud. Something along the lines of, this isn’t real food, it’s not good for me, I won’t feel good after this, but I’m hungry. The boy’s head jerked, cringing with each movement from the creature as it wrestled with this idea.

"We can see it, how you are wrong. Always wrong"

It was likely the first and last time the boy would feel relieved for being told he’s wrong. The creature’s insinuation would not immediately connect within his mind, but for the moment the cannibalistic tendency of the thing took a backseat to a proposal.

We have an opportunity for you. One where you get to live. One where you get to have fun. One where you get to laugh rather than be the punchline... All we need from you is a statement,"

Live, fun, laugh? We went from horror film to romcom real quick. Of course, Thomas would express disbelief, though not vocally. Even if this creature genuinely meant to provide these results, her interpretation of those ideals could not possibly align with his own. After all, fun for her could be a reference to eating a damn child.

"Tell me, what is it that you most desire?"

What choice did he have but to play this game? There was not much time to mull over his options, though the only one that did not include dying seemed to be participating. The question was loaded, the memories of his father would flash through his mind first, followed by his strong resentment [at the time, lessened now] for his house counterpart, Erin Ryan.

There was no right answer, so he opted to follow his heart. And it was not close; his bloodline was his deepest source of angst. Clarity of his father’s story would fuel his response. This hunt brought out the worst in the boy most times, but in this case, he would use it in his advantage. His drive to understand his father’s story surpassed any fear of death.

For the first time since the beginning of this encounter, he allowed his eyes to connect with the creature. “My father’s truth,” His voice was not shaky as it was before, but grating and rough. Whatever fear he held for this creature was buried for the moment, underneath the validity of Alder’s past. “What he died for,” He huffed “who did it,” And most important of all “retribution for who was responsible.” Regardless of if what they say of Alder was true or false, Thomas wanted accountability for his murder. The morals went out the window in this case, he chose revenge.

Most children have a survival instinct, that thing that tells them that fire is hot, that a snarling beast is bad and that a hag such as she was dangerous. That ambrosial fear was present, something to savor. That dire, deep, unsettling trepidation the rested in his bones was something he chose to ignore. The ability to deny oneself the means to survive was often a symptom of someone who would die young, Of course his longevity and his promise had nothing to do with the hag's interest in him. No no no... Her interest in him was primal. 

There were forces of nature that compel sentient creatures to act and react. 

A gluttonous need to feed.
Coveting what someone else has.
To keep up appearances.
To possess all there is to posses.
A carnal passion
Revenge for a true or perceived wrong

Hags were the personification of ill intent. Of the very nature that forces men to act: pride, greed, lust, envy, gluttony, and wrath; hags are dark creatures that serve as terrible reflections of what men should never be. They feed on innocence and youth. They propagate by corrupting guiltless infants, allowing their loathsome nature to fester within them. When they come of age, they transform into the very monstrosity that stood before Thomas. The very world around them often reflects their vile nature. Vermin attracted by the filth and rot. Yet someone with such a baleful nature can still have a sense of taste. 

That acrid bitterness left Thomas unpalatable but not useless. 

It is okay to do bad things. To think about themselves first. That rules are more like suggestions than limits. That they are being held back, their happiness and potential restricted. So she asked the most prying question a stranger could, one that if asked of a mortal from a position of power tells the hag a great deal about the nature of the boy who would one day become a man. 

“My father’s truth.” 

"From the perspective of his legacy."

“What he died for,” 

"And loss."

“Who did it.” 

"Vengeance."

“Retribution for who was responsible.”

"You seek then knowledge," the hag reasoned "as well as power" she concluded as her voice lowered a half-octave. The simplest of wants really, after the need for food, shelter and sex often came a yearning for authority, for power. Be that through knowledge, strength of endurance, sometimes all three. It was not uncommon, this want. But there is a difference between avarice - the desire for more power for the sake of having it, to add it to a metaphorical collection... and wrath - the desire for more power for the sake of vengeance. Greed does not lead to obsession. Nobody is willing to forfeit much at all when their goal was to have more. However, someone seeking vengeance would be willing to forfeit everything. 

"Possible," she eyed Thomas with her larger eye. It seemed to bulge a bit more as she assessed him. "But nothing is truly free," she announced. The water would feel several degrees cooler. "You have already surrendered much..." the water started to agitate. "It has tarnished your soul, saved your life..." a truth. His spite, his anger and his malicious nature left his meat rotten and his bones stale. Certainly the boy can read between the lines.

"But it is far from enough," she sniffed Thomas. The hot air drawn from his neck, it made a loud, moist noise. He would feel something brush past his legs. It was long and slick. "What are you willing to surrender for the sake of your truth and your vengeance?"

Quick post -- poorly worded. Long day. Did not want to leave you bored and waiting.

What can men do against such reckless hate. What a human thrives on in many ways defines them. What inhibits this satisfaction, why do we get in our own way? The anxiety associated with failure will redefine success, dependent on the subject. Our basic instincts to seek love and nourishment may persist for some time, though eventually we will redefine that void of love with something new. It will infect its user, make up their existence, and drive this willingness to acquire it. We redefine what we thrive on, and what we pursue. Can you fault the individual as their nature unravels to disreputable? Or is simply due to the hand that was dealt.

Defining what makes this hag tick, and what she thrives on, was a separate matter. Thomas remained stationary across the creature, spinning delicately in her grin. Eluding her grip was hopeless, and while she may deem his flavor unworthy of consumption, who’s to say she would not rip apart his flesh for sport. With each utterance of his desires the creature latched on what the Slytherin thrives on. Knowledge and Power, she would say. Thomas did not see it this way, there was a barrier of their respective understanding. What Thomas did not know—and the Hag did-- is the path his pursuits would lead him on.

The breaking point was nearing, the hag contemplatively surrounded the boy. Thomas did not turn away, but the fear he momentarily shed began to seep back in, infecting his impulses. Convulsions came like pulsing waves, the hag modulating the water’s core, chilling the temperature. The analysis continued after the prospect of possibility was announced. The brief glimmer of hope Thomas must grasp, to avoid deluging fear.

When you strip away the environmental influence, this terrifying appearance, the sense of dread that accompanied each word, what was this hag? It was her inherent disposition, she was hungry. She will do what’s in her power to survive. At least this is the way the Slytherin 1st year would perceive it.

"It has tarnished your soul, saved your life..."

A few words, a sniff, it was enough to understand her subject beyond his supposed reality.

"But it is far from enough, What are you willing to surrender for the sake of your truth and your vengeance?"

Throughout history many have arrived at these crossroads. Some humans thrive on the hunt for truth, and vengeance. They would do anything to achieve it. The loaded gun began the trend, this chain reaction, a repercussive response to the length a person will go for gratification. One they would ignore. So, what was the boy’s answer to this question? What was he willing to surrender? “Everything.” Thomas was no different, he would ignore this moment in his evolution for the immediacy of his desires.

Could this all be granted? While not without doubt, the boy did not have much choice in the matter. There was something stirring underneath, a slick matter brushed against his calf, presumably double the size of his leg. It bent against his skin, prompting a sharp jolt from his leg. Is there more than one? Thomas was not sure if another watery hag survey from below, or if the hag across him assumed control of menacing creatures in its surrounding.

If Thomas were trained in breathing exercises, now would have been the opportune time. Hastened gasps escaped his lips from the stirring creature’s indecision. He would say what he deemed necessary to, at the very least, delay her condemnation. “Y-you’re hungry…I can help.” The boy’s offer was sourced from his fear, did he really have a plan to assist with this result? Worse than that, would his morals allow for leading a fellow student to a horrifying end? For the moment, Thomas’ circumstances led him to thrive on a new ideal, one he would say anything to achieve…survival.

Still better than I could ever do.
Credit to Théoden for the first line.

“Everything.”

The boy knew not what he offered or what he agreed to. They rarely do when they makes these sorts of pronouncements. To save their skin. To get something that they want. They say words that feel cheap but have more power than they possibly know. Her magic was wrong and weird, while some would call it 'rudimentary' that is truly a statement of perspective. Historians romanticize or at the very least dramatize historical events, portray hags like muggles do witches - cackling women chasing children to put in a cauldron for strew. 

Fear seeped from his pores.

“Y-you’re hungry…I can help.”

Help. Her her what? Hunt? Did she look like she wanted for a meal? A low guffaw would rattle in her throat. Perhaps he was right in his offering, the monster before him was one-dimension, driven solely by primal influence. Not quite, however he had unwittingly given her what she wanted. "Hardly becomes a boy," she commented. "Offer up your peers unasked, to save ones skin. What of pride?"[/b] The answer was, he was no foolish Gryffindor. He would not uselessly sacrifice his life for something as fleeting as pride.

"But smart," she commended. If he could not flee or overpower the hag, perhaps he could placate her. "You are trying to understand me," fingers rough like sand would trace his skin. He had no hopes of understanding the monstrosity, there were evils too vile to recognize. "Even if your promises now are only lip-service," indeed she did not believe him.  However, she did not need to believe him. 

Her long, talon-like fingernail. This one longer than the rest would rest on the boy's upper arm. The jagged tip would breech the skin. Pain, indeed. However it was not a cutting pain. It felt ice cold yet it burned. A single scratch, no deep cut down. A second, a U.  

"The Triquetra, a symbol of... using three blades when one would have been enough. Force multiplied. The multiplicity of possibility and probability, of futures you wish to have but won't have. Of futures you fear but will suffer. Of futures you might know if you possess the power to choose." This was some sort of morbid prophecy, a declaration of cruel intent and dangerous purpose. The revelation of a pattern, one that Thomas had likely never realized -- how there is always three. His rivalry with Ryan involved White. How it was his mother, his father and then him. Friendships, lovers, wants and needs. Never a duo, always a trio. Even when he tried to exist in alone, his thoughts and his madness would always accompany him. 


"Muggles sometimes say -- me, myself and I. However, I have been a fan of myself, my ambition and my shadow. Never a straight line." She was talking mad, but he would have to listen. "There is power in three," the size of a hag's coven. Something the crone before Thomas abided by, saw power in. 

"I will give you your truth," she announced in a cracking, low voice. She would grip his bleeding arm in her calloused hand and pull him down. His feet should have been touching the stony bottom of the lake, however it was as if the floor had been ripped away. The cold, foul water would wash over him. If his eyes were open, only a sliver of the moon could be seen in the ever darkening haze. If he screamed, precious air would escape and barely bubble the surface. 

However the water would grow black, as if a drop of ink was placed into a bowl. A pensive? No... a lie. Or perhaps a partial truth as you became an observer. You would see your mother, your father and yourself. It was as if you was seeing through the eyes of a third party that was approaching at a high rate of speed. The gaze would lower, look behind and you would see a leg and a broom. As well as two others, darkly clad and cloaked. Their faces masked with silvery, grinning faces. 

A consummate day shattered, it could be seen on your mother's face. She was really pretty back then, objectively. The look of terror, glorious however one would feel shame to admit such. They swooped down on their brooms, pushing your father aside. There was no sound but it looked like your mother was screaming. They ripped you away from your mother. She tried to grab onto your abductor but only pulled back the hood. You would have expected a face that you did not recognize but you did. A Professor from the school, his features seemed younger but it would be Alaric Equinox. [OC: this is an absolute lie]

The other two would land. Your vision from the perspective of one. You might straight your eyes and try to notice some detail of the man (presumably) that this perception of these events came from. You thought you noticed a bit of copper armor. The third wizard, it was always three after all, would dismount their broom and approach your mother. She was crying, shouting. She even tried to fight, but she was no match for a drawn wand. Launched back a dozen or so feet, she was dazed on the ground. He assailant, still cloaked you would see a wisp of white hair. Long white hair. Wait , was that a woman? She would take off her mask, you would get a fleeting glance. You would most certainly recognize the woman -- Professor Jensen, your Head of House. [OC: another lie]

Your father, he was not much of a fighter. Did he even try? His hands were raised in surrender, you heard no words but the exchange could be presumed as you, the child in the vision were carelessly thrown into your mother's arms. She caught you but then dropped you on the head. It explained a great deal. (=P) Your father was taken by the armored man, his wand taken they shared a broom. 

They ascended, the world below because distant and vague. That was when the observer turned around and looked at your father. He had somehow acquired a wand, the observer would look down and you would see that it was the observer's. A flash of light. The broom handle disintegrated from your view and the observer and your father both would fall.

Suddenly you would remember that you were underwater and that your lungs were screaming for air. You would surface but you were now in the lake alone. The hag was on shore and was walking away. You could return to your petty life, the one in Hogwarts or you could pursue the hag. The choice was obvious, you were not going to return to a house of fiends, you would become the fiend. If you believed the creature's visions and the convenient targets set before you or the audacity of the 'woman' that shown you such terrible things, it mattered not. There was a potential path to power, the means to feel vindicated and satisfied, even if it was a lie.

The creature found amusement from the boy’s offer. The proposition to assist the creatures predatorial nature was a notion that did not travel far through the boy’s brain before it sputtered from his lips in desperation. His perception of this creature’s desires arrived from the implications provided moments ago, her sinister grin underlined with jagged daggers of teeth, inches away from the boy’s bumpy flesh. She wanted to feast, but there was something about Thomas that led to hesitance—a sniff of chilled blood.

Followed by her amusement, was a compliment. A manipulative tactic perhaps, but a stroke in the right direction. The creature’s cold bony fingers, accentuated by razor sharp nails nearly half as long. The triquetra. A word Thomas has not heard and does not understand. His focus to grasp each word only partially interrupted by the sharp impact of a nail, slicing delicately through the outside of his arm. A straight line, a release of blood that left Thomas shuddering in her grip. The creature was an expert of her craft, a straight line unimpacted by his trembling increase of heart rate and quickened breaths. The futures. The meaning firmly over the boy’s head, preoccupied with the nail that now curve to form a U that intersects with the separate straight mark that came before it. When completed it appeared to the boy…a trident.

"I will give you your truth,"

The chilling fingers overlapped around his wound in a tight grip that warranted a yelp of pain before Thomas was forced deep beneath the surface to the rocky floor. His truth was death…it was time to die. The pressure within his chest surmounted from the water pressure, the boy left dizzy from this hasty descent. His mind battled the urge to twist or strain, preserving the dwindling oxygen available within. Then the blackness swirled, as if black ink seeped through every crevasse in the lake’s floor, eliminating the visibility until a figure appeared. Not one, but three. He faced their backs initially, before they turned to reveal themselves. Mother, father, and standing below a much younger version of himself. Thomas would reach out helplessly, only temporarily distorting the visual before it flowed back together.

Thomas scanned his surroundings perplexed, finding himself mounted with a pair of unidentified frames aside him. As they approached his family, his heartbeat slowed, surely in part to the lack of oxygen, but his mind overpowered his dwindling conscious with the nostalgic visuals. It was the last time he remembered seeing his mother and father together. Then arrived the dark intentions of this opposite trio. They would reach onto Thomas, pulling him away from his distraught mother. She fought to retain the boy, but to no avail, only removing the mask of one abductor. A familiar face, one Thomas has seen around the school.

Thomas landed with another, beginning his approach towards the family. Though he would come to realize he was not himself. He glanced down to see another familiar visual, a set of copper armor, one that only the notorious headmaster would be caught wearing around the castle. The bewilderment surmounted within the boy, making sense of why he found himself in these particular armored shoes. Then the third to his side would begin her hostile approach towards his mother, drawing her wand and launching her into the shadows. Thomas yelled out in agony, the release of bubbles only briefly impacting the visual. The arms of the copper figure he assumed control did not obey the impulses from his mind, only responding to the turns of his head. He was not in control.

The third figure would remove her mask and reveal the most familiar face of all. A woman he has spoken to directly, one of respect, now left diminished by the horrifying prospect of her involvement. Thomas would be returned to his mother, his father presumably taken prisoner, held captive, traveling in the distance with another atop a broom. The final image, a flash of light, the figures left in a freefall below. An indefinite conclusion.

The visuals faded with the reemergence of the bluish tints. A woozy Thomas lightheaded and flailing before he was released atop the surface. Coughing and gasping for the return of air, distraught from the hazy developments. He would hardly notice the hag take her leave, left panickily treading above the water’s surface. Tears mixed in with the water dripping from his hair as he caught his breath, eyes flickering to the creature’s path into the woods.

Thomas looks back to the distant lights of the castle, hazy waves of uncertainty blurred his vision. It appeared gloomy and without hope, a dead end of indefinite questions, wonder of what could have been. Like a poison, it would slowly corrupt, driving him mad, until he went looking for this creature again in desperation for more, the hunger for the truth.

A slow dramatic turn of the head led the laser blue eyes away from the castle, and back to the creature approaching the tree line. A choice his subconscious made from the first taste, his mind dragging behind to complete the crystal clarity of the right choice. Parting with the valiant fight, sourced from his fear. Not fear of death, if the hag did not strike already, how could a change of scenery alter her decision? She has shown him the past, a vision, a taste of truth that his mind would immediately clasp and not let go. He convinced himself, there was more to see, more for the hag to show, the glimpse did its job. Thomas was now in her grasp, a willing subject. Turning back to the wood line the hag disappeared through only moments ago, Thomas spread his arms through the waters with firm conviction. Submerging his arms below the surface, each splash washing away the continual flow of blood from his wound. Consciously ignored with silent determination, each submerged stroke washed away the tampered blood like his mind refuted the prospect of lies and manipulation.

Thomas would near the shore, violently jolting his legs through the shallow waters until he was on dry land. The collective moisture splashing onto a bed of rocks below. He did not realize he grew weary from the loss of air, of blood, and more than anything…of control. A mix of water and blood dripped from his frame, leaving rocks scattered in his wake. The boy’s mind felt like he was flying to its destination, but in reality only traveled at half speed. Balance challenged as his feet curved from various steps, body drifting from left to right in a helpless pursuit. Thomas eventually dropped, swaying to the right until balance was lost, his right shoulder crashed into the ground. A weak hand would reach out to the nearing trees. “Wait…” He mustered all available strength the project his voice. “WAIT!”

If he heard a response, the boy would collect his footing and travel in its direction, albeit stumbling through the shrubbery. If no response, he would still collect footing in a bee line through the trees, searching for the creature that now pulled him along like a puppet on a string. Thomas disappeared through the trees. One day the boy will return, but he would not be himself. He resigned himself on this night. Thomas Lestrange will never return.

@Solomon Lear

Motherhood does not become some women, the concept of nurturing rather than crushing their skulls the first time they screamed in the dead of night. The act of protecting rather devouring for sustenance. It seemed contrary to their nature, even if their form was crudely feminine to take on a motherly role. Hags do not take on children, they are made and they understand their true and terrible nature when they come of age. Hags do however make pacts with youths, sow their dark seeds into their hearts and allow something terrible to spring forth. In this regard hags are hardly sexist.

It depends on the content of one's heart and the virtue of their spirit if they are worthy. Not on their lineage or their academic prowess, but rather their potential for deviance or better yet their fall from grace. This boy was far from a paragon of virtue, he was filled to the brim with bile. He just needed a good shake to allow this to spring forth. And this was the rattle the boy needed.

Thomas had only been under the water for seconds, but in his mind's eye several minutes had passed. It shown him what he wanted to see, his father a victim. Faces he vaguely recognized being the perpetrators. People he could target. people he could hate. Of course the hag knew nothing of the true circumstances, her magic was not that powerful or far-reaching. However, the power of illusion, of influence, that was within her scope. The power to reach into their dreams and stir up terrors that they never knew that they had. Yes, it was simply a waking nightmare constructed off faces and names, an imagination and a bit of dark guidance. The hag knew not the specifics of the content of the vision she granted them, only that the outcome would likely grove to be entertaining.

She would depart from him, leave him to sow chaos. He did not need to follow, but he chose to. How could he make another choice after his nightmare led him to new depths of paranoia. That is how hags work, they feed the madness and the inadequacy. They stoke the flames of jealousy and wrath. It is OK to strike out. To fight back. To do 'something bad.' What do they know anyways.

She would pause when he called out and gesture wordlessly with a hand. Then come along, there is much fun to be had.