Vladimir and Howard would speak of transformation, the deathless curse of becoming a blood thrall. Technically, that’s what they both were even if dhampir was a more palatable term used to describe them both. Born human, then altered into something... other. Something most would consider both cursed and corpse-adjacent. They had both died young, too young. Now neither were fully alive, nor entirely dead. Sustained by hunger. Defined by loss.

Their stories diverged in detail but echoed in theme: pain, surrender, and an absence that never filled back in. The exchange proved enlightening in its own way: two unquiet dead comparing hauntings. But there were reasons for differences and Vladimir was prying while also holding something back. It was not that he was lying, he just was not being fully honest.

But the real revelation came not from words, but from instinct.

Howard glanced into the next room, just a flick of the eyes, and like any man, his gaze followed beauty. Three women. Yes, three. They were stunning, but not in any natural sense. Easily mistaken for Veela. Their allure was the kind that made your stomach twist a beat after your heart surged. But also beauty that felt off. Wrong, in the same way spoiled meat might still look appetizing if wrapped in lace and candlelight.

Howard and Vladimir both didn’t hear their voices. Nor Harlan’s cry. The Veil of Silence held.

But the wall didn’t shield everything. Vladimir still had a lingering facet of his innate talent, the skill that had set him apart from his short-lived siblings and cousins and ensured his status as heir apparent.

"What the hell is going on! What the fuck is this? What are you doing to me? Give me back my body. What did you do? Why? Who are you? What is this? What language were you speaking? Why me? Oh fuck. Why me?"

Not that Vladimir would have any notion of who or where the voice in his head came from. He did not know Harlan's voice or his inner one for that matter. But he would likely be unsettled all the same.

As for Howard White. There was another sense Howard possessed; not hearing, not sight, but something older. The scent of them, faint but cloying, wrapped around memory like smoke around a dying fire.

Does Howard recognize the women?
Wisdom Check: 9 (+1) Failed

Howard knew them. But recognition would take a heartbeat longer.

These were the hags. The ones from the Hogwarts basement. The infiltrators. The devourers. They had once clung to the school like parasites, whispering in the ears of the vulnerable, feeding on fear and doubt. One of them had been slain, or so it had seemed. But clearly, the coven had replenished itself.

It had been years since that night. Years since he’d chased their scent through ash and stone and felt them pursue him in kind. But it was still there. Faint. Rancid-sweet. Unmistakable. And yet, he would not know it. If he’d gotten a good enough whiff... If he had let instinct speak louder than memory... Then he would have known: that they were back.

Vladimir gave a low, almost imperceptible nod as Howard spoke. The boy’s words held the echo of something familiar, a bond twisted with resentment, gratitude crusted in blood. That conflicted loyalty. That itch of wondering if you were chosen or just used. Howard had been changed when he was barely a teen. Simply the wrong place at the right or wrong time. The change gifted him with an otherness that he had lacked. His new, dark nature, had given him the strength and the means, beyond spell-wielding to carve his own destiny, but was it ever done for his sake? Hardly maternal, he was made and then left in the able hands of Hogwarts where he had become a symbol of otherness, an avatar outside of the political sphere that showcased those that did not fit the wizard mold: a muggleborn dhampir. That does not happen too often.

"She's not big on aftercare."

"True," Vladimir agreed. "Honestly, she was not particularly caring in general," he recalled with a shrug. He did not dislike her, she was his stepmother technically but he saw her more as his father's wife. She was the woman that lived in their house, one so large he could go days without seeing her and that was often the case.

He inhaled slowly, the scent of wax and ancient parchment a poor shield for the rot beginning to stir in the air just beyond the archway. Howard had a very different experience with his turning. Cursed maybe. But he was already cursed when he died. The blood blood that had filled his vessels like sludge, eventually choking out his organs until he finally died, or rather almost died.

"Do you have a way to talk to Morgantha? Maybe she can help?"

“She’s missing,” Vladimir said quietly, cutting through the moment like a blunt scalpel.

His eyes didn’t leave the space behind Howard, didn’t yet acknowledge the women, but the flatness in his tone betrayed the weight behind the words. “My father" Thaddeus Athanatos, the older man only a few rooms adjacent, "claims they’re looking for her. Searching.” A bitter laugh cracked through his otherwise smooth exterior. He did not like the sound he made when he laughed, it sounded wrong, more like a croaking than a sound of mirth or humor. “He’s not. He’s hunting her. She became a dangerous liability the moment she turned me.” Nobody seemed to notice or care, despite the fanfare associated with the passing of heir to Mathias Pride, soon to be Athanatos. The self-important teen that was happy to lie, manipulate and take memories and autonomy from the very people he professes to love. A boy focused only on control.

A pause. His jaw clenched.

A blood thrall is basically a term for a created dhampir among other dhampirs. A dhampir is born where a blood thrall is made if they were not born the conventional way (through the union of a vampire or a dhampir and a human). A blood thrall would in every sense of the word 'die,' rising the next day after sunset. A blood thrall will find it difficult to harm the vampire/dhampir that has brought them back as a blood thrall, they have a 30% chance of auto-failing an attack against the Dhampir that has resurrected them.

"The fact that I would not be able to fight her. That I might..." He let his voice trail off. He was not even sure if Howard understood the fact that in a fight with Morgantha, he was essentially neutered. "Basically, it would not be hard to get me to do something I don't want to do. If I find out, try to fight back or in some way undermine them, I might find myself unable to Harmon my creator." Howard would have the same issue.

“I still have the gift. Legilimency. But not control. Not like before. It’s like there’s interference... like static in my own head. Something else with hands on the broom shaft. I wake up and things have moved. Things I don’t remember moving.”

He brought his hand to his eyes, a slight moment and he popped the lens from his eye. The same red, like embers from a dying flame. His eyes gleamed with something not wholly sane, but still deeply human: fear, barely restrained. “I’m afraid I’ve killed someone. I don’t think I have. Not yet. But the certainty’s... fading.” His fingers tapped rhythmically against the side of his wand holster. “It’s not the thirst. Not hunger. Not even anger. It’s just... there. Like a blink that lasts too long.”

He opened his mouth to say more, but stopped. Something was wrong. Howard’s eyes were on the archway. Vladimir turned slowly. Three women. Pretty, but he paid them little mind. He didn’t recognize them, and yet... there was a shift in the air. The kind that makes wolves raise their heads. The veil of silence swallowed their voices, but not their presence. His skin prickled. Beauty bent sideways into uncanny wrongness. Their presence left a psychic bruise on the room.

Then, like a bullet through water, it hit him. A voice. Not his. Not Howard’s. Not the women’s.

“What the hell is going on! What the fuck is this? What are you doing to me? Give me back my body. What did you do? Why? Who are you? What is this? What language were you speaking? Why me? Oh fuck. Why me?”

Anxiety would grip him. His toes curled in his shoes. The boy's voice punched through his skull like a shard of ice, slipping behind his eyes, threading itself between thoughts. Vladimir blinked hard, his gloved fingers tightening.

“Who's that?” he muttered. His mind went to Morgantha, had she taken hold of someone like she had him. A leap in logic because he was not even sure it was her pulling his strings or if he strings were being pulled at all.

"You see that?" Howard asked, referring to the three women. Vladimir did not have the olfactory memory of Howard. No reference point for these ladies, who were pretty and he assumed some denomination of Veela. Almost human, a bit wrong, but pretty enough.

"Huh?" he was pulled from his thoughts, from the screams that reverberated inside his head. He tried to shake it off, the noise and focus. "The ladies?" He struggled, unaware of the terrible scene happening mere feet away from them. "Yeah, they look great," he agreed with the assumed question.

Soon, he would not be able to remain oblivious. Past the women, there was Thaddeus Athanatos. He was on his feet and there was a roiling darkness. His jaw slackened slightly. "Oh, that" his eyes widened slightly.

@Solomon Lear

Howard often thought back to the night he was turned and it left wondering about the chaos of chance or the solidity of fate. When he had come to Hogwarts the boy had felt like a fish out of water. Stripped of his home and his muggle life and thrust into an environment that was entirely foreign to him. He tried to hide his pain behind a smile, but the anger would soon consume him. Feeling as if he had no place in either world it left young Howard in search of something that was his alone to define. Did Morgantha happen upon him by chance alone? Did his rage push him towards the shadows or did the darkness stalk him? Either way he would arise a dhampir. The idea of if this otherness was a gift or a curse would tear at his soul, but it would ultimately be the balance between the two that would finally bring the young man peace. Perhaps Vladimir would one day be able to find his too.

Howard nodded as Vlad spoke of Morgantha. The woman had done little to look after Howard, but she had at least left him alive and in the hands of Hogwarts staff. The decision felt cold sometimes, however it did not seem entirely without thought. It would now seem that the woman was a fugitive from the Athanatos for having turned Vladimir. Was there not some care in offering him life? Cursed as it may be. "I think it's worth trying to track her down. I could help with that. Your father might not approve, but take it from me, you shouldn't waste too much time trying to make it any other way. Like it or not, the three of us are connected." Mother would never be the word Howard would use, but there was strength in numbers in a world that often pushed their kind to the fringes of society. Hogwarts was behind them now. It was up to them to make a life for themselves and familiarity could be a boon.

"Do you think it's her then? Messing with your head? Because we are weak to her, we couldn't fight back. Not much anyway." Howard did know about this peculiarity among thralls as he had researched it extensively. If she had the power to manipulate Vladimir's mind, he might have little resistance to it. "You look better that way." The other man showed his true eye color and it matched Howard's. Something that shouldn't have to be hidden when not amongst muggles. "If someone's in your head there has to be a way to get them out. If you aren't certain then who knows what's been planted in that noggin of yours." Howard didn't understand mind magic very well, but he knew it was powerful enough to do some wild things.

The conversation could have easily carried on. Howard did not know Vlad well, but he was willing to try. The night had other plans for this gathering however. No rest for the wicked. Howard didn't realize the change in Vlad as he now looked past the barrier to the hearth that had just vanquished. They sat behind powerful magic that allowed no noise to pass the barrier either way, but that did not stop the scent from reaching Howard's powerful nose. There was something the smell that pulled at his memories. Sour, rot, ash. Yet knowing of the hags demise had left him with a false sense of security that had dulled their threatening memories. He had almost forgotten. The hint of terror that was beginning to sweep up his spine would soon bring remembrance, but before that could be fully recognized the earth began to quake. (I'm assuming they can still feel the eruption)

Darkness swirled around Thaddeus. The ground cracked. Howard was on his feet and out of the room without another word.

Action: Howard leaves the sitting room for the reading area.

Note to self: no matter what the capitalistic commercialisation of modern Britain tells you, crocs are not the ideal footwear for a quick escape - sports mode or not. Amendment; take this note to your grave or risk the shameful admittance that Miss Nabi Park and the Athanatos archdevils might have a point. Turns out some things truly were worse than death.

Despite his minds futile attempt to mask fear with humour Matthew did not laugh at the ongoing commentary within his mind, nor did he muse when his croc caught upon the carpet and he felt himself flying towards the ground of a sitting room like prey caught in a snare. It wasn't just that the setting was unfamiliar, but it was a direct parallel to his entire being. Rooms devoted to the singular act of sitting was as preposterous as the Athanatos family were arrogant. This last year Matthew had often wondered if his life would meet its end from their antagonism but never did he think that his grievance would be with their desired location.

In reality it was all just a numbing to dull the raging rhythmic thumping of his heart that overwhelmed every breath threatening to be his last. He was alone and in danger and the worst thing was, it was entirely his fault, just like so many things were. When problems arise this often with a common denominator it was hard to not piece the puzzle together. Matthew was impulsive and selfish, bitter traits that wrecked havoc on not only his life but all those around him. Each time he swore he'd make amends, that he'd change, but yet were such intentions to prove meaningful. Without action they were but words.

Still the body would not surrender. Matthew pulled himself up off the floor and desperately scanned his surroundings hoping to find a safe haven in this peril. Distance was still the best option he could reason, but it wouldn't hurt to look. Still an unsettling presence lingered in the room and Matthew got the feeling that no matter where he fled in this nightmare, danger would lurk around every corner.

Mentioning:| @Nabi Park |
Stats: STA 8 | EVA 10 | STR 1 | WIS 9 | ARC 9 | ACC 10
Inventory: Wand | Crocs | SPEW Badge | Sgian-Dubh (Traditional Kilt Knife)
Action: Scanning the sitting room for anywhere to hide or escape.
Notes: Calming Presence is only in affect for himself at present

____________________________________________________________________
Permission to join this event late was expressly given by the moderator

"Do you think it's her then? Messing with your head? Because we are weak to her, we couldn't fight back. Not much anyway."

Vladimir did not immediately answer Howard’s question. His gaze lingered on the hearth beyond the soundproofing spell, on the faint shimmer of magic that separated them from the corridor.

"I don’t think it’s her," Vladimir said finally, his voice low enough that it felt more like a thought escaping than a confession. "Or—" his jaw tightened and he swallowed hard, "—not just her." He admitted, his voice lowering as if he was confiding some sort of secret. In truth, he was.

He shut the book in his lap with a muted thump, fingers splayed across its leather cover. "You know the Athanatos and the hags have a history. A long one. We’ve worked with them. Traded with them. Taken their counsel. Even—" he glanced briefly to the archway, as if wary of unseen ears, he did not choose this room by happenstance. "-taken their gifts. But we’ve also betrayed them. Cut them out when their price was too high. Cast out our own women for bearing their spawn. We’ve been each other’s tools and each other’s enemies for centuries." It was a long and convoluted history between man and woman that went beyond gender roles. Did Thaddeus have no daughters, or did he have none he trusted? None that had survived?

Vladimir’s eyes flicked back to Howard, colder now. "The truth? We are what we are because of them. And they’ve never forgiven us for taking it, twisting it, making it ours instead of theirs." Their power is something they jealously guard and cultivate, their psychic skill was the source of their wealth, their authority and power in the wizarding world, but it was not always theirs. "They’ve tried to bleed back into our bloodline for generations. Sometimes it’s subtle.... a murder here, a sudden fortune there. Sometimes it’s violent. My mother vanished when she refused their bargain. My grandmother burned their emissary alive in the front hall. It doesn’t end." Hags are not a one-note act, the sort that try the same tricks over and over again unless they work. They found his weakness those years ago and exploited it, cursed his blood and left him to languish and die.

His voice dipped further. "So no… if something’s in my head, it’s probably not just Morgantha," he both admitted and agreed. It was something that was likely older. Something that could burrow deeper. Something that had been waiting for an opening. "She is a liar, but she was no hag," he said with a level of certainty only a man who could see every card in a deck.

The muscle in his jaw worked as he thought about the near-murder of Aamon, the broken ribs of Erin, the blackouts that felt less like rage and more like… obedience. "And I gave them one. When she turned me, she didn’t just save my life. She opened the door." He was not directly saying it, but it was certainly implied: he believed she was working with the hags.

He fiddled with the lens in his hand, their fragility frustrating.

"You look better that way." Howard commented, causing a burst of cold to flush through his veins. He did not agree, but his expression did not betray his thoughts. He felt lesser. He felt wrong. Like a man inhabiting another person's body, trying to pilot a familiar vehicle that was still not quite his. Vladimir sat back, running a hand across his mouth, as if the taste of those words were bitter. "You think I look better this way?" he echoed quietly, almost to himself. "Maybe," he lied. "But it cost me everything," he circled back. The transformation was why he was no longer the heir apparent. Subject to a woman's will or at the very least, not able to truly, fully fight back. He was no longer a legacy. A statement of power. He was a liability.

The floor shivered under his boots, a faint tremor at first, then stronger. Vladimir froze, his eyes narrowing toward the direction of the quake. Howard was already on his feet, bolting for the archway, but Vladimir didn’t move right away. He was still listening, to the quiver in the floor, to the faint phantom echo in his head that wasn’t his own voice at all, whispering words he did not quite understand.

Only then did he rise, the book left on the seat, and follow.

Moved to the reading Room

The sitting room offered several hiding options.

1. There was a window. The curtains were drawn, but a sliver of light filtered in between the curtains. He could flee through the window. The window would take him to the pathway outside where Samuel and Edith were. With the closed curtain, he would be unable to see the fray just feet away.
2. There was a table he could crawl beneath to get out of sight.
3. There was a clear view of the room he had just left and even the small bar at the end of the passageway if he were to look to the south. To the north, there was only one more room, then sea.

Roll: 18 (+9 wisdom) If that was a crit, I would have made up a secret passageway. Close!

While the room offered a few hiding places the building around him shuddered with an almighty, thunderous rage signalling that he would not be safe to remain. With only a glimmer of delicate moonlight coming through drawn, large windows he considered it a possibility but wasn't sure what would await him on the other side. No less, for all he knew such windows could have advanced locking spells on them far beyond his skill. Matthew had never been in any place of ancient magic other than Hogwarts and Beauxbatons and he was not about to discover what the magical equivalent of security systems could do.

Flashing his eyes in desperation he gazed forward into the furthest room from the onslaught of chaos behind him. It was breath taking, an rather comical notion given that the boy was already short on breath given his fear; thus, perhaps incapsulating was more accurate. Wand light and airy in his hand hummed as its cherry wood core found familiarity in the most incredible antique piano Matthew had ever had the pleasure of seeing. In another life, were he born to a life of privilege and power he could imagine no greater gift.

Such a lure was like a siren song to the boy who instantly felt himself step closer into the archway where the rooms connected. Senses overjoyed at the subtle comfort of sea air that graced his nose. The scent filled Matthew's wary heart with a sense of calm he often instilled in others and for a brief second he drifted on serene waves out from this nightmare. Where he could just be a boy, staring at the most elegant instrument he had ever seen as the sea washed around him. But just as all siren lure's lead, the danger forced itself back into his perception with another rumble.

Turning back Matt's heart lurched in warning as the three weird woman he found himself calling 'the kindly ones' unleashed an assault on the man he had briefly passed. Not only that but the other boy who had seemed intent on interfering with the woman now looked like some kind of demonic personification of rage and too aimed it towards the man. Matty was just a kid, he was an innocent caught in the crosshair of something undoubtedly bigger and he had so little he could do. Fighting them was pointless, he could barely hold himself in the duels he fought last year, but perhaps he could try something.

Mind racing a million miles while the sea beckoned him closer, Matthew used the inquisitive mind and cunning spirit his teachers had come to praise him on. With his wand positively thrumming in his hand it hit him like lightning illuminating the darkness. The structure was already falling, and as he didn't have the advantage of skill, he had to use the environment and his wit. Directing his wand towards the ceiling he screamed "REDUCTO", a spell far more advanced than his current studies but one that he had to hope would succeed. What chance it would offer the man Matt was unsure, but at least he wouldn't have to face it entirely alone.

A little ashamed and unwilling to watch what came next, Matthew fled into the observation room.

Mentioning:| @Vladimir Athanatos |
Stats: STA 8 | EVA 10 | STR 1 | WIS 9 | ARC 9 | ACC 10
Inventory: Wand | Crocs | SPEW Badge | Sgian-Dubh (Traditional Kilt Knife)
Mundane Action: Fleeing to the Observation room, to reach the sea.
Magical Action: Attempting to cast Reducto to the ceiling above the women attacking Vlad.
Notes: Calming Presence is only in affect for himself at present

____________________________________________________________________

@Matthew Campbell had not come prepared to fight in any battle, least of all this one. Hags, enraged part giants, wizards and muggles alike being swallowed by the floor. An event that promised potential drama, the foppish annoyance of affluent peers and the ego of wizards who consolidated prestige like it was a commodity, this went from a day meant to be endured to one that needed to be survived.

To the south, the Small Bar had erupted into chaos: two grown wizards, Thaddeus Athanatos and Professor @Orion Lécuyer stood with wands drawn, hurling spells like hunters firing into a thicket. Spells seared through the collapsing ballroom, lighting the ruin with sickly flashes. The floor shuddered beneath every impact, the Augury groaned like a beast in its death throes. Matthew was not their target, but in that storm, what difference did it make? One stray curse could silence the Slytherin as surely as an execution.

Then there were the women. Three of them. Beautiful at first glance, but their movements betrayed something other. Campbell did not know their nature, he could not guess at their glamour, but the sight of them turning on two elder wizards was enough to still his breath. He felt it in his bones: he was outmatched.

And so Matthew Campbell chose survival.

Matthew fled. His boots struck hard against the trembling marble as he ran northward, toward the hope of isolation or escape in the smaller chambers beyond. But even in retreat, desperation pricked him with a gambler’s impulse.

He turned once, wand flicking upward. “Reducto!”

The effectiveness of this spell will be elaborated on in the Reading Area