By the time help came, he had been 'gone' for some time they said. They being the wizards that recovered his small, emaciated remains. He was as light as a feather, hardly a burden in the arms of the full-grown wizard who carried him as if he was incredibly precious cargo. Precious to someone most surely.

"Help!"

The man bellowed into the bleach-soaked corridor, the flittering of staff and visitors torn from their present endeavor by the dramatic entrance. The dizzying blur that followed would be brief. The boy was dead, ice cold and had been for months. The shell, the twisted, almost waxy shell that was seemingly left too close to the hearth was malformed, almost melted. The boy himself, hollow less the black ichor.

No breath.

No spark.



Yes, some of the medical staff recognized him. The boy who spent the springtime under their care. Polite, soft spoken and a bit timid. He was remembered fondly, but his story was a sad one. He had dabbled in blood magic, far from a master. They had often privately wondered why spend so much time learning such a dangerous and perhaps misunderstood but more appropriately 'taboo' art. A secret they would later learn was not for the sake of sating curiosity.

His blood carried within it a curse he wished to dispel. A curse that was slowly approaching his heart and would soon choke him out. They had endeavored to purify the boy but the blood was like sludge. more than that, his heart was not even beating. He had already died. The normal signs of life were absent, no breath, no beating heart, no human warmth. Yet, he was 'alive' if in name only, this perpetual state of anguish as his body was charred beyond recognition. They remembered his screams more than his better days, a majority of them. Some had the brief boon of seeing more.

He was of great interest to a wealthy philanthropist in lieu of parents. Both of them had died a matter of weeks before this 'incident.' On this day as his casket was slide into this aged structure, a family mausoleum that Victor was not a member of. He was standing at the foot of the stairs. "Poor boy, he never had a chance." It did not require the strength of two men to carry the body, he weighed little more than the casket.

It was a lost cause trying to save him a second, truly a third time. His son had went to extraordinary lengths , much to his dismay, to preserve this... friend. Dangerous games little boys play. Amazing to think that he was the most clever of them. Explaining his state to those nurses not once, but twice as his son, that loose cannon of a youth allowed sentimental attachments rule his ambitions. That would be why he was not House Slytherin, the hat as astonishing as it might have been, was never wrong.

"Rest in peace Victor Moore."