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Chapter Text

In the royal suite of the palace at Vistarion, a four centuries old teenager lay surrounded by scrap paper and ancient tomes. The ink smears on his forehead cut a sharp contrast to his elegant robes. He scrawled illegibly with a leaky pen. Flipping through manuscripts, he skimmed with feverish zeal to find and copy the final rune. 

“It’s over.” 

His movements finally stilled. A window cast light, but not on him. He reached up a hand, pale skin stretched thin over bone, to touch that brightness, but a cloud covered the sun. 

“The world will always reject me, Mavis. But if I can't stop it, I'll make its rejection so utter it kills me.” A frail smile touched his lips. “I'll die, Mavis. Isn't that lovely?” 

Thin air had no response for him. 

“Don't pout,” he chided. 

Zeref teleported high in the mountains for the casting. He didn't want to kill anyone (by accident). He scripted runic circles from memory, carving the rock with a shard of enchanted quartz he'd picked up somewhere. 

“Such a simple solution, after all this time. The only thing easier would be if I could overpower the immortality by valuing my own life, but that's silly. No one has the mental gymnastics to value my life.” 

He winced, covering his cheek like Mavis had slapped him. 

“You're being unreasonable.” Zeref avoided eye contact with the air next to a cactus. Standing in the ring, he traced his finger over the runes. Darkness flowed from him, seeping into the landscape and draining the life from his surroundings. The cactus withered. Zeref's eyes stung for hope of an end. 

A warm breeze whispered his name. He might’ve felt her touch. 

“Mavis. We'll be together.” 

Ankhseram's curse flared darker. Zeref passed out, as the world rejected him so hard it threw him to a new one. 

Part One: Fearing Dreams

Zeref woke in a noisy crowd. The cleared circle around him was normal, but the lack of corpses and dead grass was new. He must have forgotten the value of life. 

Most of the people were talking over each other. The frantic gestures towards his person translated, but their speech was unfamiliar. Zeref was offended. An entire language developed and none of his spies informed him? What was his empire for? 

A woman stepped into the danger zone. The cold feeling in his chest was a certain warning. Few were kind and brave enough to try to help him, luckily, as it was a death sentence. It was too late to make himself believe her life worthless. 

“Stay back!” There was nowhere safe to run. He tried to fight it, but he couldn't feel his magic at all. “Get away from me.” 

She was talking, gentle and worried, right at his side. He hunched in a failed attempt to make himself smaller and hid his face from the coming massacre. The curse hadn't activated. He might not feel it building, but he would definitely feel as death ripped out of him. 

Something touched his shoulder and he flinched. He scowled at the woman. She frowned back. He didn't understand how he hadn't killed her. Was she immortal? No, his curse hadn't struck at all. It was gone. 

Zeref froze. If he was really free he didn't know what he'd do. It was hard to breathe. Screams echoed in his head, yelling as the crowd shifted. Magic burst. His head snapped up. It was an entirely different sort of magic. Hollow. Paper thin, curved, with jagged edges in an orderly pattern. 

Mages approached, brandishing focussing sticks. All had that kind of power. Zeref reached out. His magic had changed, like something from a different world, but it answered his call to brush against those mages. The ground exploded. 

Zeref took a rock to the face. It knocked him over. He tried to sit up, but his forehead bumped into grass. His eyes weren't much help. Either someone cast a fog spell or he was concussed. The pain registered. The blades of grass stained red. 

“Episkey.” 

He sat up too fast. The new magic! It was a weak healing, if he was not much mistaken. The mage in front of him was still blurry, and the sun was overbright. “Eh pih ski,” Zeref mumbled. It was important. 

The mage's tongue was odd. It wasn't from any linguistic family he knew, and he couldn't catch a single cognate. The man scowled. He spoke so slowly Zeref knew he was saying, “Do. You. Understand.” 

“No.” 

“Gah!” 

Zeref ignored his frustration, reaching for his focussing stick. It hummed with power. The mage slapped his hand away and yelled at him. Zeref rocked back. He might as well take a moment to study the language. He'd get his hands on one of the focusses soon enough. 

Another mage shouted at the first. It was an interesting argument with a lot of words. They tried to touch him, and Zeref danced out of their way. He was more amenable to gestures. There wasn't a reason not to go with them. 

They left the crowded circle with its standing stones. Back alleys were universal. Perhaps they meant to kill him, but he hadn't gotten that impression. Power leapt to that focussing stick as the mage raised it. There was a wave of magic, breaking into the form of a bus. It would be a stupid trap, so Zeref didn't hesitate to get in. 

He listened in on the mages’ conversation with the driver. They sat down, and one of them spoke to him. A warning? The vehicle jolted forward, skidded around, lurched violently and stopped. Zeref was grateful he'd been too busy to attend the feast three days prior. It had been nearly a week since he'd eaten, and his stomach could not be emptier. 

He watched out the window as the city blurred and jerked. He would've chosen teleportation. Still, the bus had its charm. His escorts were shocked by his blasé attitude, gaping and then swapping quick dialogue. 

They led him off on a street with a building coated in magic. It looked to be a tavern. There were magic sheets layered outside the walls, with magic anchors periodically driven into the sidewalk. 

Zeref crouched. He couldn't tell what the enchantment was. He pushed his fingers through the magic, and it snapped. Tension pulled it upwards, revealing a triangle of the foundation. He toyed with the fraying edge of the magical covering. It was a redirection spell. It only targeted people without inherent magic, making it tricky for him to identify. 

There was a harsh grip on his arm. “What are you doing?” 

Pride at understanding a full sentence wasn't enough to make him answer it. He balanced his weight against the tugging, but his head spun and the mage was able to drag him indoors. The dim lighting was a relief. 

They marched him up a twisting stairway to a private room. Perhaps they were planning to kill him. It was in their best interests. With the curse gone, he was no longer immortal and they might actually be able to, even if their magical strength was dubious. 

A man sat at a small table. Zeref took the other chair. The man spoke, but Zeref's attention was drawn to the echo around the lit candles. They must've been lit with a spell. The man looked at him expectantly. 

Zeref checked his word order. “I doesn't know English.” 

The new man was annoyed. The mages who had brought him there were differently annoyed, yelling about how he'd never spoken at all. Zeref burned his fingertips investigating the candles. One of them snapped at him with unfamiliar phrases, but another he understood. “Oh, no! Are you hurt?” 

“No.” He was only lightly singed. Dear little Natsu had done far worse. 

“Can I get you anything to help?” She offered suggestions, but he didn't know what any of them were. 

“Can I have a lots of-” Zeref made praying hands, opened them, and mimed flipping pages. 

She snickered. “Books. Fine.” What she said to the other mages was too complicated to parse. Raising her focussing stick, she turned on the spot. Magic wreathed her. She vanished. Zeref ought to have paid better attention. 

“What was that?” 

Instead of answering, they asked him questions with vocabulary he didn't know and were irritated when he ignored them. They should've brought him books. 

A woman appeared. She fell into space, magic swirling around her to set her on her feet. Apparently, that was normal. She spoke, first to the men and then to him. Her quiet, brisk manner didn't feel threatening, so he stayed still and watched as she cast a diagnostic spell on him. She was a healer. 

The potion she gave him didn't smell like the magics he was accustomed to. His nose wrinkled. His cooperation with healers was deeply ingrained, so he drank it as she indicated. It was fizzy and bitter. His headache melted away, something he only noticed at its absence. 

The healer tried to touch his hands. He shied away. She taught him the word for burn, and he reluctantly showed her his reddened skin. Only three fingers had blistered. Four if the thumb counted. And he somehow had two separate spots on his index. She cast a much stronger Episkey. 

“Thanks,” Zeref said. 

“Do you have any other injuries?” 

“No.” 

She vanished the way she'd appeared. Was she slipping across dimensions? 

The lead mage jabbed a finger at him rudely. “So you do speak English!” 

“No,” Zeref repeated. 

His lecture was quite tiresome. 

The woman who had first fussed over his burns appeared. Zeref looked with his senses instead of losing track of everything but the magic of it. There was a loud crack. She was not there, and then she was. It wasn't any sort of travel. 

She passed him a stack of brightly colored books. One side of his lips twitched the slightest bit upward. “Thanks.” 

The mages talked, but Zeref tuned them out. He began his study of their written language. They tried to tell him something as they left, but he hadn't known enough of the words. Better to read Fiona the Flighty Fox.

☆ ☆ ☆

When the candles burned out, Zeref curled up under the window in the faint glow of dawn. His voice had gone hoarse working on pronunciations, so his eyes flicked silently through the speech bubbles of Noël's Christmas Journey. He'd read every book at least three times. 

He stood, and his legs gave. Zeref fell to the floor, bruised and pouting, while tingles spread through his numb feet. Perhaps sitting motionless for twelve hours was bad. As a sign of his mortality, it was hard to hate. 

Staggering to the door, he leaned against it. There was magic on the knob. It wouldn't turn, so it was quite easy to guess the spell's nature. He sent a jet of power into the lock and twisted. It broke, loudly. He couldn't open it. The brass deformed and started smoking. Zeref retreated from his botched spellwork. 

The solution was clear. Vinny's Very Berry Vacation had a guide to apparition. A picture book could substitute for classes and a license in a pinch. Zeref might not have a wand, but that was optional. Probably. 

He could feel magic outside the tavern. There was a wide line of spells upon spells, full of people all glowing with power. He just needed to apparate there. He twisted magic around him as he spun on the spot, demanding the world take him to that street. It responded. 

The pressure was that of diving deep in the ocean. It squeezed the breath from his lungs. His temple throbbed. Zeref held focus on the magical signature. He would go there. 

He smashed into pavement. His nerves shrieked. He was screaming before he knew it. Choking and gagging, he screamed again. The edges of his vision faded. He didn't know where all the pain was coming from. 

Zeref squirmed around. He could see his legs, or what was left of them. One was just a thigh. The other still had a knee, at least. After that it was just gushing, spraying blood. Past the growing puddle Zeref saw wide windows and shelves of books before his eyes stopped working entirely. 

“Made it.” He collapsed on the street. 

A horrid sound echoed in his skull. Pebbles dug into his toes. Slowly, he registered the lack of pain. A mist of magic surrounded him, looping against his legs. His robes were still ripped high, the edges smeared in blood. Below was bare, unblemished skin. 

A man stood over him, wand drawn. “I'm Caden Smith with the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad. I'll need to see your apparition license.” 

He wiped at his tear stained face. “It's not on me.” It wasn't on anyone if it didn't exist. 

Smith looked deeply suspicious. “How old are you?” 

Zeref hadn't learned the age of magical majority. “Twenty.” 

“Try again.” 

At four hundred, it was hard to parse tiny spans of time. “...Fifteen.” 

“That's too young for an apparition license.” When Zeref didn't respond, Smith sat down beside him with a sigh. He took a bottle out of his pocket. The only word Zeref understood was potion. Smith frowned. “Drink it.” 

Zeref was too tired to argue. The texture was fluffy, like liquid cotton, and it tasted of soured fruit. 

“Tell me your name,” Smith said. 

He did so. 

“Full name.” 

There were things too weighty for strangers. “Zeref Spriggan.” 

“And your parents?” 

Zeref did not flinch. His eyes stung, but he'd just been crying from injury and it meant nothing. “I have no family.” 

“A guardian, then.” 

“I don't understand English enough to know what that means.” 

He didn't understand the next question either. “We'll figure this out,” Smith said unconfidently. “Just get up out of the puddle of your own blood.” 

Zeref always liked learning new words. The picture books were lacking in gore, so he'd only learned about mudpuddles. 

Chapter Text

Moving in a soundless dance, Igalora leapt and crawled through the dense bracken. Myriad eyes gleamed on her body. It was always dark in the acromantula nest. Dusk robbed the countless webs of the day's faint glow, leaving only inky black under the woodland canopy. 

Her eight legs stuttered to a halt. There was a sense of wrongness, though she couldn't tell where it came from. Creeping forward, she stayed low. Familiar branches had snapped. The leaves were torn and twisted. 

Igalora found her friend Arafil shaking on a twig. “What?” she chirped, nudging him. 

“Bad,” he shrilled. His front leg raised to point. 

Below them was a book. Rich leather bound its yellowed pages. Spiky letters drew a darkened title spiders could not read. 

“Human thing. Safe.” To show Arafil there was nothing to be afraid of, Igalora dropped down. Her instincts screamed. She was buried deep in the undergrowth, a trembling lump, before her mind could form another thought. There was no attack. 

A simple book lay there, closed shut. 

☆ ☆ ☆

For the styles of another world, the robes at Madam Malkin's were fairly normal. The fabric was thick for summer. There weren't the raised collars he was used to. Sleeves were the problem: wide, draping things that would trouble any work he did with his hands. 

The tailor suggested a piece that covered his knuckles and left space for a small dog to curl up against his arm. British fashion was dreadful. Zeref found the only secondhand robe with cuffs. They clung neatly to his thin wrists. 

The sizing was easier for the black dress shirt and black slacks to go under his black robes. They could've been more comfortable, but he wouldn't fuss. His new outfit was completed with black boots and a pair of gray socks. 

Caden Smith billed a government office for the purchase. “I found you in the system,” he said. 

Zeref understood most of those words. 

“John Doe, the foreign minor locked in the Leaky Cauldron for excessive accidental magic. What did your doorknob do to you?” 

“I don't understand English.” 

He had a feeling the unfamiliar things Smith mumbled were too impolite for the picture books he'd studied. 

Smith brought him back to the tavern, where they ate breakfast. Smith glanced several times at the entrance. Zeref contemplated him. No passers by interested him until an unusually powerful witch entered with her floppy sleeves. Smith straightened. 

Her aura was crisp, with perfect posture and a painfully tight bun. “Mr. Smith. Is this the potential student?” 

Smith simply nodded. 

“I'm Professor McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress at Hogwarts.” 

He made guesses from context. “Zeref Spriggan. Pleasure.” 

McGonagall assessed him. “How old are you?” 

“Seventeen,” he tried. 

She turned to Smith. “How old is Mr. Spriggan?” 

“A liar, that's for sure.” Smith rubbed his temples. 

Zeref had been eight when the dragon attacked. He hadn't been on his own for long – months? Years? He'd lived at Mildian Academy for a while before the curse killed everyone and stopped his aging. Perhaps he'd been overestimating. “Twelve.” 

“Then why did you tell me you were twenty!” 

He blinked. “Close enough.” 

Smith took deep breaths. Zeref regarded him innocently. 

McGonagall cleared her throat. “Is anyone looking for you?” 

He thought, of course, of Natsu. His hand clenched. Natsu might have had damaged memories and cared nothing for the family he'd forgotten, but Zeref had been able to breathe knowing he lived again. From another world Zeref's life could no longer sustain the Book of END. Natsu was dead. 

Zeref rubbed his arm. He sniffled. “Um, what was the question?” 

“I'm sorry, Mr. Spriggan, but I had to ask.” 

“You have to tell us where you lived before, and who took care of you, Spriggan,” Smith said, “It can just be for documentation if they were hurting you or if… something happened to them, but I need to know.” 

Zeref closed his eyes. “You don't.” 

McGonagall took over. “In that case, how would you like to attend a school?” 

A dangerous plan. In his curseless state his mere presence wouldn't destroy. He'd have access to all their information. Students could be avoided. No matter what precautions he took, everyone always died. Though, it was the teachers’ fault for making such a foolish offer. 

“I would love to attend your school.” 

Smith sent him away with money for a wand. He needed a wand to open the gate to Diagon Alley where the shop was. Supposedly. He inspected the bricks he was meant to tap with a wand, not wanting to break them like the doorknob. Locks were never his specialty. 

Poking them in order did nothing. He lifted his hand, power rising under his skin. The first brick's magic linked to the outer ring before his fingers could connect. Each responded. They retreated, the gate forming without a wand or any tapping. Did witches and wizards understand their own magic? 

It was past noon, with full light and crowds. Ollivander's was tucked in a quiet niche, layered in shadow. With the door shut the silence was perfect. The hush was troubling, and after a moment he realized it was the quiet of enchanted sleepers. 

Narrow shelves were stacked high in boxes. Each was still. Zeref stepped closer, reaching for the nearest. His fingers brushed the lid. 

A hand pushed him back. “A new customer, hmm. I've never seen a face quite like yours.” 

“They're trapped.” 

“Keen senses, young man, but they're just waiting. Perhaps-” He plucked a case from a high shelf and opened it. 

Something reached out. In a moment it fell back, gone. 

Ollivander passed the inert wand to Zeref. “Pine and a unicorn tail hair, thirteen inches. Go on, give it a whirl.” 

Dubiously, Zeref swirled the wand. Dust blew from the shelves. “Ha-choo!” He doubled over, sneezing and coughing. 

“Walnut and dragon heartstring, fourteen inches.” 

He hadn't even noticed Ollivander taking the first wand back. A cautious flick with the second did nothing, and Ollivander whisked off with it. 

He returned before Zeref's nose was quite settled. “Hawthorne and dragon heartstring, eight and a half inches. Try this.” 

The wand called to him. His grip was wrong. He swiped it downwards, and the shelves rattled. Its magic pulled away. He handed it back. 

Ollivander didn't rush off. His frown was a contemplative thing. “I thought I was narrowing in, but the conclusion I've come to is so very unlikely.” 

Zeref waited. 

Ollivander needed a step ladder to fetch a box from the far corner. Zeref followed after him. Blowing dust off the box, Ollivander opened it. “An acacia wand. Phoenix feather, ten and a quarter inches. A particular core, paired with the most exacting of woods.” 

Nothing reached for him. Zeref held it as delicately as he knew how, giving it time before he drew an arc in the still air. Every wand woke, the shop humming with curious magic. His lips twitched, not quite a smile. 

Ollivander's cheek pulled in a grimace. 

“It's seven galleons, yes?” 

“Quite right.” Ollivander took the payment. “Fascinating match. I'll be watching your exploits–at a safe distance.” 

Zeref didn't want to examine his new wand in public. He could've found his room at the Leaky Cauldron, but he didn't know if the proprietor had fixed his doorknob. Anyway, there was a bookstore that needed investigating. 

The customers at Flourish and Blotts were generally about as interested in conversations with strangers as Zeref was. Lovely. He picked up The Intermediate Encyclopedia of Charms, and somehow read four chapters instead of skimming. Strange how these things happened. 

He collected the more useful works as he picked his way through the shelves. The cover of an unrealistic adventure novel disguised as an autobiography featured a blond who winked at Zeref. Moving pictures were something to look into. 

Defying the Senses had a gripping opening page, but Zeref couldn't read with his stack of books blocking his face. He reluctantly retired to an armchair. The cushions were soft. He skimmed the first few chapters, but as the work transitioned into magical theory he gave it his attention. 

Lulled by the August warmth and wordy narration, Zeref's eyes grew heavy. He thought to move around and wake himself up that way. It didn't happen. He would've had to put the book down without grasping the design of illusions. He nodded off on the heavy hardcover. 

It shifted in his hands. He knew the feel of the leather as well as he knew anything. Centuries old pages, blotted with tears, rumpled, with faded brown stains from when he'd worked until his blisters tore. There was no need to read the title. He ought to have felt the Book of END bound to his beating heart. There was nothing. 

The living magic was gone. Zeref was alive and Natsu dead, an error that would not stand.  

Zeref sprung out of the armchair. His tower of reading material all tumbled down on his head. A corner smacked his eye, explaining their dampness. He dragged his sleeve roughly against his face. 

It was a struggle to stack the books. They kept falling from hands that would not stop shaking. It was strange that he could move at all: after centuries, wouldn't he be a stiffened corpse? Time should've worn him down to bone. 

Zeref could, at least, use his unnatural life for good. Or was it selfishness? Natsu was a child. He was… thirteen to twenty-five? Zeref had taken four hundred years with the Eclipse Gate, so Natsu was still a baby even if he was taller. The point was that Natsu deserved to live. 

He had studied resurrection endlessly on Earthland. It was impossible without a body. Different magics meant different rules, and perhaps in the world of England magical law was less brittle. His research had a focus. Once again, he would bring his Natsu back. 

The stack he'd collected earlier forgotten, Zeref zipped about the bookshelves. He needed the creation or alteration of matter, soul theory and manipulation, and a way to give life. He frantically flipped pages, skimming and studying in bursts, until he ran into a problem. He didn't have a notebook. The walls were right there, but with no pen he was stuck. 

His ears were attuned to footsteps, so he caught the person approaching him immediately. Breath froze in his throat. Clutching his books to his chest, he ran for high bookshelves at the empty back of the store. 

“Mr. Spriggan!” It was McGonagall. 

Zeref tried to hide, but paused. His curse was broken. He shuddered in a strange shock. Could happy confusion be so strong it sharpened into horror? He blinked back tears, but they wet his cheeks regardless. 

McGonagall stopped, two steps closer than Ankhseram's curse would've allowed. In another world, she would have fallen. “Is everything alright?” 

“Why wouldn't it be?” Zeref asked, “And can I borrow a pen?” 

She handed him a feather quill. “You bought your wand already?” 

He hadn't written with such an implement for a while, but it was far from the oddest thing he'd used. The tip was enchanted. An ink replenishing spell? He scrawled notes on the wallpaper about his plans to reverse the dementor's kiss to give that life spark. 

“Mr. Spriggan, do not write on the walls!” 

Zeref blinked. “I suppose it doesn't show up well.” The intricate patterns distracted from his shorthand and questionable penmanship. He couldn't waste space with correct letters. 

McGonagall swung her wand and chanted, “Scourgify.” The spell destroyed his notes. 

He raised the quill to fix them, and she snatched it. Zeref blinked. He contemplated violence, but there were easy solutions. 

“I would give you detention, but term hasn't started yet. What were you thinking?” 

Collecting his book pile, he brought it to the counter. “Might I borrow a pen, miss?” 

The cashier smiled at him. “Sure thing.” He got another feather and an ink well. 

“Thank you.” 

McGonagall snagged his wrist. “There will be no writing on the walls.” 

Zeref tried to resist, but she was strong. Maybe he should've listened to Invel's fussing about eating every day and exercise other than walking. He was stuck. 

“I'll buy you a journal,” she said.  

Zeref nodded to her concession and looked for more books. The Dark Necromancy had potential. Inferi weren't alive, but their creation was a known art that could serve as a basis for deeper magic. 

“What are you reading?” Well, she sounded horrified. 

“It's mainly warnings.” He showed her a particularly dull page on the lure of evil. He'd learned to pay attention to such things, cursing himself for centuries, but it was too vague to be of any use. 

“Necromancy is hardly appropriate subject matter for children, Mr. Spriggan. Are you sure you want to read this?” 

“Yes.” 

“Well, let's buy your journal,” she said. 

He shifted his stack of over a dozen books onto the counter and studied McGonagall's expression. Her lips pinched, and he thought she'd refuse. 

“Choose five, Mr. Spriggan.” 

Zeref eagerly sorted out the most important and the works that would see more use at the start of his project. Transfiguration in Human Anatomy, The Dark Necromancy, Black Law: Dementors, Craft of Enchantments, and Ourigines of Majic. 

“I'm not buying a child books on the dark arts,” McGonagall said, “Put the dementors and inferi back.” 

It was hard to part with his necromancy book. He turned his back on its shelf. “Just these four?” 

“Absolutely not.” McGonagall stole Black Law: Dementors, consigning it to its place in the shop. 

Zeref slumped. He replaced his missing selections with Moste Dangerous Magicks and The Study of Healing: Remaking the Body. McGonagall took a threatening look at Moste Dangerous Magicks, but she let him keep it. Her attention went to the cashier. 

Creeping to the shelf, Zeref opened the work on dementors. He'd just get a quick assessment of their kiss. There it was. Its effects on humans indicated he was on the right track, but the information he actually needed was missing. An asterisk led him to page 144. He'd found a full chapter speculating on the mechanics of soul removal. 

“Mr. Spriggan?” McGonagall was there with his books. “You do meander off a lot.” 

Zeref found the quill. He dismissed one theory as contradicting previously read information and jotted notes on three others. 

“Caden Smith needs you to finalize your account at Gringotts,” McGonagall said, “Put that away and we'll go.” 

Nodding, Zeref read down the page. 

“Mr. Spriggan!” 

He glanced at the door. Black Law was convinced dementors fed on happiness. Unless souls themselves worked differently in this world that wouldn't line up with the certainties of their kiss’ workings. Could they prove it? 

Fingers appeared on his book. It tugged against him. Zeref kept a solid grip as he noted the arguments for happiness. 

“Mr. Spriggan, put that back this instant!” 

He walked where he thought the entrance was. Described dementor feeding patterns were inconsistent with their conclusions. He scrawled a negative with a question mark. 

McGonagall snatched the book away too quickly for him to react. “This is the shop's. It stays.” 

Zeref's hand twitched. He tried to call it back, but the spell missed and dragged McGonagall's glasses off her face. They shattered on the floor. She didn't seem overly pleased, and he still didn't have his book. 

☆ ☆ ☆

It was sometime in the night. Candles shed flickers across a spread of notes and open books. Zeref knelt. His wand lay before him on the floorboards. 

“How sentient are you?” 

He offered a hand, palm up. Power tingled on his fingertips. His eyes shut. Deep breaths centered him, and all he knew was magic. He could sense it in the wand, contained. He spread his fingers, shifting the angle of his senses. 

There it was. Nigh nonexistent, like a spider's thread. The wand had bound itself to him. 

“You really are mine.” 

Sensory information rushed in as Zeref let go. He reached for his journal, but a funny tapping distracted. He made his way to the window. A tawny owl clicked its talons against the pane. He considered returning to his note taking. Was that a letter tied to its leg? Like a messenger pigeon? 

Zeref let the bird in. Upon further consideration, one of the children's picture books he learned English from featured an Owl Post. He hadn't thought it was serious. It shoved the message in his face. 

The heavy ink showed an address. 

Zeref Dragneel

The Leaky Cauldron, East Room

Diagon Alley, London, England

His gaze rose to the top line, and his fingers numbed to the parchment. 

Zeref Dragneel

He simply stood for a time. All reactions to such a stimulus were played out in the past, until his mind could only freeze, beginning again in cold practicality. He found his journal and listed the readings from his wand. The letter lay unopened. The owl flew away. 

It seemed Hogwarts was not an easy place to lie. 

Chapter Text

The castle rose grandly into the sky, lit windows a warmer mirror of the distant stars. Hogwarts was beautiful. Harry stumbled out of the boat and followed Hagrid up the shore. There at the bottom of the wide stairway, the towers were too high to see. 

Through the winding halls, the first years reached their destination. A stern teacher gave terse instructions. Harry could already tell Professor McGonagall wouldn't like him. Her sharp gaze swept over the students and she snapped at Neville. He quailed. 

A tall boy bravely addressed her. His accent was so thick it took Harry a minute to eavesdrop properly. 

“Thank you for the journal.” He was expressionless, eerie. “I appreciate it.” 

McGonagall patted the boy's shoulder. Her frown had softened unexpectedly. Maybe the teachers weren't so scary, but that only made Harry more desperate to pass the Sorting and get into a House. His stomach churned. 

There wasn't time to think. The doors swung wide, and the crowd pushed into a room full of confident older students. Long tables cut a straight path to a ragged witch hat. The Sorting began. 

At first it was all too wild and interesting. He forgot to be afraid. But as Michael Corner wore the Hat for what felt like forever, the worry crept back. Could the Hat just not Sort someone? All the Houses were so impressive, and he was just Harry. 

“Ravenclaw!” it bellowed. 

The Ravenclaws cheered. 

“Crabbe, Vincent,” McGonagall read. 

Malfoy's bulky friend sauntered up to the stool. He didn't look nervous. Sure enough, the Hat no sooner rested on his head than it sent him to Slytherin. Another thing to worry about, that was. Was Harry a bad person? He didn't want to be, but the Hat could say he was.

“Davis, Tracey.” 

Harry stared at the Hat flopping over her eyes. It was much too big for her. Was she scared, like him? 

“Slytherin!” 

The evil table screamed their delight at claiming two students in a row. Harry usually liked being one of the later ones to be called, but he thought it might be better to know. Waiting was getting to him. 

“Dragneel, Zeref.” 

There was neither confidence nor fear. He looked a bit like a ghost, with the dead black of his eyes and hair. The Hat considered. Time dragged. Harry tried hard to stand still. 

The sob was loud in the quiet. Harry flinched. If Dragneel was crying, what was the Hat doing to him? He tried to remember if people looked upset after getting Sorted, but he'd been distracted by their new House's applause. 

He hadn't noticed at first, but Dragneel wasn't the one who'd sobbed. It was the Hat. It was shaking. Could a hat hunch in on itself? Tears dribbled off the brim and fell on Dragneel's knees. 

Harry was stupefied. Whispers swept the room. Even the teachers looked blindsided. Quirrell gaped, McGonagall grimaced, and a scary man with shiny hair glared at Dragneel with sharp suspicion. 

The Sorting Hat didn't yell with its usual enthusiasm, but it made its voice heard. “Slytherin.” 

Dragneel handed McGonagall the sniffling Hat. The soft tread of his boots was heard throughout the hall. He didn't quite join the Slytherins, sitting with wide, empty space between him and any other kids. 

“Edgecombe, Rosa.” McGonagall's sudden voice made Harry flinch. 

A trembling brunette inched forward, and the ceremony continued. Harry had a new fear. What if the Hat reacted weirdly to him? He could imagine everyone's eyes glued to him as the Harry Potter sat in front of them all with a bawling glob of fabric on his head. His ears burned at the thought. 

☆ ☆ ☆

Polished double doors took nearly the whole wall. Zeref clasped the handle. It wouldn't turn. Taking a step back, he spread an arm, wide sleeve swishing. The door swung in mimicry. Zeref stepped into the library, a shadowy, empty place packed with ancient books. 

He brushed his fingers along the bindings. It seemed to open with a charms section. He plucked the first one without a visible title. The front named it Magic by Monsters. The cover raised with the scent of dust and paper. 

He was immediately interrupted. “You did wandless magic.” 

Flipping past the introduction, the narrative focused on gnomes. 

“Hey,” the girl snapped, “I followed you. You didn't use your wand. You didn't even say anything! That's- that's really awesome, actually. How?” 

Zeref didn't raise his head, but he didn't mind answering questions. “Have you used accidental magic before?” 

“Of course. I've been blowing stuff up since I was a toddler.” 

“I practiced with mine.” 

She was quiet for a moment. “What made your accidental magic unlock doors?” 

Gnomes were observed using a variety of minor charms and jinxes. Wizarding equivalents frequently generated light, where the gnomes’ casting was entirely invisible and inaudible. There was no description of the magical presence. 

“What book have you got?” she asked. 

He tilted it. She could see the title. 

“Rude. Oh, I read that last year! Unicorns are, well, fine, I guess. Fairies are better. They play pranks.” 

“Fairies?” He oughtn’t have spoken. 

“Their magic always stings. It doesn't go very far, but they do leave an impression.” 

“They're not real,” he said. Mavis’ bright smiles, careless laughter, her arms around him as if he weren't death itself. She was truly a master of illusion. 

The girl sneered. “Of course they are? What, have you never been to a party with decorative fairies?” 

Tucking the book under his arm, Zeref skimmed titles for another. 

She followed, for some reason. “I'm Pansy Parkinson.” 

“Zeref.” 

“So, what are you doing in the library before classes even start? Are you a nerd?” She snickered. 

Zeref dropped a transfiguration theory text on a small table with Magic by Monsters. He supposed he could ask the question back to her, but he was tired. “A personal project.” 

“What kind?” 

He fingered his shirtfront, where the locket hid. 

McGonagall stepped into the doorway. “Mr. Spriggan! Miss Parkinson! The first night, and you're already breaking the rules. Five points from Slytherin.” 

Parkinson pointed at him. “He left the common room first.” 

Zeref sat down and flipped open the transfiguration book. 

“Mr. Spriggan! Put that away at once. It is over an hour past curfew.” 

“What's curfew?” He elected not to give up his reading. 

Parkinson giggled nervously. 

“Mr. Spriggan, do you not know what curfew means?” McGonagall asked. 

“No.” 

“You must be in the Slytherin dormitories at nine o'clock sharp and remain there until morning. Is that clear? I'll only take three points from Slytherin. Next time you don't know a word, ask.” She took away his books and brought him and Parkinson to their common. 

“She bought that!” Parkinson's grin covered half her face. “Good thinking. You saved us two points. How would anybody our age not know what curfew is?” 

“I only recently learned English.” 

“You weren't kidding!?” 

☆ ☆ ☆

It wasn't that Zeref was impatient. He'd once lain on the forest floor for two years, half the island away from Mavis’ grave, and done nothing but wish for death as the seasons changed. It was an issue of inefficacy. 

History of Magic was meant to teach. All their late professor did was ponderously read aloud from the textbook. Zeref had chosen to follow along silently. He was five chapters ahead. 

Poorly hushed whispers had been easily ignored until they included his name. “Zeref Dragneel is basically a criminal,” Greengrass said, with undue enthusiasm. 

“I knew he was shady!” Parkinson didn't keep her voice down at all, but the teacher was a ghost and took no notice of the living. 

“Right, didn't you follow him one night?” Greengrass snickered. “How'd that go?” 

“No, come on. Tell me about his crimes,” Parkinson rushed out. 

“Ohoho. He did magic in front of a whole crowd of muggles, at Stonehenge.” 

“I heard about that. That was Spriggan?” 

“He practically got arrested. The only reason he's not in Azkaban is because he pretended he couldn't speak English.” 

“Not because he's just a kid?” Parkinson asked skeptically. 

“Fine, yeah, that too. But, Pansy, he appeared out of nowhere. He doesn't even have a birth certificate. It's like-” She finally lowered her voice. “Zeref Dragneel doesn't exist.” 

“You don't even know the best part.” Parkinson whispered then, as well. “I've seen it with my own eyes. He can do wandless magic.” 

Greengrass gasped. 

This seemed likely to turn into a headache. 

☆ ☆ ☆

Malfoy poked his matchstick with his wand. It rolled off the desk. Zeref ducked under to see, as expected, no change. He scribbled Malfoy's angle and technique. 

“You weren't grabbing it for me?” 

Zeref had forgotten his test subjects could talk to him. 

“Goyle,” Malfoy snapped, “Pick up my matchstick.” 

He wasn't working efficiently, so Zeref shifted to more focused participants. 

Finch-Fletchley was aiming for quantity over quality, a popular philosophy. It took all of Zeref's focus to calculate every casting. His work was rewarded. Finch-Fletchley's matchstick gained the shape of a needle point on the bottom. 

“I got it! I got it!” 

McGonagall examined it. “Good work.” She placed another on the desk. “Can you replicate it?” 

Finch-Fletchley swung with enthusiasm, at a completely different angle and rate. Zeref noted it. His matchstick remained unchanged. 

“Oh, no,” he said, “How did I do that?” 

“Mr. Spriggan! I suppose since you're observing your fellow students you must have already mastered this spell.” 

Zeref returned to his forgotten work. McGonagall stood over him. “Well?” she asked. 

He took up his wand. It held power, but it was reluctant to be wielded. One casting. He wouldn't ask more. Centuries of study let the angles be just as he meant. He thought of the exercise's goal and entreated the foreign magic. 

Zeref offered McGonagall his perfect needle. 

“This is a needle shaped match,” she said. 

“There are wooden needles.” 

“With fire starting chemicals on them?” 

The tip was indeed matchstick red. Where exactly between the two items had it fallen? Zeref took it and stabbed it into his finger. Blood beaded. “It works.” 

“Mr. Spriggan, you can't hurt yourself! Episkey!” 

The miniscule wound vanished. “Shouldn't,” he noted, “I clearly can.” 

McGonagall stared at him in open horror. Luckily, Goyle's match caught fire and she hurried to put it out. Zeref stared after her, lost in thought. He felt remorseful. An odd thing, when no one was even injured and he couldn't understand why she was upset. 

He finished up his transfiguration notes, tapped his thanks to his wand, and opened a class relevant tome for his resurrection project. McGonagall didn't address him again. 

Had he been heading anywhere other than the library, Zeref likely would've gotten lost. He didn't look up from his book once. Sitting at a table, he settled in. 

“What do you want?” At the angry, defensive voice, Zeref looked up. Granger was studying at the opposite chair. By the surrounding books and papers, she had been there for some time. 

“I'm reading.” 

She didn't try to continue the conversation. The table was large enough for there to be no point moving, and soon he had a wide spread of research materials as well. Despite the differences between worlds, Zeref's work moved quickly. More was the same than changed. 

Parkinson approached. “Zeref! Why weren't you at dinner? Oh. You're sitting with her?” 

“I didn't notice her.” 

“That's true,” Parkinson said, “She's so insignificant you wouldn't even see her there.” 

“What's your problem with me?” Granger demanded. 

“Somebody hasn't figured out how the world works.” 

“I think I understand just fine,” Granger said, “There are plenty of other places for you to go away.” Her quill shook in her hand. 

The librarian, Pince, scowled at them. 

“What if I don't feel like it?” Parkinson leaned her elbows on the table to get in Granger's face. 

“Parkinson,” Zeref called, far softer than their argument. “This is a library.” 

“Of course.” She straightened. “Wouldn't want to distract anyone who belongs here. Have fun, Zeref. Don't get too close to anything dirty.” She sauntered off. 

Granger dropped her face to the table and hid it with her arms. 

Zeref returned to his research. He'd lost focus enough to need to reorient himself. 

“Am I bothering you, being here?” The set of her lips would've been a perfect picture of rage if they weren't trembling. Heroic defiance, he mused.  

“No.” 

She was silent for all of five seconds. “So, what are you working on?” 

“Magical cores.” 

“Like in wands? Mine is dragon heartstring.” 

“Yes, I suppose,” Zeref said, “Magical beings have them. Like dragons.” 

“So in wand making you take the magical core from a creature to power the spell?” 

He tapped his notes. “You think a unicorn's core is their hair?” 

Granger leaned across the table, squinting at the paper. “What language is that?” 

Zeref glanced it over. “Five, actually.” 

She leaned farther. “You know that many languages? How? Is there a spell for that? Are you a linguist? Can you teach me? I only know English, Latin and a little Arabic, and even with Latin I'm not fluent.” 

It was easier to calculate the compatibility of various magics with Etherious. If he ignored her, the problem would go away. 

“Is a unicorn's core in their chest, like with the dragon heartstring, or would it be defended by the horn?” Granger asked. 

“The latter. Power flows from the forehead down the mane. I have yet to find anything on its path to the tail.” He considered writing in English. It wasn't worth the thought, so he did it. 

Her finger tapped one of his books. “This says their whole body is permeated with magic.” 

“Its concentration is greatly increased in the hair.” 

“Could it spread out through their coat across their back?” Granger asked. “Maybe there's something at the tail to draw the magic back into a more confined area?” 

She would fall if she kept trying to read his books upside down. He pushed out the chair beside him, and ignored the way her face lit up. Zeref had a new research partner. 

Chapter Text

Hermione kept her eyes on Portraits Alive, the charms guide she'd picked up from Zeref's ever expanding mess. She loved studying layers in magic, but the other students were the wrong kind of complicated for her. Ravenclaw would've been a better fit. But Hermione had wanted to be in Gryffindor, and she would be brave. Her book snapped closed. 

“I can't believe we have flying lessons at eleven,” Parvati was saying, “That's baby stuff.” 

“I don't know.” Lavender twirled a lock of hair around her finger. “I've never flown before.” 

“Huh?” 

Lavender's smile strained. 

Hermione jumped in. “Muggles don't ride brooms. How young do wizarding children usually start? I couldn't find any minor specific safety regulations in Quidditch Through the Ages. Do you think the flying professor will give us law books to study for homework?” 

“Uh…” Parvati mumbled. 

Lavender clapped Hermione’s shoulder. “Thank you, Hermione.” She turned her back firmly and continued her conversation with Parvati. 

Hermione dug the toe of her shoe into the floorboards. She wrapped a roll and a biscuit in her handkerchief and retreated to the library. She could make friends there. Zeref was still passed out on his journal. It had felt wrong to disturb him earlier, but he'd slept through dinner as a result.  

“Hey.” She prodded his shoulder. 

He flew out of his chair and was halfway across the room in a blink. Glassy black eyes stared at her in… anger? 

“I'm sorry! I should've let you sleep. Or talked to you instead of touching you,” she babbled, “I don't know why I thought that was a good idea. Did you hit your head falling out of your seat? I’ve never actually used a healing spell, but I can take you to the school nurse.” 

“Don't worry about it.” He righted his chair and returned to his notes. 

“Ah.” Hermione fidgeted awkwardly. 

“Granger.” He tapped the page of a musty tome. 

She peered over his shoulder. “You can call me Hermione, you know. I've been saying Zeref. I don't even know if your last name is Dragneel or Spriggan.” 

“There's been some confusion.” He offered no explanation. 

She pointed to the convoluted text. “As a native English speaker, this makes no sense. Probably a typo. I think it means the corpse.” 

“Hmm.” Zeref's frown looked particularly pathetic with the deep purple bruises under his eyes. 

“I didn't know the Hogwarts library had books on necromancy.” 

“I found it in the restricted section.” 

“But, Zeref, that's against the rules! I'm telling a teacher.” Hermione whirled around to do just that. 

“No need. I have detention after dinner. Though Snape never clarified if it was for breaking curfew or reading the restricted books.” 

“That's two rules!” Hermione shrieked. 

“And you break one as we speak.” His smile wasn't nice. “Quiet in the library.” 

She huffed. Hermione was no rule breaker, so when she spoke her voice was low. “It's after dinner now. I came to bring you this.” 

His hand didn't touch hers when he took the food, she noticed. Maybe it was simply the delicacy he'd always displayed, but maybe there was something underlying it. He’d flinched so badly when she woke him… 

“I'd best get to detention,” Zeref said. 

She hefted the necromancy tome. “This is just theoretical research, right? To better understand magic.” 

“No. I have plans, Hermione. It's built on that work, but ultimately different in its entirety.” 

“What kind of project is based in- in- Zeref, you can't. That's got to be illegal, and it's so dangerous. Wizards have died messing with death magic. Some were cursed in ways I can't imagine, left only half alive.” 

“I know.” He was at the door, gesturing with the roll she'd brought him. “Thank you.” 

Zeref was gone before she had a chance. 

☆ ☆ ☆

Detention was fun. Zeref's focus was required to brew the complex potion. In class, he usually multitasked with homework or a book, but this was interesting. He'd even asked Snape for clarification once. Snape likely meant to intimidate, but his glare was mild. 

Angling the jewelweed correctly, Zeref scattered them over the surface. They sank. When they rose to float he stirred, seven revolutions. The liquid's deep umber lightened to red. 

Snape's robes billowed as he approached. “You're not advanced enough to complete this potion.” He cast the last step. The air flushed with the warm smell of peppers. 

Zeref memorized the spell. 

Snape studied the cauldron for a long moment, while Zeref studied his sleeves. There was an enchantment on them. It was clearly meant to keep them from dropping in mixtures and destroying his work. The special nature of their place in space was captivating. 

“Well, Mr. Dragneel.” Snape sneered. “Take the potion. So long as you've done your job correctly you won't be poisoned.” 

Zeref knew it was right. He bottled a vial and drank. The Pepper-Up Potion was hot in his throat, but did not burn. It chased the chill from his bones and brought the dungeon into sharp focus. His ears steamed. 

“Congratulations, you've correctly brewed a fourth year potion in your first semester. Fifteen points to Slytherin.” Snape had the odd quality of making even compliments sound insulting. 

“Will you tell me about the enchantment on your sleeves?” 

“No. Detention is over.” 

That experience certainly wouldn't discourage Zeref from reading in the restricted section at one in the morning. 

☆ ☆ ☆

Zeref appreciated Quirrell’s class. No one questioned his dubious literature while studying Defense Against the Dark Arts, and Quirrell never said anything useful enough to distract him from his research. Still, his eyelids drooped. 

The text of Magick Moste Evile swam. He wished English used a syllabary instead of an alphabet. It would've required less concentration. 

Greengrass’ hand shot out, and a bit of scrap paper dropped onto his book. 

According to Pansy, you're quite smart. I'll be the judge of that. 

I obviously know the Verdimillious Duo Charm. Teach me its tria. 

Draco Malfoy

The note was in manuscript, changing to ornate cursive for the signature. Zeref would've ignored it, but perhaps a break would benefit his research in the long run. 

Emphasize tri. Encourage your wand to manifest distant sparks as you 

encant Verdimillious; revert to the original spell's methods on Tria. 

Zeref cast a touch of magic to float the paper past Greengrass to Malfoy. He returned to designing modifications for Godelot’s narrow minded work. Verdimillious lacked the needed subtlety, but perhaps a different light melded into the casting could amplify the effectivity. Bluebell flames? Fire meshed beautifully with Natsu, but it could easily clash with the Etherious he'd make for testing. 

If he made an Etherious to be as similar to Natsu as possible, it wouldn't be alive. He couldn't make one of fire simply for ease of technique. If Zeref didn't view his creation as an entirely unique being with value all its own then no life would ever take. He might as well waste his time with inferi. 

A clumsily enchanted note blew into his face. Zeref turned disdainfully towards Malfoy, who shuddered. 

Pansy's quite naive to be taken in by your faux intelligence. 

Your instructions don't work, and I bet you can't cast the spell at all. 

No Malfoy can be fooled. 

Draco Malfoy

His signature had gained a curlique. He was faking desperate focus on his notebook and no longer seemed interested in picking a fight. His bravado was a frail thing. 

Quirrell stepped between Zeref's desk and Greengrass’. He stuttered out: “Would you like to try the Verdimillious Charm, Mr. Dragneel?” Not much for confrontation, that one. 

Verdimillious Tria was actually something of a challenge with his wand's delicate sensibilities. It hated sparks. Quirrell had magically concealed a set of potted plants as targets. Zeref slashed with his wand. The silent casting pacified it and a far reaching, if visually mild, spell revealed a cluster of violets. Ephemeral shimmers danced up to the ceiling. 

Quirrell ceased his fidgeting to stare down at Zeref. 

“Nonverbal magic!” Greengrass said, “Pansy was right. That's amazing.” 

“That was Verdimillious Tria, everyone. I won't teach it till next month. Mr. Dragneel, take five points.” 

Malfoy seethed. 

Quirrell's eye twitched. He dismissed class a few minutes early. Malfoy dawdled until Zeref finished packing his books away and tailed him down the hall. The other kids had rushed off. It was only Malfoy and his minions in the corridor. Crabbe shoved Zeref into the wall. 

Zeref should have dodged such a thing, but in his exhaustion he didn't see it coming. He wanted to go to Potions and sit. “What are you doing.” 

“I am a Malfoy,” Malfoy announced. 

Goyle nodded encouragingly. 

“I don't know who you think you are,” Malfoy continued, “But my father knows everyone worth knowing, and he's never mentioned Dragneels or Spriggans. Why is that, I wonder? Is your family… poor?” 

It had been some time since Zeref had been subjected to such a moronic excuse for a conversation. 

Parkinson marched in and saw the tableau. “Crabbe! Get your unwashed hands off of Zeref.” She swung her bag at him. 

Crabbe retreated in fear of heavy textbooks with their hard corners. Zeref surreptitiously cast a cleaning spell on his robes. Did Crabbe wash? 

Parkinson smiled, poison sweet. “What were you boys talking about?” 

“I was just asking Dragneel about his parentage,” Malfoy said, “A few friendly questions. He's been so very mysterious.” 

“He certainly is that!” She turned to Zeref. “Don't feel pressured to answer. Anyone can see your blood is pure.” 

Partly it was gratitude for Pansy's rescue, even if the threat was comically pitiful. The larger part was mischief. “My parents were muggles.” 

A strange croak came from Malfoy. Pansy's mouth flapped silently. Crabbe and Goyle were less phased, blinking a moment's confusion, then looking to Malfoy for instructions. None were forthcoming. 

“We'd best not be late to Potions. Shall we?” Zeref strode to the stairway. 

“I knew he was-” Malfoy began triumphantly, before losing the end of his sentence. 

“He's lying!” Pansy shrieked, “Or adopted. He's telling a joke! His deadpan is incredible, that's what it is.” 

“He has to be kidding,” Malfoy agreed, “Slytherin House allows no muggleborns.” 

Zeref elected not to mention that the Sorting Hat had barely scratched the surface of four centuries of horrors and knew nothing of his childhood. 

Snape wrote an expectedly simple recipe on the blackboard for class. Zeref mixed, read and took notes. When the final curse was studied, he closed Magick Moste Evile. All he had to do was dice aconite root. He should've brought another book. 

Quite a few students were a step behind, still swirling their wands over their cauldrons to induce a faux boil. He inspected them for the reason why. Finnigan's work was riddled with errors, but he was clearly on pace. Why this particular type of failure? 

Weasley was copying Hermione instead of doing his own work, resulting in truly horrendous timing. Crabbe was merely slow. Greengrass’ potion was progressing correctly, so she must have been delayed before beginning. Each had a different reason. 

Longbottom’s was the most interesting. To be fair, he had multiple issues. He'd never built his fire properly, then added the ingredients out of order. The unusual element was his wandwork. There was no spell. As the wand was a focus, swirling it over the mixture gathered enough magical presence on its own. His wand refused to channel entirely. 

It took work to properly bond. Even the slowest student, Goyle, was close enough for his wand to acknowledge his presence. Longbottom's lacked even the faint thread of attachment Zeref's had shown him the first night. It wasn't really his then. He didn't need that. 

Zeref put out the fire under his cauldron and cast the finishing spell. He'd chosen to leave his own wand intact. It wasn't bad bonding with it, and it was required at Hogwarts and useful outside the school. The temptation to fiddle was ever present. Perhaps he'd get a spare. 

“Shameful.” Snape glared at the undeserving Longbottom. “You've somehow brewed a concoction worse than the garbage I expect from you. Ten points from Gryffindor for your utter failure.” 

Longbottom cringed away, trembling. He gave no answer. 

Snape crossed to the Slytherin half of the dungeon. “Always setting high standards, Mr. Dragneel. Ten points.” 

Zeref had no answer for him, either. Snape had it rather backwards. 

☆ ☆ ☆

He startled at Pince's approach. It was a terrible time not to be writing his thoughts, so he retreated behind his journal. 

“We're closing,” she said. 

He hated that the library did that. “I'll just check these out.” The frail croak of his voice surprised him. 

“Up to the counter.” 

Just another note, perhaps two. It was only a hypothesis, but he had something on a language of magic mangling earthly Latin in spoken spells. 

Pince cleared her throat. She helped him gather up his books. “Not trying to check out something from the restricted section this evening?” 

He skimmed through the volumes. They were all allowed. Old memories rose, of a child who'd struggled to be good, as though that were an option in a life like his. “Don't get used to it.” 

Paper was soon too fragile a base for his work. Zeref knelt in a forgotten classroom, scratching guesses of characters into the wood. He chanted ceaselessly in a language never before found. Runes lit to his magic. 

The language was logographic, with nothing simple like an alphabet. He learned its flavor. Lines curved in a certain way. His success rate increased until some one in thirty markings burned alight. 

The sun rose on the other side of the glass. Zeref took brief stock. Hunger gnawed at him. His fingers stung, and blisters rose on his skin. The grip of his pocketknife was slick with sweat. He had Charms at nine. 

He needed a break. Staggering upright, he dug his journal from his bag and began documenting his research. He was ever glad McGonagall had bought him an endless book. It was important to remember what hadn't worked as well as what had, so by the time he finished he only had long enough to walk to class. 

Runes filled his mind. Everything else faded. 

“Are you listening?” 

“...Flitwick?” 

That professor was one of the kinder ones. “Can you try levitating your feather?” 

Zeref blinked. The feather shot near to the ceiling, hovered a moment, and drifted naturally on the air currents. 

“Th-that's certainly a way to do it,” Flitwick said, “Ten points! Amazing, Mr. Dragneel.” 

Malfoy broke in. “How do you keep doing this?!” 

A rune twisted into a new shape in Zeref's mind. He copied it onto an ideas page and kept envisioning symbols flipping, connecting and breaking. He just wished he knew what any of it meant. 

Lunch was a magical time. He stood in his rune room, talking every bit of nonsense he could think of. The markings called to him when he spoke them. There were so many sounds he could put to the writing, but all too soon he had Potions. 

An elbow jabbed into his side. He flinched. Beside him, Pansy jerked her head at Snape. The teacher was scowling down at him. 

The silence stirred. “Is something the matter?” 

“Your lack of focus, Mr. Dragneel.” 

Zeref's potion looked much like the other reliable students’, so he wasn't quite sure what the problem was. “My apologies.” 

Snape huffed and stalked away. He assigned their homework. Zeref was free to write runes! Clutching his journal to his chest, he staggered out of the dungeons as quick as his legs could take. 

With all night for his experiments, Zeref moved to the next stage. He claimed a quiet inlet. Wind whispered in the near trees. Steeply angled light gleamed on the lake. 

The technique was what he'd used to learn the language of the Etherious four hundred years past. Runes drawn above the water showed their meaning in reflection. His hand was sure, even if he felt like shaking. Fire blazed. 

“Natsu…” 

Zeref fell back, stunned. It was his breakthrough, the first ever rune he'd discovered. Flames for Natsu. His head rested against his knee. Wistful, he watched red and orange wash into blue. He would raise his dearest brother to life, breaking every law of magic in his path. 

Most meanings were clear. He'd worked through a page before loud footsteps recalled him. Malfoy, Crabbe, Goyle, and Longbottom walked down the shore. An expected set, but for the last member. 

“Dragneel!” Malfoy called. “You left your bag in potions. Professor Snape asked, or I certainly wouldn't have bothered with a muggleborn's things. Unless your dubious parentage is a lie?” 

“Why do I have to carry it?” Longbottom whined. 

“As a proud pureblood I would hardly do servant work, so Longbottom has it for you.” 

Zeref buried the touch of pity he felt for Longbottom, far more interested in his unbonded wand. 

“What does he mean by the dubious parentage thing?” Longbottom asked, “Slytherins are only from magical families. Are the Dragneels not?” 

“A Dragneel has held the power of fire for four centuries. There's white magic, as well.” After all, he'd gifted the name to a hopeful creature with a shy smile and jealous eyes. 

“I knew that, obviously,” Malfoy announced, turning up his nose. 

“Can I go now?” Longbottom asked. 

“I don't think so,” Zeref said. This was all too convenient. 

“Good call,” Malfoy said, “I've been wanting a nice fat target to practice my jinxes.” 

“I'm target practice?” Longbottom squeaked. 

“Flipendo!” Malfoy's spell knocked Longbottom sideways. 

He shrieked. Potter heard him and ran down the lawn. “Hey, leave Neville alone!” 

“What do you think you're going to do about it?” Malfoy sneered. They fell to bickering, with Crabbe and Goyle looming over Potter. 

Longbottom tried to run away. Zeref stretched out his hand, calling for wind in magic's own tongue. The gust knocked Longbottom off his feet, sending him tumbling face first into the mud. Zeref picked his way along the shoreline. 

Longbottom rolled over. “What was that? What do you want?” 

“Your wand doesn't work for you.” 

“What do you mean? It's just a learning curve. I can cast spells!” 

“Do try.” 

“W-what?” Longbottom asked. 

“Fight me off and keep your wand, if you can,” Zeref told him, “But this isn't a conflict you can win.” 

“It was my father's!” Longbottom sprang to his feet, a little fire in his eyes at last. “I won't let anyone take it.” 

The chain at Zeref's throat had a strange weight. “A memento of a lost family.” 

Longbottom's shoulders slumped with his relieved breath. “He's in the long term ward at the hospital. He doesn't recognize me, but I have this. To follow in his footsteps.” 

“How pitiful,” Zeref said softly. 

His mistaken impression that Zeref's empathy was worth anything shattered. He stepped back. His wand was raised in a trembling grip, like he could use it. 

Zeref drew his own wand. He took no fighter's stance, with the calm of one who does not know mortality. 

Longbottom shouted a garbled spell. His wand stayed inert. He called on it twice more, uselessly. 

Zeref's swirled in calculated art. “Incarcerous.” 

It was a credit to Longbottom that he stayed on his feet as ropes bound his body. They tore his arm down and his wand fell. “Wait, you can't!” 

The magic of Longbottom's wand brushed curiously against Zeref's fingers. He tucked it into his sleeve. Wizarding culture had slowed him, but Zeref had inevitably fulfilled his first wish in a new world: he'd got his hands on a focusing stick. 

A few feet away, Goyle punched and Potter screamed. Malfoy preened. “Well, well,” he said, “It seems Slytherins are superior to Gryffindors.” 

Longbottom sniffled loudly. 

“Hey, what did he do to you?” Dodging Malfoy's minions, Potter attempted to seize Zeref by the collar. He allowed no such thing. 

“Give my father's wand back,” Longbottom whispered. 

“He took what?!” Potter moved with new speed and struck Zeref in the face. 

Everything hurt as a mortal. Zeref smiled weakly. Potter's heroism reminded him a little of Natsu. 

Crabbe and Goyle accosted Potter, and Malfoy strode up as though he'd done anything. “Punching a fellow student for no reason, Potter? My father will hear about this.” 

“He was bullying Neville!” 

He was, rather. Zeref collected his things and made his way around the lake. His cheek stung. A bruise would rise there, but in the crystalline waters he appeared the untouchable immortal he'd always been. 

He wrote more in the language of magic, meanings reflecting in the silver blue. Not every answer was clear. The sign of fire he repeated, to watch it burn. 

The moon was still far above the horizon when Zeref finished. Clutching pages of magic and language, he hastened to the room where he'd first begun. The walls were a canvas. His knife, a brush. With all his newfound knowledge came so many ideas. 

Scratching letters into the wood wore his fingers raw, but that sort of thing was worth no notice. Harder to ignore was the sun's harsh light. Hadn't it just been night? He had to abandon his research for Defense Against the Dark Arts. 

There was a stack of pumpkins by the classroom door. It was unexpected. Zeref was too tired to adapt. He stood stock still at the entrance and stared. Quirrell walked by him and surveyed the students from the front. 

The pumpkins were enchanted with a spell like candlelight, and carved with faces, one of which kept winking at him. He could tell how all of it worked. He couldn't understand why it was there. 

“Mr. Dragneel, could you sit down?” Quirrell asked. 

“Why pumpkins?” 

Quirrell came much too close. “What happened to your cheek? Are you alright? You're bleeding!” 

Zeref lifted his hands slowly. There was a blood blister at the base of his thumb. Much of his skin was ripped red, glistening wetly, but he wasn't bleeding. Just bloody. With a bit of dribbling. Perhaps Invel's knife safety classes wouldn't have been a waste of time, after all. 

“It'll heal in a moment,” he explained. Except he was mortal, wasn't he? Torn skin remained rent. He was a weak and helpless human, aging and dying, falling apart at a breath. 

Quirrell leaned away. 

Zeref's manic smile might’ve come across a tad threatening. 

“Class, read Chapter Twelve,” Quirrell said, “I'm taking Mr. Dragneel to the hospital wing.” 

Quirrell tried to put his hand on Zeref's shoulder. He flinched away and ducked out the door. The floor felt unsteady and he didn't remember the lights ever glaring so bright. Perhaps medical help wasn't unreasonable. 

“The injuries might be minor, but you've so many.” He'd lost his stutter. “Are you feeling alright?” 

It was a complicated question, but the answer was ultimately obvious. “No.” 

At the top of the staircase, Zeref reached for the railing. Palms pressed to his back. He froze. They shoved him forward. His stance was brittle. His mind was foggy, and he couldn't stop anything. He fell. His temple struck the bannister. 

Magic shot at him from behind. It hit. The wind was sharp. The vaulted ceiling flew at him, then dropped away so fast. Gravity crashed him into stone. 

He knew weakness and pain. It was mortality he'd craved, an end. 

It went black. 

Chapter Text

There should've been windows. The walls were empty spans of white paint, with square stains like the shadows of paintings. Larcade had messed up his meditation again. His eyes were supposed to be closed. His fingers spasmed. 

From the room's only chair the dark wizard, Coral, sneered at him. “Why are you sitting like that? You're so useless.” 

Larcade didn't flinch. He was a powerful grown up. He wasn't sure how he'd gotten so short and why he felt as little as he could ever remember being, but his mind was an adult’s. He'd escape in no time. He wanted to see the sky. 

“It's the night of Hallowe'en,” Coral said, “Perfect for a creature like you. Are you ready?” 

The rug squished in his grasp. He shook his head fast. 

“Crucio.” 

With a panicked shriek, Larcade dived into the corner. Nothing hurt. Had the curse missed? 

“Jumpy, much?” Coral smirked. “I thought torture didn't scare you.” 

“It doesn't!” Larcade wailed. He wasn't crying. His face was wet for some other reason. 

“You will attack Hogwarts, or next time I'll hit you with the curse,” Coral said. 

“Don't care.” Larcade struggled to force his features into an intimidating scowl. It was hard to be scary when he had to crane his neck to meet Coral's eyes. 

Coral gestured with his wand, and a leatherbound book appeared on the end table. The cover was white. Darkened gray lettering marked it Larcade. It was so wrong to see it out of Father's hands. 

Larcade firmed his resolve. He'd never touched it before. It had been comforting, knowing Father kept it, even if he was frightening sometimes. Larcade would steal it back for him. He grabbed for the book. 

Coral snatched it off the table and held it up. Larcade jumped, fingers skimming the binding. Coral jerked it higher. 

“Give it back!” 

“I don't think I will, little monster,” Coral said. 

“It's part of me,” Larcade said, “Give it back. It's like if somebody stole the back of your head.” 

Coral's face twisted. Magic slashed at the book. Larcade screamed and dropped limp onto the rug. He couldn't see straight. Pain lanced his chest. He clutched at it, scared he'd find deep wounds and blood, but his body was fine. 

“Don't disrespect the dark lord's situation.” 

His heart leapt at the term dark lord. Father? He wasn't sure what situation meant, but he'd never disrespect Father. The context came back to him. “Why's there more than one?” Larcade sobbed, “I want Father! Nobody cares about your stupid Lord Voldemort, Coral!” 

“Your father's followers refer to him as the dark lord?” 

“Um.” Larcade chewed on his fingers as he tried to remember all the fancy words. “His Imperial Majesty, Spriggan the Emperor, or Lord Zeref or whatever. Only I get to call him Father.” He smiled proudly and kicked his feet. 

“He has an empire,” Coral mumbled. 

From under Coral's purple headwrap came a creepy hiss. “Have you ever heard of this man? No, for he merely pretends to have power. None could be greater than I. He lies to this fool of a child.” 

Larcade scrambled up. He shuffled back, but there were no hiding spots. 

Lord Voldemort continued, shrill and echoing. “I wish to kill this… Zeref.” 

“No!” Larcade called on his magic, but it had abandoned him. “I'll stop you!” He tried to cast everything he could think of, and nothing happened but a child's flailings. It should've worked! He wasn't a stupid baby; he had such powerful spells that Father took notice. 

Coral's wand slashed. “Silencio.” 

It snuffed out Larcade's desperate scream. Larcade tried to punch through the wall instead. Did it work? No. Had he tried it before? Many times. He had to get away from the creepy voice and find Father. 

Coral seized a handful of his hair and threw him to the floor. Larcade fixated on Coral's raised wand. Trembling uncontrollably, he tried to merge with the rug. 

“I don't want to hurt you,” Coral said. 

Larcade squinted at him. 

“You just need to do your part, and then I'll help you find your father. We'll get you back to him in no time. But you have to cooperate. Understand?” He tipped Larcade's chin up with a confusingly soft grip. 

Tears sprung too easily to his eyes. “I want to go back to Father.” 

Larcade had never been abandoned before. That happened to other Etherious, ones who weren't special and hadn't been claimed by Father as family. Like Mard Geer, whom Father killed. Mard Geer, who was useless. But Larcade was Father's son, even if Father refused to say it in those words. 

All this time he'd been trapped, and Father didn't come. Larcade's magic didn't work. Father's care was for things he could use, and Larcade was useless, a helpless child. Father killed useless things. 

“I'll help you,” he mumbled. 

“Good. Now don't fail me.” Coral's smile was icky. “You wouldn't want anything to happen to this.” 

The cover of the Book of Larcade had ripped earlier, when Coral struck it. A piece of the corner was missing. Larcade trembled. He'd never seen anything from the Book of Zeref get damaged. It was like a normal book that could break. 

His life was in the hands of an unstable maniac. He ignored any familiarities. 

White gleamed pale against the rug. He’d found the torn scrap. His fist clenched tight around the leather, like he'd fall apart if he let go. 

“Wait ten minutes and attack,” Coral said. “If you get captured, I believe burning this book would erase the evidence.” 

A whine broke past Larcade's lips. He covered his mouth. He wouldn't cry, not when it was so obvious Coral wanted to make him hurt, but his eyes stung and his shoulders shook anyway. His child's body was weak. 

Coral looked down on him in disgust. “Pull yourself together.” 

The lock clicked, and Larcade caught a glimpse of a faded tapestry as Coral left. He swallowed. He could go out and do whatever he wanted. The metal knob chilled his fingers. His leg jiggled. Sweat dampened the leather in his hand. 

Larcade waited forever. It was definitely at least ten minutes. The door creaked. He poked his head into the corridor. There wasn't much space. It took a while to find the way out, but he pushed the tapestry aside and jumped through the secret exit eventually. 

His memory of Coral's directions was foggy. He couldn't mess up the mission, or- thinking about it made his head ache. Luckily, two targets found him. 

“A baby?” 

“What are you doing in Hogwarts?” the boy demanded, “How did you even get in?” 

“Be nice,” the girl said. She let go of his hand to step towards Larcade. “Do you need help, sweetie?” 

He nibbled on his lower lip anxiously. He couldn't just attack her. 

“How old are you?” she asked. 

If she knew the truth, she'd call him a monster. That would make this easier! “Four cena- center-” 

“Four years?” The girl cooed. 

“I don't know how you got in here, but this is a school. It's not for little kids,” the boy said. 

“I have to fight you,” Larcade said. Before, he'd had white magic to stop enemies in clean and painless ways. Without it, he was scared. 

“Fight us?” She was incredulous, not angry. 

He opened his mouth, but he didn't want to say too much. He was supposed to threaten them. “Would you want to die?” 

The boy glared and the girl took a step back. Larcade launched forward and drove two fingers into her knee. She took a gasping breath. Awful shrieks cut the air as she crumpled to the floor. Blood ornamented those fingers. It was so much worse than he remembered, thick and sticky as it clung and dripped. He stumbled away. 

“Penelope!” the boy called, dropping by her side. 

She caught his hand with solid self-possession. “Percy, run.” 

“What? No!” 

“A teacher,” the girl gasped, “Get a teacher.” She drew a wand, the same magic item Coral used to hurt him. 

“Be safe,” the boy said. 

Larcade's focus was all off. He wanted the boy to run away and warn people, but if he hadn't he wasn't sure he could've stopped him. 

The girl flicked the wand at him. He jolted aside. “Stupefy!” The red light shot past him. Her reflexes were poor. He wrenched it from her grasp, struggling to hold it with blood-slick, shaking fingers. He couldn't keep it, already down to one hand unless he let go of the shred of his own cover. 

Glass shattered, the wand flying out the window. He ran off. He needed more students. Lord Voldemort wanted widespread chaos, and no isolated attack would do. 

Larcade crippled two stragglers and let three escape. He missed his magic. His arm was gross, smeared in blood. There was so much pain and fear, and the tortured cries of his victims dogged his steps. He didn't want them to scream anymore. 

The tap ran in the next room. A girl exited, wiping reddened eyes and taking deep breaths. He hadn't hurt civilians before. Attacking enemy armies for his father wasn't too bad, but hurting schoolchildren for Coral was awful. 

The girl covered her mouth in horror. “Is that blood? Are you alright? Of course you're not. I'll fetch a teacher.” 

If he let her leave like that, the reports of his evil scariness would be all muddled. He dodged in front of her, raising a stained hand. She shrieked. The girl tripped over her boots and successfully (accidentally) avoided him. 

“Are you attacking me?!” 

He swallowed. “Yes.” 

Two boys dashed down the corridor. “Hermione!” The ginger stuttered to a halt, but the boy with the jagged scar kept going. 

“Uh. Uh.” He brandished his wand. “Confundo!” 

Larcade skittered out of the way, but the weapon didn't do anything. Coral's magic always worked. 

The scarred boy seized the girl's wrist. “Come on, Hermione!” 

She wasn't moving. Larcade readied to strike. 

“Wingardium Leviosa.” It was the ginger he'd discounted. Larcade flinched, but the spell wasn't aimed at him. Hermione's bag drifted off the floor, feather light. “What do I do?” the boy wailed. 

“I don't know?” the scarred boy said, “Hit him!” 

The bookbag crashed into his head. It didn't hurt at all. Larcade hadn't had a schoolbag levitated at him like a missile before, so he froze up for a moment. The students took off. He zipped after them. 

Larcade halted in front of the scarred boy. Clenching his teeth, he jabbed his fingers through the kneecap. Bone crunched. The shaking in his hand widened the injury and drew a shriek from the boy. 

“Harry!” the others screamed. 

He gasped, face screwed up. His legs gave, and dropped him down to Larcade's level. 

Hermione cast, “Flipendo!” 

Larcade barely got out of the jet of light's path. Harry had collapsed at the base of a stairway in a wide hall. Larcade jumped, perching on the high railing. The ginger crouched, shaking, at Harry's side. 

Hermione glared. “Why are you doing this? Who even are you?” 

“My name is Larcade Dragneel.” It always helped him feel better to say so. 

“Dragneel,” Harry hissed, from the floor where he lay prone. 

“But why?” Hermione stomped her foot. “You come into our school and just stab Harry for no reason. Nobody wants this!” 

Coral's involvement was secret, but he hadn't been told not to talk about the rest. A sad frown pushed its way onto his face as he watched from above. “Lord Voldemort does.” 

☆ ☆ ☆

“I will pass to you an even greater despair.” 

Zeref did not fear sleep for its nightmares. They came in force, but lies had little power to haunt him. It was the edge of waking, where, lying still, memory caught up to thought and his emotions raged too strong. 

Natsu had stayed on his feet by willpower alone. Zeref had seen the trembling of muscles forced far past their limits. He'd known. His precious little brother stood, bloodstained and weak, against the terror of Acnologia. 

Zeref had promised to make it worse. 

He'd meant it. 

That day, Natsu lost Igneel, the only family he could remember. Zeref had warned him of a weight he shouldn't have had to bear and abandoned him. 

The medical ward buzzed with teachers. There were several injured students, with the single healer darting between them. Zeref couldn't be there. If anyone tried to stop his flight, he didn't notice. 

Stumbling a ways down the corridor in the dark, Zeref crumpled against the wall. Numbness to his own monstrous acts had come long in the past, had it not? His last words to Natsu had aimed to break his morals and force him to kill his own brother. 

Natsu didn't hate him for it. Natsu couldn't hate anything. He was dead. 

Tears beaded his lashes. Zeref didn't deserve to cry about it. He was too pathetic to stop it. Fighting to bring Natsu back was all he had. He'd take every precaution against this world's curses, but he'd never fully understood Ankhseram. 

There was nothing to be done. Could he live without Natsu? He couldn't go back to immortality under the curse of Ankhseram, twisting and breaking till he'd lost every piece of himself. His freed mind could barely grasp the lack of death. 

The heavy stone encircling him was claustrophobic. The side door had a lock, already forced by another. His feet shuffled in the grass. Deep grey covered the stars, lending the night a colder tranquility. 

A small form flit to and fro where the lawn met untamed forest. The child was too young to be at school, too ethereal to be human, too light to be anything but one of the fair folk, ensnared. 

The little thing fell to its knees, its pale head raised to the stars. 

As an artist, Zeref knew his own work. He'd molded the curve of Larcade's spine. He'd threaded those white blond hairs and angled each aright. He'd breathed in a measure of his own life force to let the child wake. Larcade wasn't far across dimensions, dead. 

He was bowed down on the leaves. 

Letting his eyes fall shut, Zeref parsed through strands of energy, searching for the ties to his Etherious. Such tiny things, it was hard to claim them as real. Larcade's was touchable, as he wasn't shut away in his book. Another sang for him, when he felt so very carefully. The bond was END's. 

It was Zeref's turn to fall to his knees. Natsu. The proof overwhelmed him. His most beloved little brother Natsu lived. Fresh tears spilt down his cheeks. 

“Natsu.” 

He was dizzy, not breathing right. Gasps would've been laughter if he could have got the air. Hope was a heady rush. He curled in on himself. 

Twice he'd underestimated Natsu, thought him gone when he was so much sturdier than that. END was made to never die again. His strongest, Etherious Natsu Dragneel. He wasn't even trapped in his book, one of the first two Etherious to be free in a new world. 

Black blurred the edges of Zeref's sight. He needed to breathe, but instead he sobbed. Natsu, his Natsu, alive. All he knew was the blur of white and the thread of magic feeding his life into his little brother. His tears ran dry, but it took much longer for his shaking to cease. 

Slow steps brought Zeref to the edge of the forest. Larcade was a little child once more. He'd not cared when he made him that Larcade was anchored to that age and would return to it any time he was enclosed in his book. He found he didn't care still. 

“Larcade.” 

The little thing had been sitting in a patch of wildflowers, hugging his knees. It was gradual, his head lifting. Zeref caught the moment desperate hope flooded past his misery, trembling redoubling. “Father!” 

Something twinged in Zeref's chest. 

“You're here.” At four, Larcade's emotions displayed themselves with no subtlety. He bounced to his feet, and unsatisfied he balanced on the tips of his toes. His toothy grin was little, but his every feature accentuated it. Some recollection brought back despair. His mouth dragged into a frown. The darkness touched his eyes as easily as the light had. There he cringed. 

“What's the matter?” Zeref's voice was dull. He was too wrung out to handle such a thing. 

Larcade shuffled anxiously. “Um, nothing, Father.” 

“Do not pretend yourself capable of lying to me, Larcade,” Zeref said. 

“Sorry.” He took a gasping breath, and rushed out: “My book's been stolen and my body's tiny and helpless and Coral made me hurt people and I did it and I can't use my magic. I'm useless. I swear I’m not useless. I'm scared. Father, help.” His words pitched high and scratched thin. 

Zeref detangled the information. “What's that in your hand?” 

Larcade whimpered. 

It was a scrap of white leather. He wasn't letting go. With the curse broken, Zeref risked approaching. He took Larcade's shaking fist to cradle it, loosening unresisting fingers and revealing the ripped corner of the Book of Larcade. Anger was an easy shield for his overwrought emotions. 

“Quirrell, you say.” 

He nodded, lip wobbling and brown eyes wide. Zeref let him go, not that he'd held him with any force. The little thing retreated. 

“Return to Quirrell and obey him,” Zeref ordered, “I'll soon have your book.” 

Larcade shrunk in on himself. “But I'm useless? You don't have to bother.” 

“I gave you the gift of languages. I have a use for you, Larcade.” 

“...Any Etherious could do that.” 

“I chose you.” 

Larcade's expression shook too much for a smile, but it had all his light.