Chapter Text
The night was hopeless and cold as the forest screamed.
Cries of terror echoed through the hallowed grounds of Hogwarts as Daeva stepped away from the front lines, fresh blood seeping into the older layers already dried and crusted across his robes. With every soul he stole, something in him begged to be released. To see the light fading from his victim's eyes plagued him, yet the part of him that was still trapped in the past hated himself each time he sank his teeth into their innocent flesh. He had become a monster, a disposable weapon, no greater than a pawn in this senseless war.
Daeva silently stepped into the circle of Death Eaters, the mist from his transformation melding with the fog that clung to the forest floor. He locked eyes with the Dark Lord, then reluctantly tipped his head as he awaited his next orders.
“Find the boy.” Voldemort hissed in his direction.
“But, my Lord, the prophecy says–” His filthy, rat-like henchman's whines were cut off as Voldemort silenced him.
Daeva had never bothered to learn the inner circles' names. His singular goal of toppling their regime made memorising the ever-changing players a waste of time. Most never lived long enough anyway, and Daeva was Voldemort’s most lethal soldier, outranking even the other vampires.
Daeva had been recruited and forcibly enlisted to eliminate anyone who stood in the Dark Lord’s path, anyone he deemed lesser than who dared to exist while he set out to cleanse the world of its impurities. Tonight’s mission was to exterminate the children of the Resistance, but most importantly, the Saviour.
“Enough, Wormtail,” the Dark Lord snapped. “When Daeva drains him of his life force, the prophecy will be fulfilled. The rest of the Resistance will crumble without their beacon of hope.”
“As you wish, my Lord.” Daeva monotoned, bowing low.
Daeva moved as mist through the blood-soaked trees, floating around the Forbidden Forest in search of his target, silently hunting the Resistance's hope. The Saviour. A child.
He followed the scent of the Saviour, knowing that killing the boy would be the ultimate betrayal of his own goals. Still, he moved forward anyway, as he always did under threat of Voldemort’s inhumane brutality.
“Who’s there?” The boy’s foolishly brazen voice called out as he spun toward Daeva’s incorporeal vapour.
A single human child, no matter how powerful, was no match for the centuries-old vampire. Daeva revealed himself, his body forming from the mist in the moonlight, and a flicker of emotion momentarily flashed across the boy’s face, vanishing before Daeva could identify it.
Towering over humans usually made Daeva salivate. Their obvious terror would overwhelm his base urges and send him into a crazed, feeding frenzy. However, this boy’s scent was absent of fear, and all Daeva could smell was the coppery tinge of blood leaking from a gash in his forehead. Courageous, surely, but foolish nonetheless.
The magnetic, almost earthly taste coated Daeva’s tongue as he breathed him in. An unusually potent aroma that reminded him of the moment before lightning cracked. Had he been a younger vampire, he might not have been able to resist temptation. However, with centuries of practice, he could temper his hunger enough to carry out his mission. It was vital that he followed the Dark Lord’s kill order flawlessly if he had any chance of saving his beloved, Tahlia, and being reunited between their realms.
He could do it for her, anything for her. To feel her pull just one more time. Feast upon her flesh again, just once, before death. He’d kill and maim for that madman until he could find a way to reunite the realms.
Daeva moved in for the kill, but the moment his icy hands made contact, everything shifted. A surge of raging power rushed through him, crashing against his control, and the force of it nearly knocked him off balance.
His mind reeled as fragments of memories swirled through their minds. The flashes came in quick succession, and Daeva didn’t recognise a single one as he sucked the life force out of the Saviour’s throat.
A sacrificial scream. A mother’s arms. Years wasted, hiding in a cupboard. Bursts of laughter in the sun. Running. Always running. The glint of a silver chain. A Locket. Something called a Horcrux?
The memories weren’t his, but they pulled at him all the same, dragging his attention from the coppery taste coursing in his mouth.
The Horcrux caught his attention. That mattered, and he needed to understand why. So, he pushed deeper, delving past the edges of the boy’s thoughts. The blood made the collision easier, like a conduit between them. Digging for answers, more memories flowed, disjointed and flickering as he attempted to sift through them with some semblance of intentionality.
A waft of over-ripe cherries carried on warm winds, then a pulse of light. The scent was otherworldly, definitely not human.
Fae.
Daeva froze.
The boy’s mind held something hidden, something even the Dark Lord had overlooked. A truth buried in sunlight and magic.
If the boy lived, he might actually win. But he was fading fast in Deava’s arms, his body weakening by the second.
Daeva hesitated. To save him, he'd have to turn him and risk unravelling his carefully laid plans. But if there was a chance this boy could end Voldemort’s reign and lead the uprising to unite the realms, he had to act quickly.
༺𓆩𐦍༒︎𐦍𓆪༻