Curse-Breaking
Oct. 9th, 2005 12:04 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
thecooloneBill kisses Fleur, then leaves her on the public side of the hidden door to the lower recess of St. Paul's Cathedral with a be back soon, love, and thank you for coming along. There are tombs down here, well-loved, often visited. But beneath and below there are catacombs: ancient people liked to be underground; they liked to have things hidden away tidily.
He takes a deep breath, draws out his wand, cautious: he's not survived as a curse-breaker this long by being reckless. The information from A Wizarding History of London lies fresh in his mind. Preferred methods of protection were not the magical creatures so common in Egypt, but complex series of curses, designed to befuddle and confuse. He thinks, actually, he prefers the creatures.
Not that there's a choice and, hidden from all others by glamours and twists and turns and maze-like obstructions, Bill Weasley, curse-breaker, takes a deep breath before tapping his wand gently to this recently-discovered door.
"Lumos." A thin beam of light illuminates the door; it's encrusted with grime from centuries left undisturbed. Reaching out, he brushes his hand over the dust and spider webs and dirt. Grubs run off and if they could squeal in indignation they would; the dust crumbles away.
"Scourgify." His voice is little more than a whisper but the intent is strong; the mess disappears into a tidy pile to the side of the door. Bill reaches into his pack and pulls out a lantern; he lights the candle inside and holds it up.
There's writing on the door and his heartbeat quickens. It's Latin, or some semblance thereof. The use of the language is crude but there are some phrases he can make out and a sudden chill rattles him.
CVLTVS LVPVS
and
Cavere
and
Abi Hinc!
Bill looks down at his hand, it's shaking slightly. The last two are words of warning gracing most every tomb: beware and stay away are usually the best invitations to a curse-breaker, but it's the first phrase that rattles him: Cultus Lupus. Wolf worship.
Ancient Romans in Britain worshiping wolves.
No time like the present. Taking a deep breath, he points his wand to the door. "Alohomora."
With an age-old angry and disturbed creak, the heavy stone door swings inward. The only movement Bill makes is to illuminate the inside with candlelight; he knows better than to use magic inside an ancient tomb until he's scanned for traps and curses. He doesn't step inside, but he waves the lantern round so that he can get an approximation of the size of the tomb and it looks to be about 4 metres square: large.
In the centre sits a sarcophagus with carvings on the side, and all the carvings are of wolves and men, and men turning to wolves and wolves turning to men. The words high alert don't even begin to cover what Bill is feeling; he casts a quick Protego on himself before setting his wand to the opening and carefully, carefully scanning for spells.
Curiously, there are none; he runs through all the ancient curses he knows and blasts out counter-curse after counter-curse, but there's no residue of magic. Taking one more deep breath he sets foot into the tomb, the first one to see it since ancient times.
The stone creaks underfoot and quickly he pulls back to the safety of the outer corridor, but there's nothing but a dead, old stillness. And then he sees it: an animal skeleton in the corner; its ancient bones are dried to pure white and he recognises it as a canine. Keeping with the theme of the tomb, he makes the correct assumption: a wolf left to guard this space. Quickly he draws out his parchment and inkless quill and sketches the look of the place notated with the Latin words from the door, Banishing it immediately to his desk at Gringott's. A standard precaution; if something goes wrong and he doesn't return, they'll know what he's seen. If anyone's there (as they're supposed to be, he reminds himself), they'll also be able to chart his progress.
He hopes his partners at the bank are watching and for a moment he's frightened: this doesn't feel right. It doesn't feel right at all. This is not a tomb filled with riches of the tangible variety that the goblins like. It is, however, a tomb filled with secrets. Stepping inside he raises the lantern and the walls are covered with drawings and scrawls and names of spells and...
Fuck! This place doesn't want a curse-breaker; it wants a specialist in lycanthropy research.
Each wall, each mural, is a miniature history of werewolves in Britain; he studies them, fascinated and makes out what he can, makes notes on what he can: the first wolf coming here from Rome by ship docking at the full moon; its escape; the path of destruction it leaves in its wake. Bodies, blood, full moon, more wolves, and he's unable to move. There are names of plants and attempted cures; there are maps leading to ancient locations where wolves were locked up on the moon; there are lunar calendars charting the moon's progress for centuries; and there, in the corner...
Fuck. He writes feverishly: on the far wall is a list of ancient plants and potion ingredients, and it's a recipe, and beneath it is the single word REMEDIUM.
Cure. And next to it is a picture of the very sarcophagus sitting in the middle of the tomb.
It's always a curse-breaker's choice: open something or leave it closed. Some like to do the bare minimum and simply open a tomb, letting others come in to retrieve whatever treasure lies inside. Others, brash and bold, would no sooner dream of leaving anything to another.
This is not standard treasure. Swallowing hard, Bill makes his decision. First, he copies the cure, down to the last detail: the names and type of plants, the methods and timing of their harvesting, the other ingredients added in precise order and measurement, the way it's brewed, the duration of brewing and cooling, its shelf-life and longevity. He tucks this away into his vest pocket: nobody gets to see this before he returns. His head spins: imagine the consequences! If the ancients had a cure... if that's what this is... if it works...
Bill turns and points his wand to the heavy lid of the sarcophagus and slowly, carefully directs it open, levitating it carefully to the floor.
Inside lie at least a hundred wax-sealed gleaming phials, reflecting red in the candlelight.
A cure for lycanthropy or tainted blood? Or something else still?
His heart pounds. Scan for traps. Scan for curses. Scan for...
That's when he hears the growl. He spins around, wand at the ready, but a shadow -- too huge to be strictly animal -- leaps at him, knocking his wand away, knocking his lantern to the floor. He feels hot breath on his face and a wrenching pain from his cheekbone to his jaw and suddenly there is warm wetness spreading over him; the parchment with the cure so carefully transcribed is ripped from his pocket. Vainly, Bill tries to fight off whatever -- whoever -- this thing is attacking him but he's not strong enough; his hand goes immediately to his face and eye and it comes up wet, but from what, he can't tell. Through the pain, his eyes follow the only source of light: the lantern rolling to the corner of the room, coming to a rest against the wolf skeleton.
And then he falls, and it feels as if it takes forever. The pain is unbearable and relentless; everything goes red first, then black as the shadow moves back to stand over him, hand raised to strike, and his last thought is I'm so sorry, Fleur: I promised you I wouldn't die.
He takes a deep breath, draws out his wand, cautious: he's not survived as a curse-breaker this long by being reckless. The information from A Wizarding History of London lies fresh in his mind. Preferred methods of protection were not the magical creatures so common in Egypt, but complex series of curses, designed to befuddle and confuse. He thinks, actually, he prefers the creatures.
Not that there's a choice and, hidden from all others by glamours and twists and turns and maze-like obstructions, Bill Weasley, curse-breaker, takes a deep breath before tapping his wand gently to this recently-discovered door.
"Lumos." A thin beam of light illuminates the door; it's encrusted with grime from centuries left undisturbed. Reaching out, he brushes his hand over the dust and spider webs and dirt. Grubs run off and if they could squeal in indignation they would; the dust crumbles away.
"Scourgify." His voice is little more than a whisper but the intent is strong; the mess disappears into a tidy pile to the side of the door. Bill reaches into his pack and pulls out a lantern; he lights the candle inside and holds it up.
There's writing on the door and his heartbeat quickens. It's Latin, or some semblance thereof. The use of the language is crude but there are some phrases he can make out and a sudden chill rattles him.
and
and
Bill looks down at his hand, it's shaking slightly. The last two are words of warning gracing most every tomb: beware and stay away are usually the best invitations to a curse-breaker, but it's the first phrase that rattles him: Cultus Lupus. Wolf worship.
Ancient Romans in Britain worshiping wolves.
No time like the present. Taking a deep breath, he points his wand to the door. "Alohomora."
With an age-old angry and disturbed creak, the heavy stone door swings inward. The only movement Bill makes is to illuminate the inside with candlelight; he knows better than to use magic inside an ancient tomb until he's scanned for traps and curses. He doesn't step inside, but he waves the lantern round so that he can get an approximation of the size of the tomb and it looks to be about 4 metres square: large.
In the centre sits a sarcophagus with carvings on the side, and all the carvings are of wolves and men, and men turning to wolves and wolves turning to men. The words high alert don't even begin to cover what Bill is feeling; he casts a quick Protego on himself before setting his wand to the opening and carefully, carefully scanning for spells.
Curiously, there are none; he runs through all the ancient curses he knows and blasts out counter-curse after counter-curse, but there's no residue of magic. Taking one more deep breath he sets foot into the tomb, the first one to see it since ancient times.
The stone creaks underfoot and quickly he pulls back to the safety of the outer corridor, but there's nothing but a dead, old stillness. And then he sees it: an animal skeleton in the corner; its ancient bones are dried to pure white and he recognises it as a canine. Keeping with the theme of the tomb, he makes the correct assumption: a wolf left to guard this space. Quickly he draws out his parchment and inkless quill and sketches the look of the place notated with the Latin words from the door, Banishing it immediately to his desk at Gringott's. A standard precaution; if something goes wrong and he doesn't return, they'll know what he's seen. If anyone's there (as they're supposed to be, he reminds himself), they'll also be able to chart his progress.
He hopes his partners at the bank are watching and for a moment he's frightened: this doesn't feel right. It doesn't feel right at all. This is not a tomb filled with riches of the tangible variety that the goblins like. It is, however, a tomb filled with secrets. Stepping inside he raises the lantern and the walls are covered with drawings and scrawls and names of spells and...
Fuck! This place doesn't want a curse-breaker; it wants a specialist in lycanthropy research.
Each wall, each mural, is a miniature history of werewolves in Britain; he studies them, fascinated and makes out what he can, makes notes on what he can: the first wolf coming here from Rome by ship docking at the full moon; its escape; the path of destruction it leaves in its wake. Bodies, blood, full moon, more wolves, and he's unable to move. There are names of plants and attempted cures; there are maps leading to ancient locations where wolves were locked up on the moon; there are lunar calendars charting the moon's progress for centuries; and there, in the corner...
Fuck. He writes feverishly: on the far wall is a list of ancient plants and potion ingredients, and it's a recipe, and beneath it is the single word REMEDIUM.
Cure. And next to it is a picture of the very sarcophagus sitting in the middle of the tomb.
It's always a curse-breaker's choice: open something or leave it closed. Some like to do the bare minimum and simply open a tomb, letting others come in to retrieve whatever treasure lies inside. Others, brash and bold, would no sooner dream of leaving anything to another.
This is not standard treasure. Swallowing hard, Bill makes his decision. First, he copies the cure, down to the last detail: the names and type of plants, the methods and timing of their harvesting, the other ingredients added in precise order and measurement, the way it's brewed, the duration of brewing and cooling, its shelf-life and longevity. He tucks this away into his vest pocket: nobody gets to see this before he returns. His head spins: imagine the consequences! If the ancients had a cure... if that's what this is... if it works...
Bill turns and points his wand to the heavy lid of the sarcophagus and slowly, carefully directs it open, levitating it carefully to the floor.
Inside lie at least a hundred wax-sealed gleaming phials, reflecting red in the candlelight.
A cure for lycanthropy or tainted blood? Or something else still?
His heart pounds. Scan for traps. Scan for curses. Scan for...
That's when he hears the growl. He spins around, wand at the ready, but a shadow -- too huge to be strictly animal -- leaps at him, knocking his wand away, knocking his lantern to the floor. He feels hot breath on his face and a wrenching pain from his cheekbone to his jaw and suddenly there is warm wetness spreading over him; the parchment with the cure so carefully transcribed is ripped from his pocket. Vainly, Bill tries to fight off whatever -- whoever -- this thing is attacking him but he's not strong enough; his hand goes immediately to his face and eye and it comes up wet, but from what, he can't tell. Through the pain, his eyes follow the only source of light: the lantern rolling to the corner of the room, coming to a rest against the wolf skeleton.
And then he falls, and it feels as if it takes forever. The pain is unbearable and relentless; everything goes red first, then black as the shadow moves back to stand over him, hand raised to strike, and his last thought is I'm so sorry, Fleur: I promised you I wouldn't die.
