Dec 23rd, 1893 — St. Mungos, London

It had been over one year since the accident. Since that fateful, deliciously horrendous trip— the very one that had given Vincent everything he’d ever bloody wanted and then wrenched it from his grip like a snuffed candle: quickly, dangerously, and plunging him into complete and utter darkness, left only with the remnant scent of something burning.

It had been a few months since he’d recovered from his own malady, just in time for the Ministerial election to cease— robbing him of his own attempts to go for a campaign, a facet of this whole thing Vincent had not yet managed to internalize. (He didn’t blame Cassian, not entirely, but he certainly didn’t relinquish the big blonde of all blame in the matter. It was his bloody ridiculous idea in the first place that whole trip; his bloody lies that had wrenched this hole in Vince’s chest that try as he might the former Slytherin simply couldn’t, fucking, sew, back, together. This time was different. This time felt…emptier.)

The only positive scrap of emotion Vince could settle upon this dank, frigid, December afternoon was that he was at the very least back to bloody work. After nearly a year out of the field, a year behind in all his machinations to elevate his own status, he was finally back. Cassian was, of course, requiring him to take it easy— settle house calls and med checks until he was ‘right as rain.’ (A delusional pretense. There was no version of him anymore that would ever recover fully; not after everything that had transpired. Not after what he’d seen and suffered, jealousy kept in check for so long.) It was on one of these such med checks however that he found himself on the front steps of St. Mungos. The patient? One Irene Crawley: middle class, halfblood, some kind of artist— he’d stopped reading the file after realizing there would be no personal gain to his own advantage in this one.

Heels clicked against the stone as Vince tucked his coat more tightly around himself and made his way inside. He hated the cold. He hated the sterile blankness of the inside of the hospital even more.

Skin crawling, Vincent spoke to the attending nurses and made his way after some time to the appropriate room. The sooner he got the hell out of here the better. Even the smell of the place made him nauseated. It was too close a reminder to the many apothecaries and healers and hospitals they’d visited this last year to be rid of— that. Him. Them. Vince still bristled at the thought that he could ever have been the object of their mutual plotting to be rid of for good. He didn’t think Cassian could be so back-handed, but he wouldn’t put it past the bloody pirate to sweet talk him into it. A better version, a more reconcilable one—

He knocked on the correct door to swat away his own haunting thoughts. There was no answer so Vincent cleared his throat and shifted his weight irritably. “Ms. Crawley? It’s Vincent Iago. I’m here from the Ministry to check up on you.” To make sure you’re not equally as senile as I, a threat to society and to yourself, mental state in constant flux and question.

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Irene Crawley & muse song, aw

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i desire very little but the things i do consume me

Nothing but sleepless nights had plagued her since she woke up. It had only been a few days, hadn’t it? Yet it seemed at the same time so far away and so close. Time seemed to be playing tricks with her mind. One minute she would be attempting to read, and the next the nurse was coming into check her vitals - something Irene had sworn she had just done. She was frankly tired of being poked and prodded, metaphorically and sometimes physically if that nervous intern was on duty.

Her muscles were sore from lack of movement. Spells and potions had been on her side to prevent complete atrophy, but she found it hard to even wield a small piece of chalk. She’d broken so many pieces, which wasn’t a problem but she also found it hard to wield a wand to repair the damned things. And then she would get so frustrated that she would forgo trying to be délicat at all and smear the black substance all over the page to start with.

And then there was her hair.

Irene never usually gave a second thought to how effortless it was to put her hair up. She remembered she would either do it with magic or without, but either way it was effortless. But now…

Her fingers drifted up to her collarbone where her hair tickled her shoulder. They’d had to cut it all off. The dragon, the one that haunted her dreams, had burned it to a crisp and so when she arrived they’d had to even it out. It was choppy and messy and wild. The slight wave that was usually so manageable beforehand was now unruly and (at least after she woke up) frizzy. It was maddening; Irene did not like being reminded of her vanity. It felt like a black mark against her character, and insult to injury during the times when she felt insecure about how brown her skin got during the summer.

In Italy no one seemed to bat an eye, especially in the countryside where the sun was merciless at times. But in Britain she seemed incessantly bombarded by the need to be fair as a flower; an English Rose. It was her job as an artist to see the beauty in the world, but in the past few days, the only thing she saw was darkness. Even when it was daylight, and the light was pooling into her room she had trouble seeing a few feet in front of her. But she heard the knock. She only heard it a few seconds late, and by then her name was being called through the door. She looked up. “Come in.” It took her a few seconds to reply, to remember she had her voice.

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The answer was feeble but it was enough for Vincent to invite himself in. On the other side of the door he was met with a routine hospital room and very quickly his gaze skipped over anything of interest. (Not that there was much in the end.) Instead, Vince found his interest settling on the woman herself - Ms. Crawley, he presumed. She looked haggard at best, very much like she’d been through the wringer with a dragon and lost. (Or at least, that’s what he vaguely remembered of the bit in her file he’d skipped through.)

“Ms. Crawley,” The obliviator nodded perfunctorily in greeting. “My name is Vincent Iago and I’m here on behalf of the Ministry of Magic to ensure a clean bill of health after your accident." At least of the traumatic sort, he added privately to himself in derision. "Is there anything you remember from your incident that seems particularly noteworthy to mention on official record, or is there anything you wish to have dispelled?” His tone was even, business-like as Vince ran through the usual script. Sometimes victims did ask to have the memories of their traumas redacted, sometimes it was even on recommendation from the doctors and nurses involved. Vince for his own part hated this kind of work. Fishing around in normal people’s memories to make them feel better when he himself carried the weight of a million suns was not the most fascinating of tasks before the curse. Now, after, it was a slap in the face. He didn’t himself have the same option for obvious reasons, none the least of which was self-preservation. But damn if it wouldn’t have been easier to just let it all go, like grains of sand in the wind.

Green eyes studied Ms. Crawley’s face carefully then as Vince appraised the woman’s reaction. He might not find it meaningful work but that didn’t mean he wasn’t fascinated by the decision making processes of humans. He relied on such study actually, in so many other facets of life. On this occasion he felt no more softened by the woman’s haggard appearance than he was bored by the routine of it all. He almost wished she would say something interesting. Anything really to give his monotony a spark of life— (or a trigger to tug him away from his own failings, just momentarily.)

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Irene Crawley & muse song, aw

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i desire very little but the things i do consume me

Just as the words left her lips, she realized it might be best if she was sitting up completely. Her pillows propping her up in bed had fallen, and so when he walked in she had her gaze downward as she pushed the pillows back into place before scooting up slightly. By the time her full attention (if it could be called that) had focused back onto him, he was in the middle of his speech, no doubt rehearsed to the letter. A clean bill of health? Pah! Did she look like the picture of health? She certainly didn’t feel like it.

She thought that he might have come in to interview her again specifically about what happened, to get her statement but instead he asked her…about her memory.

It was piecey at best already. She’d woken up with only fractured pieces to put together; the last she had remembered she was in Italy still, and it had still been a week or so before her ticket had been bought. All those days crumpled together in a jumble, a tangle that she couldn’t even start to dip her hands into and unscramble. Not when she had trouble doing the smallest things like remembering what day it was altogether or picking up a piece of paper.

But forget all that, he was here to make sure if she wanted to forget everything else. Uncomfortable images flashed through her mind as she easily recalled the last few days before she left England. Of course those memories were as vivid as ever. The corners of her lips twitched up in a humorless smile. “Is that what you do?” She asked hoarsely. “You take away memories?”

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The look on the woman’s face as Vincent finished his speech spoke volumes as to her obvious disbelief that he was here in any capacity to help. Perhaps she had a flagrant distrust of the Ministry, or perhaps she’d just had that negative of an experience, but either way— a small sense of relief washed over the former Slytherin. It was always uncomfortable at best when he visited someone after an accident and they assumed he would, quite literally, solve all their problems with a wave of his wand. That was not how memories worked and the woman’s healthy dose of skepticism was refreshing.

Tilting his head just so to continue his study of her face, this time with keener interest, Vince gave a noncommittal shrug. “Officially, yes, I am an obliviator for the Law Enforcement Office of the Ministry,” he responded, voice restrained. “Unofficially, I can be whatever you need me to be. The bad guy who follows up disheartening news from a doctor, or the bully who alleviates pain by inflicting new wounds.” He paused to offer a half a grin, as if sharing a small inside joke. “Just don’t ask me to be a hero. I don’t save people from themselves.”

(Ironic, given that that’s exactly what Vincent had spent the majority of his life and career doing, especially for one individual in particular.)

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Irene Crawley & muse song, aw

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i desire very little but the things i do consume me

An obliviator. Frankly, Irene wasn’t sure what to think of that. The man seemed to have an air of boredom about him, which unsettled her and she shifted in her spot again, plucking at the covers. She was perfectly presentable, but something about the way he looked at her made her feel as if he could see past everything. She didn’t even know the first thing about Obliviators for the Ministry. Was it like legilimency where they could read their subject’s minds? That thought made her even more uncomfortable.

She blinked a few times, absorbing his words.

“The bad guy or the bully.” She repeated, wondering what sort of new wounds he could possibly inflict. Something tugged inside her and she almost huffed a laugh. At this point nothing seemed too out of the realm of possibility for her after last year. Subconsciously, she reached up to the base of her neck to scratch at the barely-there marks. Then she actually scoffed. “Trust me, I don’t think you’re here to save me. You’d be way too late anyways.” She laughed now, a bitter and harsh sound that scratched at her throat. What a ridiculous notion. Save her from what? Loss of family, heartbreak - the dragons? If people actually thought he might be able to wipe away those things, they were purely delusional. At least that was what part of her thought...

But there was another part, one that Irene had thus far refused to entertain, that sighed in relief at the idea of forgetting so much that had plagued her over the past few years. What if she was able to forget Mr. Hunt’s death? Even now, that day remained a brand on her mind and wouldn’t go away.

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Ms. Crawley was by far proving the most reasonable of all Vincent’s house calls this month. There was something almost resigned about the way she approached their interaction, as if he really could do nothing for her, and it was this contradiction that almost made Vince want to. He didn’t know what kind of pain or trauma she’d suffered at the hands of the dragon incident, but just the fact of her not needing him to alleviate it made him respect her. Surely it was the sign of a strong person to take in stride one’s hardships and make the most of them?

(Even if the anguish and bitterness behind such hardships made one resentful, blackening the soul and turning it to rot.)

A grin tugged at the corner of Vince’s lip again, not quite revealing itself as she echoed ‘bad guy’ and ‘bully.’ Was he intrigued to hear what kind of hardship she’d endured? Possibly. Was he restrained enough not to fish through her mind to find out if given the chance, likely not.

“I take it there is something then,” Vince hedged, debating how much he really cared to prompt and prolong this exchange. “Something better left forgotten but too sentimental to part with?” It was a shot in the dark, but a pretty good one if he dared to extrapolate. After seeing as many people as he did and removing memories that were as often just heartbroken as they were actually traumatic, he felt pretty certain. “I can take care of that too.” The latter was said with a bored shrug. “But just this once.” If he winked for good measure, just to infuriate, that was his own business.

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Irene Crawley & muse song, aw

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i desire very little but the things i do consume me

When he first walked into the room Irene had regarded Mr. Iago as a figure of authority, that represented the Ministry. But the more she looked at him, the more something itched at the back of her mind, as if she couldn’t inch herself further away from him. His grin finalized it, and she shifted again, tugging the blanket further up and pressing her back into the pillows behind her. Her eyes darted about the room, wondering if this was something she was able to flat out refuse. Could she? Or did she have to tell him something so he could report back?

“Of course there’s something, everyone has memories they’d like to forget.” She replied tersely, her hands curling into fists as she frowned at him.

The longer he stayed in the room, green eyes fixed on her, it was as if his mere presence was an ice pick against her restraint. She didn’t have much to put up a fight with. Waking up only days previously had left her in a constant state of confusion that reset every quarter of an hour. She’d made little notes in her sketchbook to help jog her memory, and that had worked until she was able to keep a grip on her memory enough to remember what had happened and why she was here. But her hold on it was tenuous at best, and she clenched her teeth. If she were dangling on the edge of a cliff, she’d be scraping her nails against the ground for purchase. Her tongue flicked out to wet her lips, and she forced herself to take a deep breath.

But when he winked at her, his grin even less restrained now, Irene openly scowled at him, her eyes growing hot. He liked this, didn’t he? He genuinely liked his job, and it wasn’t because he saw that he was taking people’s pain away. “You know nothing about sentimentality.” She murmured, only a fraction of the venom she felt injected into her hoarse reply. “Nothing about my memories.”

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It was obvious from the way this woman was squirming under her sheets that something in what he’d said had struck a nerve. Her snap too, like a cornered creature biting at the hand that reached, only emphasized the point. Vince took a step back in concession and raised his hands in mock surrender. It was nothing really to him what she was hiding. It wasn’t like she was anyone of importance worth the effort.

He was just about to yield, give up complete instance on the matter at hand with all the grace he could muster, when she snarled something about sentimentality that made Vince’s teeth set just a little on edge. Hands falling to his sides, green eyes snapped back to attention and the blonde barked a humorless laugh. “I apologize for correcting you Ms. Crawley, but I know too much of sentimentality. Far more than any reasonable person ought.” It was the reason he’d shown up in half a mind today, and yesterday, and would do so again tomorrow and the next day— determined to scrape together what little he could manage of normalcy again. Normalcy, forced, after everything that had been disrupted by that bloody mongrel—

Still, it was nothing to this hag what he’d suffered and Vincent was not in the mind to share much else. Having had enough of the exchange altogether, he tucked his hands deep into his pockets. He wouldn’t be in need of his wand this time, it seemed. “I don’t much care for your memories,” he drawled boredly and made to take a step towards the door. “Keep them, dispose of them, it’s of no real consequence to me.” It had been a mistake to even bother extending an olive branch in the first place. Oh Vincent you poor sod, you never really learn do you? Teeth on edge again and trying to be breezy as that voice echoed in the back of his mind, (his? theirs? ours?), Vince pressed onwards. “I suppose then if you’ve nothing to report or dispel, I’ll just be on my way.”

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Irene Crawley & muse song, aw

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i desire very little but the things i do consume me

That he immediately apologized - in addition to the harsh tone of his voice that suggested he was being honest - made a wave of shame immediately wash over her. Regardless of his reaction, as soon as the words left her mouth, she regretted them and she shrank inwardly at his response; she didn’t know him and yet his words hit their mark. Her vision immediately blurred, and she opened her mouth to apologize in return as shame curled in the pit of her stomach. He hadn't deserved her harsh words, and perhaps it was a trick of her mind that he'd winked. “Wait, Mr. Iago —”

That was when it happened.

The sound of wheels came whizzing by outside the room, immediately causing a rumbling sound right outside and at the same time a crash echoed throughout the room. Yelling and screams soon followed. Before she knew it, Irene had nearly fallen out of the bed and scrambled backwards until her back hit the wall, her heart pounding in her chest.

Closing her eyes only caused images from her dreams to swirl in front of her vision; glowing eyes, a gaping mouth, igniting as if it were about to breathe fire. “No, please, go away,” She whimpered, ducking her head to hide behind her knees drawn up against her. “Please, please, go away, leave me alone or kill me, please.” She couldn’t She wrapped her arms around her knees, her nails digging into her arms as she clutched herself.

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It had been like this for weeks now. At first, complete and utter silence in his head, so much silence that it was almost - dare he think it — lonely. Then, in an advancing phase of paranoia, Vincent had started to feel whispers… as if threads of the curse still lingered, the barest vestiges still attached. It was impossible to tell his own thoughts, his own inner voice, from the monster that had lingered for so long. Was it a side effect? Was it borne of his own fears, a nothingness he’d forced into reality? The very suggestion made goosebumps linger on the blonde’s skin and he scratched absently at his arm.

Vince realized as the sensation spread that he was better off escaping while he still had all of his wits. He made a small gesture of pardon to the woman again, ignoring the way her voice pitched in earnest, and reached for the door. She’d survive just fine without him tampering—

The world rumbled suddenly then, the sound of a carriage careening past the window loud and uproarious. (Vince thought idly to himself in the moments of catastrophe that he hadn’t realized this room faced the outside on the far-side of the hospital…) There was a crash and some screams, the realization of which causing him to scramble for his wand, while in the very same room, Ms. Crawley toppled out of the bed. Green eyes widened.

“Ms. Crawley!” On the ground by her side in an instant, Vince didn’t even have time to think before he was hovering over her. The woman jabbered nonsense, her gaze evidently glazed over, seeing something that wasn’t there. He didn’t know what all he could do for her, face tucked into her arms and trembling as she was. He settled one cautious hand on her shoulder, cold fingers barley brushing her gown and brain tripping over any limited aid training he’d undergone, but the thoughts wouldn’t formulate. All he could hear behind a dull roar was the curse, dark laughter echoing in the base of his skull. Another crash and a scream sounded outside. Vincent moved to crowd over the woman protectively as his head whipped around to look over his shoulder; the glass to their window had been shattered.

Sparing one last glance at the petrified woman, he stood and crossed the room to lean out the window. There were flames peeking around the side of the building. Damn! Wand still in hand, Vince made to exit the room and help.

“Ms. Crawley, I’m going to send someone in! Please hang in there just a moment longer—“

Time passed quickly after that. Having found a nurse in the hall and sent her into the room to aid the toppled victim, Vince did his best to put out the flames that had flared up quickly from the runaway carriage. It had been upturned by a pothole on the cobblestones when the horses spooked. Luckily nobody was hurt, but the flames took some time to reign in. Soot and smoke covered Vince’s attire as he finally made his way back into the hospital to check that Ms. Crawley had been resettled. (Why, he wasn’t entirely sure.)

A soft knock sounded on her door before the blonde peeked around the door. He didn’t know what he was going to say exactly— but he did know now… they had more in common than he’d first realized.

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Irene Crawley & muse song, aw

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i desire very little but the things i do consume me

For a horrid moment, Irene thought she was back in her nightmares; those weird dreams - visions she had while she had been asleep where the creature hunted her down and made her fall into water. But instead, all she could feel was the cold wall against her back as she squeezed her eyes closed into pure darkness. This couldn’t be happening again. She felt as if she was being squeezed into a small box. Even as the shouting continued outside and Irene kept her head down, the buzzing kept going until it felt as if the pressure in the air had increased by tenfold.

Hands plucked at her sleeves, encouraging words being murmured to her but they only sounded like roaring in her ears. Irene shook her head, only ducked further into herself, and she even heard someone scream for them to leave. So they left and the lights had been extinguished in the room and she was left in darkness, the window having been repaired by someone.

By the time she heard the knock on the door, the buzzing had died down. A light-headedness had descended upon her, and she only felt numb once more. Slowly, she turned to look up at who had come back. “Mr. Iago.” Her voice was hoarse, coated with surprise that he had returned and not sent someone else. She sniffed and reached up to swipe at her cheek with her palm. As he stepped in, she wanted to back further into the wall, and yet she found all of her fight had left. She eyed the ash that dusted the man’s jacket. Immediately the smell of smoke filled the room, and her heartbeat filled her ears. The walls seemed to be closing in. She stared at Mr. Iago, her eyes trained over his shoulder as if expecting a dragon to appear behind him.

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The knowledge that they had things in common didn’t do much more than allow Vince a sense of solidarity that, in truth, lasted but a few seconds. Knowing that there was another tortured soul out there was reassuring in the most sadistic way, but only for the amount of time it took for him to realize he had no reason to engage with said soul. Not professionally and certainly not personally. Yet here he was, edging into the woman’s room and scanning her visage for signs of distress.

He was surprised to see her still on the floor as he peered into the room. Hadn’t the nurse he’d sent in taken care of checking her over and the like? Shouldn’t she have been helped back into the bed? A flicker of irritation crossed the man’s visage but Vince was careful to keep from angling it towards the evidently still fragile being. Instead, he closed the door with a soft click behind him and approached as he might a wounded creature: slowly and with hands raised in surrender. There was still a hazy look in the woman’s eye.

“Ms. Crawley,” Vince intoned, quietly. “Would you like me to help you back into the bed?” He wasn’t sure it was the most obvious thing to say, but it was certainly something. He couldn’t well leave her there on the floor after all.

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Irene Crawley & muse song, aw

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She blinked as he came into the room, watching as he held his hands up. For a moment she was seeing double, but then the two figures slowly merged into one. Why was he approaching so slowly? Was something the matter? Irene almost turned to glance behind her until she realized that something was her.

Ms. Crawley. That was her. Irene Victoria Crawley.

Victoria Crawley. That had also been her mother.

Her eyes stung again, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks. “I want my mother.” She pleaded with this man in front of her who did not know her mother, nor did he know her father. Who did not know that her mother had been lost to a plague that wrought havoc on her mother’s sanity, or that her father had been eviscerated by a flying mammal. Nor did he know the comfort that Irene longed for when she was feeling lost, the comfort that was brought on by the scent of lavender when her mother engulfed her in a hug, fresh air clinging to her clothes. Or that whenever she had been distraught, her father had performed Muggle magic tricks to cheer her up.

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Vince approached slowly, knowing that regardless of the woman’s answer, he was likely going to have to do something. The look in her eye was wild; there was certainly something amiss in that scrambled mind of hers. He frowned a bit, wondering not for the first time if he ought to just be sure she didn’t want him to help. Then again… with her mind in fragments the way it was, Vince didn’t know that she even could consent to having him step in and fish about. Not really. Not properly. (Did she have a next of kin?)

Settling on the ground beside her, he placed both hands gently on the woman’s arms and began to try and guide her to a stand. She needed rest. Rest, and a shrink. (But didn’t they all?)

As Vince stood there, finding himself unusually benevolent and with an armful of useless female energy, he couldn’t help but feel his psychosis begin to creep back up his spine. This was a waste of time… Why bother so much with someone who evidently has nothing to offer? The strawberry blonde felt his jaw set in irritation. (At himself, her— he wasn’t sure.) “Ms. Crawley,” he tried, one last time. “Are you sure there’s nothing I can do for you?”

There was a meaningful look behind green eyes. If she denied him again then… that was all Vincent was willing to do.

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Irene Crawley & muse song, aw

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i desire very little but the things i do consume me

Someone had come closer. She stared ahead, wondering if she might be able to ward them off by biting them. But his hand settled on her arms and then there was a slight pressure. She looked at him, trying to find an anchor, and she was looking into two pools of green. There was a fire behind them; not roaring, but something quiet and steady, flickering. She had to close her eyes for a moment. A wave of dizziness washed over her and she just wanted to give into it. But something strung itself through her body, something strong, and she grasped onto it for dear life. Took a breath. Then another.

Are you sure there’s nothing I can do for you?

Years of feeling things being torn from her grasp; mother, father; love; her art, her blood…and a stranger offers a glimmer of a life raft.

She was sinking beneath the waves, she knew. Cousin Cece was back in Italy running her estate; surely her friends would stay there too; and here Irene was back in fucking England, the place she had fled from only to have it pull her backwards while pulling the fucking carpet from underneath her feet; as if her dress skirts had been lifted and tugged over her head, leaving her splayed out on the ground, a raw nerve, exposed and vulnerable and she was sick of it, sick of it.

There was a ringing in her ears. It was too loud, pressing in on her, squeezing her lungs, demanding more.

Control. She had to get back some control.

“What can you offer me?”

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