(no subject)
Fandom: Assassin's Creed
Characters: Altair Ibn'La-Ahad, Malik Al-Sayf
Rating: PG
Warnings: Kink meme fill: Malik tending to Altair's children. Written before The Secret Crusade and discontinued because of it. Non-canon.
The entrance to Altair's study was slightly ajar. The room was dark, the sun having long since set over Masyaf. Not even the smallest sliver of candlelight escaped from inside and the air in this wing of the castle smelled cold and damp and foreboding, unlike the lower libraries and halls, where incense and the scent of burning lamp oil wafted through the halls. Altair was there, because he bolted the door and layered precaution over precaution to safeguard the Apple when he was not, but when his door was open, Malik always found it the hardest to go in.
A soft glow escaped the crack underneath the door, a gentle yellow light that seemed to dance across the floor. Paused at the threshold, Malik watched it play shadow games with the uneven ground, frowning as it tinted the toes of his boots a ghostly orange. Altair was no coward, but sometimes it looked as though he threw himself into his studies of the artifact just to run, and whether it was at something or from something made little difference when it was running him ragged just the same.
Malik turned away, the fingers of the hand he had extended to touch the door curling into a helpless fist, and left.
The sound of a baby broke through the agitated echo of his steps as he descended the stairs. It was jarring in its rarity, even if it wasn't as loud as the angry stomping of his feet, and it made Malik slow to a halt in front of one of the castle chambers. Masyaf had long been deprived of such sounds, such joys, and such innocence. Assassins, being close acquaintances with death, rarely had the chance to celebrate new life. Altair had told him once how, under Al Mualim's influence, his own parents had been made strangers to him, to the point where the Master's praise was the closest thing he had to love.
Without announcing his presence, Malik peeked inside. There was an older nursemaid pacing by the window, holding Altair's second son in her arms, the child distinguishable by the lighter coloring of his skin. His head was cushioned on her shoulder, his body pillowed against her breast. His stubby fingers were playing with the back of her hijab, trying to pull the silky material out of place, and though he hadn't been reduced to tears, he looked markedly uncomfortable, fidgeting in place and kicking at the air.
Malik watched for a moment until his characteristic impatience made him clear his throat and step inside. He didn't have enough stake, enough claim to meddle in the Grandmaster's affairs of the heart, but he had more than enough qualifications to look after Masyaf's citizens in Altair's wake, all the way down to the smallest, youngest, most difficult ones.
The nursemaid turned, eyes widening before she ducked her head and bowed. “Master, I was not expecting you.”
Stepping inside, Malik ran a cursory glance over the room. Though small and largely unfurnished, the baby's bed was surrounded with enough brightly-colored pillows to cover half the floor. On the other side of the space was another small bed, strewn with messy, equally-as-colorful sheets. These were only temporarily arrangements until the Grandmaster could find a better way to balance both leadership and fatherhood, but only after tackling heartbreak first. Maria used to sleep with Altair's first child beside their bed, the second in her womb, but those chambers were too large and too empty now.
“His father, I suspect?” Malik asked, dropping his papers in a neat pile to the ground and held out his arm, nodding at Altair's son.
She seemed to hesitate, perhaps unsure of giving the child to a man who could only cradle him with one arm, or maybe simply wary of handing over such a precious little bundle of life to someone who was accustomed to taking it from others - an automatic maternal instinct. “Not like that, Master,” she said, reaching out to guide his arm into a more suitable, curled position, before neatly arranging the baby so that his head rest against the crook of Malik's elbow before she answered his question.
“His father, and at times, I pray that his mother return. He has been so difficult today. I have tried half a dozen things but he-”
The baby fell suddenly quiet, blinking up in wide-eyed wonder at this strong, kind stranger, curious and appraising, very much like Altair.
Malik felt his mouth curve into a smile, and he began to sway ever so slightly where he stood, rocking the boy against his chest. He didn't even remember when Kadar was this young, but he felt a great and helpless affection bloom in his chest for this little being, born from strength but still so fragile. He could feel the child's hand pull at the hem of his dai robe, kneading at the dark, coarser material and yanking it out of place with small tugs of his fist. This was Altair's son, his blood and bones, and this - brown hair and amber eyes - was what the future looked like.
“Ah. I was not aware the Master handled children so well.”
Jerking his head up, Malik flushed lightly under the older woman's amused scrutiny. Her hesitance was gone, replaced by that infuriating look of appraisal he had been receiving lately, from women who were measuring up men of age for prospective son-in-laws. Malik looked down to avoid her gaze.
“Well, it is a good thing one of us does,” he said gruffly, and he didn't realize he was frowning until he saw the baby's face twisting to awkwardly imitate the expression in a completely inaccurate pout. Consequently, Malik instantly stopped. “Since the first Master is so terrible at it.”
The nursemaid stepped back, eyes downcast and smile wry. “That is not something we can begrudge him for yet.”
The rest of Masyaf only knew that Maria had left. They did not know her reasons, but they were quick to judge just the same, having always seen her as somewhat of an outsider. Malik had sympathized with her, knowing what it felt like to be an outcast in your own city, but Maria had a pride perhaps even greater than his or Altair's, and she had fought instead of bowing her head. Though a woman, raised as a Christian instead of as an Assassin, Maria still had been every bit the warrior her husband was, but when her reason for fighting began to forget her in favor of studying an inherited artifact, Malik could not say her departure surprised him.
He doubted it even shocked Altair, who had simply taken in the news with quiet, sad acceptance. (His eyes had closed, the skin between his brow wrinkling, and for a second, the Grandmaster of Masyaf had seemed a little smaller, a little weaker, a little beaten in his chair, framed by a window overlooking the city that seemed more like a prison than an opening.)
“Where is Aziz?” Malik asked, looking up.
The nursemaid gave him a disapproving look that said she was fully aware that he was changing the subject, but he was joint Master, after all, and as wise, as experienced, and as gossip-thirsty as older women tended to be, she had a responsibility to adhere to as well. “He is with Rauf, already waving wooden sticks at the older boys. I would not be surprised if he has worn himself out and will be carried back here shortly. What a handful, that one!”
Malik chuckled, the image much too familiar for him to grow angry. “I will see to it that they retire for the night. Return to your family. You have been away from them all day.”
The nursemaid scoffed. “My children are already grown! My son has a family of his own, and my daughter has been looking for a suitor,” she said pointedly.
“I wish you the greatest of fortunes in finding one,” Malik answered graciously, without looking up from the child.
Clever enough to recognize the dismissal, and wise enough to only find amusement in it, the nursemaid nodded, running her hand kindly over the baby's forehead in parting before exiting the room. With her absence came an air of calm, descending quietly and rather unexpectedly upon the area. Rebuilding Masyaf was no menial task, and the days were hectic enough that the sudden change of pace was marked enough for Malik to immediately notice. He looked up, striding to the window the nursemaid had been standing at before his interruption, and gazed out at the gardens.
There were fireflies collecting in the still pools of water down below. The rougher waters of the river below the cliff ran swift but silent, and for now, Masyaf was at peace. At the feel of a light shift against his chest, Malik looked down and laughed, just as quiet as the scene outside. Altair's son was waving his arms in the air, little hand flexing as it tried to reach his face, and as Malik bent towards him, the tips of the baby's fingers grazed his chin.
Surprised, the child drew back at the prickly stubble there, and then just as fast, unafraid and all too eager to take on the challenge (it must have run in his blood), reached back up again with comical determination scrunching up his nose.
“You will have to forgive your father,” Malik said softly, ducking his head to press his mouth against the fingertips instead. He could afford this much affection for something that deserved it so much, and away from the prying eyes of the other assassins, there was no need to pretend as though compassion weakened his strength. Bereft of a brother and with no time for a family of his own, Malik wondered if it was always this easy to love a child, if this was how Altair had felt the moment he first lay sight on his sons. “As misguided as he is, he is trying to build a world for you to grow up in.”
The boy giggled, still patting his fingers against Malik's chin.
“We are trying,” Malik corrected himself, pressing a kiss against the baby's forehead, and he began to rock again until Altair's son grew drowsy with the motion, eyes drooping while his arms fell back down to his stomach. It began as barely a whisper, rough from lack of practice and half hummed because he had forgotten half the words, but Malik sang what little of a lullaby he remembered from his youth, a soft lilting melody perhaps better suited to a woman's voice than his deep raspy one, from a time before the brotherhood trained him out of his innocence, before it stole his arm and his family.
Altair had his right here, but he was too blind to notice.
“That novice,” Malik said at the thought, quietly enough that the child didn't stir. Padding softly back to the bed, stepping over mound after mound of pillows (Altair might have gone a little overboard with that bit), he set the boy onto his back and gently swathed him in covers. As strong-willed as his father, the baby clung to his thumb until he tugged it back and withdrew to graze his knuckles over his eyes, brushing back the soft, wispy hair. It was brown like his mother's, curled in at the ends like his father's. The strands that were too short to be kept down by their own weight stood up every which way despite Malik's efforts to smooth it down, and that, he supposed, was a trait the child had taken from both.
“I had hoped he would not inherit that particular title from me.”
Tension snapped back into his frame, fast, sudden, almost elastic. Lifting his head, Malik found Altair standing by the door, carrying his first son, who had only learned how to walk a mere two years ago, against his chest. Aziz was asleep, mumbling softly in slumber. When his father gently (so gently, showing greater care with his child than Malik had ever seen Altair display for anything else) set him down, he instantly rolled onto his side, cushioning his head with his hand and drawing his knees up towards his chest. Altair remained sitting on the edge of his bed as Aziz curled up against his back, hands folded and elbows resting on his knees.
“When did you arrive?” Malik asked, frowning until all the tenderness left his expression.
“Just now,” said Altair, evading his eyes and glancing over his shoulder at his son. He set a hand on the boy’s back and began to rub circles against it until Aziz’s breathing slowed and evened out completely. “He is more stubborn than Rauf. He would have forced the man to play with him well into the dawn if someone did not stop him. I brought him up,” the Grandmaster raised his head, smiling underneath his hood. The peaked tip made it difficult to see his eyes. “And found you.”
“Surprised?” Malik swept his robes out from under him as he lowered himself to the pillows, putting them at not-quite eye level, but at least he could see Altair’s face this way.
Altair looked tired, not drowsy like his children, but worn. There were shadows under his eyes, etched in by the years he had lived and the ones to come, the ones he had seen in the Apple, and in the unsteady light cast by the lamps, they seemed to flicker like a small flame. He held out his hand. “You help me with much already, Malik. I should not impose this on you as well.”
“I chose to, brother.” Malik took his hand, clasping it and let it hang, palm to palm for a brief second before letting go. “I wanted to see what all the fuss was about. Maria used to call them devil-spawn, and I don’t think she was alluding to herself.” Carefully, he lifted his head and watched for Altair’s reaction to the mention of her name, only to be taken off-guard when he looked up to find the Grandmaster already eying him. “...What?”
“So you are worried.” Altair smiled.
“I am no such thing,” Malik sputtered, gathering himself quickly onto his feet, but before he could make a hasty, offended retreat, Altair grabbed onto the bottom of his robes to keep him there, forceful yet childlike. Looking down, Malik realized that Altair’s sons took after him a great deal. He could see it in the strong brow of one son, the angled jaw peeking out from the baby fat of the other. As if in the presence of another child, Malik eased, softened just a fraction. He reached down to remove Altair’s grip, but let his fingers hang off his own. “Should I be?”
“I am strong enough,” Altair shrugged.
“That is not what I am asking.”
Altair chuckled at that. “What a good mother you make,” he teased, reaching up to block Malik’s hand before the other man could cuff him over the head. “It is complicated,” he said in appeasement, voice low and reluctant, even if he hadn’t admitted to any weakness yet. “It is not what the rest of the Brotherhood thinks, but... it will probably still be difficult.” Looking past Malik at the baby sleeping fitfully on the other side of the room, Altair paused before clarifying, “For my sons, I mean.”
“For your sons,” Malik repeated dryly, but he did not press. Altair, in turn, seemed disinclined to expound on his (lack of) answer.
Ultimately, Malik sighed and took a few steps towards the door, lingering with a hand on the frame before passing through. There was a comfortableness in this room that he did not entirely want to abandon, but this was a warmth that he was not entirely sure he was welcome to share. Like Altair in his year of seeking fruitless redemption, and like Maria who never bowed her head, Malik was struck with the odd sense of being a stranger in his own castle. Sometimes it was just easier to leave, but that didn’t stop him from adding, “They will be fine, Altair. I will help.”
Altair looked to him.
“Your sons, I mean.” Malik smirked.
Altair’s smile came slowly and with some difficulty - it was like prodding a dying ember back into flames, but it did come. He nodded and without needing to express his gratitude for it to be clear, simply said, “Safety and peace, Malik.”
Malik nodded back and turned to leave. “We will bring your children both.”
Fandom: Assassin's Creed x The Frog Prince
Characters: Altair Ibn'La-Ahad, Malik Al-Sayf
Rating: PG
Warnings: Kink meme fill: Fairytale AU.
The toad shows up on his dresser table, dripping pond water and slime onto the polished oak surface.
Malik jerks upright in his bed at the sound of the wet squelch-plop and slowly reaches for the dagger tucked into the side of his boot. “Where did you come from, toad?” he snaps, finding nothing remiss about speaking directly to less-evolved member of the animal kingdom because between his mother having apparently slept for twenty-years of her adolescent life and his brother having found his girlfriend in a magic lamp, this is hardly worth even batting an eye at.
“We lurk in the shadows, serving the light,” says the toad in a croak-whisper, narrowing his beady gold (gold?) eyes at him before adding indignantly, “And I'm a frog, not a toad.”
Malik throws his dagger.
It lands with surprising accuracy, sticking point-first into the wall right behind the very space the frog was occupying not a moment prior. The hilt is still vibrating from the sudden impact when an algae-green head peeks out from behind the mirror. As he swings his feet back onto the floor, even Malik has to admit, however begrudgingly, that the creature certainly has good reflexes. It is the only thing that stops him for reaching for his other dagger.
The frog looks livid, which, for a frog, basically means that it is puffing itself up like a water balloon as if somehow, if he sucks in enough air, he might actually reach above Malik's ankle. “You're not a princess, either!” it snaps back peevishly, stomping one of its hind legs. It waves a webbed, balled-up fist at him with one of its spindly, mottled front arms. “Not exactly my first choice, but I'm not whacking you with my tongue or anything, am I?”
Malik curls his lips back in a grimace as he crosses the floor, the heels of his boots muffled by the plush carpet on the ground. “Please don't,” he says, stopping only when he's directly in front of the frog, who doesn't flinch when he reaches above its head to pull his dagger out of the plaster behind it. Perhaps it doesn't realize that the prince can flay and skin him in the blink of an eye, or it actually isn't intimidated in any way. (Stupid, either way, Malik decides.)
He can feel the frog eying the bottom of his chin without looking. It mutters something that sounds suspiciously like, “Won't use tongue unless you do, then.”
“And what are you supposed to be, then? That you need a princess?” Malik asks from above the frog's head. He pulls out the dagger and lets it slip down his palm until the sharp edge of its blade is pressing right between its eyes.
The frog just swats it away with a wet slap. “I'm a prince, just like you. Or, rather, actually, I'm probably at a higher standing than you now, because my father has since stepped down into his retirement years, making me the king,” it says smugly, puffing itself up just a fraction more. Malik withdraws the dagger only because he doesn't want frog guts all over his things if he accidentally bursts it open like a needle and balloon. “But I shoved away this wretched beggar woman away last week - so persistent - and she turned out to be a witch, and here I am: enchanted frog until an available prince or princess kisses me.”
Malik narrows his eyes in thought. “I've heard about that spell. Doesn't throwing you against the wall also break the curse?” he questions, slipping his dagger back into the snug hidden leather compartment he fashioned for it in the interior of the shoe. “One of my cousins had it for a while, before his little sister threw him out the window.” [1]
The frog deflates and crouches low against the dresser, ready to pounce like an animal of prey. “I'd prefer the other option,” it says slowly, glancing at Malik's empty hands with obvious suspicion.
“And if I refuse to help you?”
“I'd have to go to Acre - the next closest kingdom with an available member of the a royal family,” it answers with a sniff. Though Acre is at least three days' travel on a horse and no doubt significantly longer on nothing but a springy set of frog's legs, the frog doesn't lower itself to begging. If anything, it crosses its arms and looks even more obstinate, a curious creature by any measure, so prideful despite being so debased. It probably ate a fly for breakfast and it's still holding itself like royalty.
Malik sits down on the cushioned dresser chair and holds out his hand, smirking to himself. This isn't what he expected his fairytale to play out like, but he's sure there's still a dragon to be slayed and an evil wizard to be conquered somewhere. He could afford to peck a mystical creature or two. (Plus, he has an hour and a half to kill before sword practice and the map he has been studying had been giving him a headache.) But, however secretly kind, Malik is not easy, so he says, “You could afford to grovel a little in your state, Toad.”
Even as it jumps into Malik's palm the frog manages a convincing frown with its limited facial muscles. Its skin is damp and slippery but it clings to his thumb with both webbed hands nonetheless, trying to find purchase in case the prince really did throw him. “A frog,” it protests highhandedly as it is lifted to eye-level. “Not a toad.”
“No frog tongue,” says Malik and he kisses it.
Its mouth-slash-nose is wet and cold like the rest of it, but it warms up against his skin. Then, something damp brushes up against the seam of his mouth and Malik jerks back, snatching his hands back to himself and not really caring if the damned thing landed on the floor and hit its head on the way down. Certainly, as a prince, Malik is hardly as squeamish as his female counterparts, but even so, kissing a frog is still an act of charity and honestly, he had only one demand. One! He had said-
“No tongue,” he mumbles, blinking wide-eyed at the face peering straight back at him. It is golden-eyed and dark-haired, dusky-skinned and sharp in its angles, in the harsh line of its nose and the slopes of its cheeks. The mouth brushing against his lower lip is thin-lipped but hardly frog-like, a raised scar cutting across it on one side. The frog-turned-prince-turned-king has his hands braced on Malik's chair, arms on either side of the prince's hips, and he isn't moving except to take advantage of Malik's surprise to press another close-mouthed kiss against the tip of his nose.
The frog prince pulls back just as quickly, licking his lips and grinning. “No frog tongue, you said,” he argues. “You said nothing about the regular kind.”
Though the spell is obviously undone, Malik decides to take the safe route and, planting a foot against the other prince's stomach, throws him against the wall as well.
[1] - Apparently in the original versions of The Frog Prince, an act of violence (or more specifically, the princess throwing the frog against the wall) is what breaks the spell.
Fandom: Assassin's Creed x Harry Potter
Characters: Altair Ibn'La-Ahad, Malik Al-Sayf, Al-Maulim
Rating: PG
Warnings: A prequel to the like pillars four verse and its previous timestamps - Altair and Malik's backstory.
Unlike his younger brothers, Altair first blusters into Hogwarts with something to prove. The wizarding world knows of his family name, has smeared it under sensationalist headlines like, 'Freak Accident Leaves 3 Orphans' or 'Seer Family Secret - Coveted Or Cursed?' but it knows nothing about them, about Desmond, who has taken to Hide and Seek like it is a survival skill, or Ezio, who mumbles words like 'revenge' behind the house when he thinks no one is looking, or Altair, who grows into a quiet, proud child to defend his siblings from scrutiny.
But when he gets on the train to Hogwarts for the first time, Altair has no one to protect and the idea that he is on his own makes him cranky and sullen, pig-headed and unfriendly. Well-meaning children try to sit next to him but they fidget when they hear his name; curious ones outright ask. He becomes snappish with his deflections and eventually resorts to physically shoving people out of his carriage one by one, snapping the doors on their fingers and jabbing the end of his wand into their chests.
Altair is sighing at the slider handles when something ribbits from behind him.
He reels and finds one last boy reaching for a chocolate frog that has plastered itself to the upper right corner of the window. Catching sight of Altair’s reflection, the boy stops, hand still outstretched, face pressed close to the glass.
Altair grits his teeth and waits for the boy to speak. He is already thinking about how to pry the other away from the wall, how to wrench him around by his newly-bought robes, how to shove him into the hall. He is already rolling his ready-made 'No' around in his mouth, can taste the bulk and weight of it on his tongue. After this boy is gone, all he will have is blessed quiet, hopefully all the way up to Hogwarts. He will fall asleep and not think about how many miles lay between him and his brothers.
“What?” says the boy peevishly, looking no more interested nor impressed when his eyes settle on Altair's stormy face. There is a flash of recognition, sharp and fast like quicksilver in the boy's intelligent eyes, but nothing more. “Are you going to help me get the frog?” he demands, tapping one finger impatiently on the pane. He doesn't turn, as if Altair is not worth the effort of taking his concentration off the frog, as if Altair is just another boy, less important than chocolate at this moment in time. “If you're not, stop gaping. Go sit or cry or do whatever it is in the corner and be quiet.”
His lips are already curled into a half-snarl, so ready is he to spit out that last, “No,” but the opportunity never rears. Instead, Altair numbly slides into the cushioned seat, melting against the leather upholstery. He feels untethered, alone. “Don’t you know who I am?” he asks, finding the last shreds of indignation to fuel his question. It almost sounds accusing.
At last, the boy jumps up and in one well-timed swing of his arm, manages to snatch the frog into his palm, clutching it tight enough to begin to deform the chocolate limbs sticking out from the sides of his fist with the heat of his skin. A soft, muted, ‘bi-bibt’ is coming from the cage of his fingers. “I know your name,” the boy answers shortly, breaking off a hind leg, which instantly turns to solid, unmoving chocolate once it is detached from the enchanted body. He pops it in his mouth, plopping down into the seat diagonally opposite of Altair and looking up. “I don’t know who you are,” he elaborates, with the nonchalant air of someone who doesn’t actually care much about that fact.
Altair stares for a moment. “You don’t,” he says slowly in validation, but the pitch of his voice rises at the end, makes it sound like a question when it is only surprise.
The boy makes a face, brows furrowing. “That’s what I said.”
So, it is Altair who sticks his hand out, the movement awkward and unpracticed. It is a little too aggressive, reaches a little too far into the other’s space like it is trying to take rather than receive. His arm is a little too stiff and his fingers pressed too tightly together, as if trying to achieve perfect, piercing form in parallel to the rest of his limb. “I’m Altair,” he says, pulling down the hood of the over-sized sweatshirt he had been hiding his face in, and before the other boy can accuse him of repeating known information, he asks, “Who are you?”
Unlike many of the other first-years, Altair is not the least bit nervous when the Sorting Hat is placed on his head. The professor overseeing the process clears her throat once with a kind smile - Minerva, or something of that sort - and motions at him with her chin until he remembers to pull the hood of his sweatshirt down. He does so and sits, back ramrod straight and feet kicking lightly at the legs of the stool. All of Hogwarts looks back at him, waiting to see which House will get the Cursed Boy.
Ah, says the hat, its voice lilting in his head like a song. What a curious child you are, proud enough for Gryffindor, severe enough for Slytherin, stubborn enough for Hufflepuff, and perhaps clever enough for Ravenclaw.
Perhaps?, thinks Altair indignantly, glancing to the Ravenclaw table, where Malik Al-Sayf sits at the end with the rest of his House’s sorted students. The boy with the chocolate frog from the train was one of the first to be placed, and Altair remembers the smug, satisfied smile on his face when he walked to his housemates. I am, he answers defiantly, frowning up at the wide brim obscuring his vision. I could be.
The hat hums with amusement. You could, it answers, shifting a little in place. The fabric it is cut from is worn and soft, mussing up his hair where it sits on his brow. We are all capable of great and terrible things, of making good and bad decisions, regardless of which table you sit at in the Great Hall, child. Do you want to be brave, cunning, vigilant or wise?
Yes.
The hat shifts back on his head a little. Yes? it asks curiously.
Altair nods, satisfied with his answer, with all the openness and potential it implies, and the hat falls back over his eyes. For a moment, his vision is thrown into darkness. As he lifts a hand to pull it back into place, he hears the hat laugh. Oh, it chuckles, its loose-seam mouth flopping open and shut. I know what to do with you, it announces, sing-song, at the exact moment it shouts, “Gryffindor!” into the crowd.
Adolescence is not easy; it never is.
Altair is a Gryffindor, but he is still lofty and detached, like a kite flying high but untethered. He is impatient with his classmates and rarely offers or accepts help of any kind. He completes group assignments on his own, and while that is certainly convenient, it is also not at all conducive to establishing rapport in any way. Considering his less-than-favorable reputation to begin with, by the time his second year ends and his third begins, most of Hogwarts already knows to steer clear of or at least maneuver quietly when around the Cursed Boy.
Despite their tentative introductions that first day on the train, even Malik treats Altair with a certain sense of indifference. He keeps mostly to his fellow Ravenclaws and his brother, who enrolls when Altair is a third-year. All Altair knows is that Malik dislikes it when he completes his assignments before the Ravenclaw in their shared Arithmancy class, but Altair has never seen the point of humbling himself for the sake of others (or humbling himself at all, really), so the only type of attention he garners from Malik, like with the rest of the school, is negative.
He meets Professor Al Mualim as a third-year.
The D.A.D.A. professor is old and commands a certain air of respect from the staff and student body for having held on to his position for so many years. Before Al Mualim, there had been a rumor that any teacher who taught the Defense Against the Dark Arts subject could only last a year, as teachers had been rotating out of the spot for years, all somehow having mysteriously contracted one affliction or another at the end of their term. In other words, before Al Mualim, the school thought the position had been cursed.
“They call you the Cursed Boy,” says Al Mualim, stopping Altair with a wizened hand on his shoulder at the end of his first day in the class. One of his eyes is milky white, made of glass, but it rolls in his socket like it can see, and the other is surrounded by a white brow and crow’s feet. Altair stares back, entranced by the steady gaze of one and the fidgety listlessness of the other. “But I know about my curses, Mister Ibn’La-Ahad, and you are not cursed, are you?”
Altair frowns, jerking his shoulder out of the professor’s grasp, but Al Mualim smiles when he doesn’t retreat to his next class or draw away. Despite the curiosity of his eye, the professor’s face is kind with the expression, subtle and subdued with amusement but not mocking. There is no reproach in his stare, but no indulgence in its levelness. Al Mualim looks at him like he is looking at him, like he’s looking through him, like he can See.
He registers a deep, pulsing blue in Altair’s Vision.
“There’s great talent in you, boy,” says Al Mualim, soft and secret and satisfied. When he reaches out again, Altair doesn’t shrug away.
Altair keeps up a habitual vigilance about keeping a suspicious eye on Professor Al Mualim for a few weeks, as if trying to catch him in his bluff. Those terse few seconds stretch into wary minutes and when one month after their first private conversation, he approaches the teacher and asks about the practical applications of a Flaming Itch Curse, those wary minutes pull into cautious hours thereafter.
Unlike the first two years spent learning the basics, the precautions, and why one should avoid the Dark Arts at all costs, Al Mualim allows his third-year students the privilege of removing the blinders from their eyes. The Dark Arts exist - they lay in wait in the pages of old tomes, in family heirlooms and even sewn into the very fabric of everyday items. The most efficient method of handling them is not unlike handling firearms - to defend against a weapon, learn to use it.
Altair takes to the subject in his third year like a gillyweed vegetarian to water. Defense Against the Dark Arts is a practice in what Altair has always found to be his skill - protection in the form of aggression. This serves to both alienate him further from his fellow classmates (especially during practical demonstrations) and endear him to his professor, who rewards him with a spattering of points to Gryffindor for excelling at the subject.
He feels proud, like he belongs. Even Malik cannot cast a Finite Incantem as fast as he can, or throw a counter-Ridikkulus quite as quickly, even if the form Altair’s Boggart takes (a charging wave of water) is much more intimidating than the staggering, sickly old man Malik’s appears as (he refuses to explain that). It quickly becomes obvious who the professor’s favorite student is, but both instructor and student have reputations that few care to test.
Though kind, Al Mualim hardly lathers him with praise, but Altair nevertheless wants so badly to please the instructor, this one person who believes in him, who sees him, that he doesn’t notice the glint flash across the professor’s glass eye when he brings up the Unforgivable Curses.
“There are three,” the old man explains, pulling out a glass jar from the classroom cupboards. There is a hairy tarantula inside, clinging to a segment of birch branch as it is moved. Despite appearances, it is a docile creature - it doesn’t protest when it is picked up, removed from the jar and set on the table. There, it leisurely taps its legs against the polished surface and teeters from side to side, relaxed and at ease. “The first is the torture curse.”
A shudder runs down Altair’s spine, but he holds himself still, the perfect image of discipline and rapt attention, as Al Mualim pulls out his gnarled Backwood wand and murmurs, “Crucio.”
The spider doesn’t scream; without vocal chords, it doesn’t have the means to, but it goes painfully rigid, trembling for a second before it flattens itself against the surface, its legs drumming helplessly against the grain of the wood as its body spasms out of its own control. It is quiet and soundless, but Altair feels something cold brush against his neck, feels a sensation that is both terrible and strange, but too new to classify. He feels something dark.
Al Mualim smiles when Altair remains silent and says, “Then, there is the killing curse, which is only recited when you have the conviction to kill. Remember that - it is useless otherwise. Avada Kedavra.”
Altair watches the creature die. It only takes a moment.
There is a long, long pause, during which the afternoon sun (it is a pleasantly sunny day) streams through the high windows of the room and casts its corners into dusty light. There are echoes of students milling about and talking coming from outside these four walls, and perhaps one with exceptional hearing could even make out the occasional bump from the Boggart closet, but otherwise, it is silent. Altair inhales and it isn’t until he takes the breath that he notices it stuttering in his chest.
“The...third?” he asks, lifting his eyes. Al Mualim is already watching him, something weird and piercing in his usually-warm gaze. The dead spider’s corpse lays between them, its legs curled inwards in pain from its last few moments in the world of the living, but neither of them are looking at it. The air feels dense and frigid and sharp, like a million iron needles, against his skin.
“The third and last,” says Al Mualim, without dropping his gaze, “is Imperio."
Characters: Altair Ibn'La-Ahad, Malik Al-Sayf
Rating: PG
Warnings: Kink meme fill: Malik tending to Altair's children. Written before The Secret Crusade and discontinued because of it. Non-canon.
The entrance to Altair's study was slightly ajar. The room was dark, the sun having long since set over Masyaf. Not even the smallest sliver of candlelight escaped from inside and the air in this wing of the castle smelled cold and damp and foreboding, unlike the lower libraries and halls, where incense and the scent of burning lamp oil wafted through the halls. Altair was there, because he bolted the door and layered precaution over precaution to safeguard the Apple when he was not, but when his door was open, Malik always found it the hardest to go in.
A soft glow escaped the crack underneath the door, a gentle yellow light that seemed to dance across the floor. Paused at the threshold, Malik watched it play shadow games with the uneven ground, frowning as it tinted the toes of his boots a ghostly orange. Altair was no coward, but sometimes it looked as though he threw himself into his studies of the artifact just to run, and whether it was at something or from something made little difference when it was running him ragged just the same.
Malik turned away, the fingers of the hand he had extended to touch the door curling into a helpless fist, and left.
The sound of a baby broke through the agitated echo of his steps as he descended the stairs. It was jarring in its rarity, even if it wasn't as loud as the angry stomping of his feet, and it made Malik slow to a halt in front of one of the castle chambers. Masyaf had long been deprived of such sounds, such joys, and such innocence. Assassins, being close acquaintances with death, rarely had the chance to celebrate new life. Altair had told him once how, under Al Mualim's influence, his own parents had been made strangers to him, to the point where the Master's praise was the closest thing he had to love.
Without announcing his presence, Malik peeked inside. There was an older nursemaid pacing by the window, holding Altair's second son in her arms, the child distinguishable by the lighter coloring of his skin. His head was cushioned on her shoulder, his body pillowed against her breast. His stubby fingers were playing with the back of her hijab, trying to pull the silky material out of place, and though he hadn't been reduced to tears, he looked markedly uncomfortable, fidgeting in place and kicking at the air.
Malik watched for a moment until his characteristic impatience made him clear his throat and step inside. He didn't have enough stake, enough claim to meddle in the Grandmaster's affairs of the heart, but he had more than enough qualifications to look after Masyaf's citizens in Altair's wake, all the way down to the smallest, youngest, most difficult ones.
The nursemaid turned, eyes widening before she ducked her head and bowed. “Master, I was not expecting you.”
Stepping inside, Malik ran a cursory glance over the room. Though small and largely unfurnished, the baby's bed was surrounded with enough brightly-colored pillows to cover half the floor. On the other side of the space was another small bed, strewn with messy, equally-as-colorful sheets. These were only temporarily arrangements until the Grandmaster could find a better way to balance both leadership and fatherhood, but only after tackling heartbreak first. Maria used to sleep with Altair's first child beside their bed, the second in her womb, but those chambers were too large and too empty now.
“His father, I suspect?” Malik asked, dropping his papers in a neat pile to the ground and held out his arm, nodding at Altair's son.
She seemed to hesitate, perhaps unsure of giving the child to a man who could only cradle him with one arm, or maybe simply wary of handing over such a precious little bundle of life to someone who was accustomed to taking it from others - an automatic maternal instinct. “Not like that, Master,” she said, reaching out to guide his arm into a more suitable, curled position, before neatly arranging the baby so that his head rest against the crook of Malik's elbow before she answered his question.
“His father, and at times, I pray that his mother return. He has been so difficult today. I have tried half a dozen things but he-”
The baby fell suddenly quiet, blinking up in wide-eyed wonder at this strong, kind stranger, curious and appraising, very much like Altair.
Malik felt his mouth curve into a smile, and he began to sway ever so slightly where he stood, rocking the boy against his chest. He didn't even remember when Kadar was this young, but he felt a great and helpless affection bloom in his chest for this little being, born from strength but still so fragile. He could feel the child's hand pull at the hem of his dai robe, kneading at the dark, coarser material and yanking it out of place with small tugs of his fist. This was Altair's son, his blood and bones, and this - brown hair and amber eyes - was what the future looked like.
“Ah. I was not aware the Master handled children so well.”
Jerking his head up, Malik flushed lightly under the older woman's amused scrutiny. Her hesitance was gone, replaced by that infuriating look of appraisal he had been receiving lately, from women who were measuring up men of age for prospective son-in-laws. Malik looked down to avoid her gaze.
“Well, it is a good thing one of us does,” he said gruffly, and he didn't realize he was frowning until he saw the baby's face twisting to awkwardly imitate the expression in a completely inaccurate pout. Consequently, Malik instantly stopped. “Since the first Master is so terrible at it.”
The nursemaid stepped back, eyes downcast and smile wry. “That is not something we can begrudge him for yet.”
The rest of Masyaf only knew that Maria had left. They did not know her reasons, but they were quick to judge just the same, having always seen her as somewhat of an outsider. Malik had sympathized with her, knowing what it felt like to be an outcast in your own city, but Maria had a pride perhaps even greater than his or Altair's, and she had fought instead of bowing her head. Though a woman, raised as a Christian instead of as an Assassin, Maria still had been every bit the warrior her husband was, but when her reason for fighting began to forget her in favor of studying an inherited artifact, Malik could not say her departure surprised him.
He doubted it even shocked Altair, who had simply taken in the news with quiet, sad acceptance. (His eyes had closed, the skin between his brow wrinkling, and for a second, the Grandmaster of Masyaf had seemed a little smaller, a little weaker, a little beaten in his chair, framed by a window overlooking the city that seemed more like a prison than an opening.)
“Where is Aziz?” Malik asked, looking up.
The nursemaid gave him a disapproving look that said she was fully aware that he was changing the subject, but he was joint Master, after all, and as wise, as experienced, and as gossip-thirsty as older women tended to be, she had a responsibility to adhere to as well. “He is with Rauf, already waving wooden sticks at the older boys. I would not be surprised if he has worn himself out and will be carried back here shortly. What a handful, that one!”
Malik chuckled, the image much too familiar for him to grow angry. “I will see to it that they retire for the night. Return to your family. You have been away from them all day.”
The nursemaid scoffed. “My children are already grown! My son has a family of his own, and my daughter has been looking for a suitor,” she said pointedly.
“I wish you the greatest of fortunes in finding one,” Malik answered graciously, without looking up from the child.
Clever enough to recognize the dismissal, and wise enough to only find amusement in it, the nursemaid nodded, running her hand kindly over the baby's forehead in parting before exiting the room. With her absence came an air of calm, descending quietly and rather unexpectedly upon the area. Rebuilding Masyaf was no menial task, and the days were hectic enough that the sudden change of pace was marked enough for Malik to immediately notice. He looked up, striding to the window the nursemaid had been standing at before his interruption, and gazed out at the gardens.
There were fireflies collecting in the still pools of water down below. The rougher waters of the river below the cliff ran swift but silent, and for now, Masyaf was at peace. At the feel of a light shift against his chest, Malik looked down and laughed, just as quiet as the scene outside. Altair's son was waving his arms in the air, little hand flexing as it tried to reach his face, and as Malik bent towards him, the tips of the baby's fingers grazed his chin.
Surprised, the child drew back at the prickly stubble there, and then just as fast, unafraid and all too eager to take on the challenge (it must have run in his blood), reached back up again with comical determination scrunching up his nose.
“You will have to forgive your father,” Malik said softly, ducking his head to press his mouth against the fingertips instead. He could afford this much affection for something that deserved it so much, and away from the prying eyes of the other assassins, there was no need to pretend as though compassion weakened his strength. Bereft of a brother and with no time for a family of his own, Malik wondered if it was always this easy to love a child, if this was how Altair had felt the moment he first lay sight on his sons. “As misguided as he is, he is trying to build a world for you to grow up in.”
The boy giggled, still patting his fingers against Malik's chin.
“We are trying,” Malik corrected himself, pressing a kiss against the baby's forehead, and he began to rock again until Altair's son grew drowsy with the motion, eyes drooping while his arms fell back down to his stomach. It began as barely a whisper, rough from lack of practice and half hummed because he had forgotten half the words, but Malik sang what little of a lullaby he remembered from his youth, a soft lilting melody perhaps better suited to a woman's voice than his deep raspy one, from a time before the brotherhood trained him out of his innocence, before it stole his arm and his family.
Altair had his right here, but he was too blind to notice.
“That novice,” Malik said at the thought, quietly enough that the child didn't stir. Padding softly back to the bed, stepping over mound after mound of pillows (Altair might have gone a little overboard with that bit), he set the boy onto his back and gently swathed him in covers. As strong-willed as his father, the baby clung to his thumb until he tugged it back and withdrew to graze his knuckles over his eyes, brushing back the soft, wispy hair. It was brown like his mother's, curled in at the ends like his father's. The strands that were too short to be kept down by their own weight stood up every which way despite Malik's efforts to smooth it down, and that, he supposed, was a trait the child had taken from both.
“I had hoped he would not inherit that particular title from me.”
Tension snapped back into his frame, fast, sudden, almost elastic. Lifting his head, Malik found Altair standing by the door, carrying his first son, who had only learned how to walk a mere two years ago, against his chest. Aziz was asleep, mumbling softly in slumber. When his father gently (so gently, showing greater care with his child than Malik had ever seen Altair display for anything else) set him down, he instantly rolled onto his side, cushioning his head with his hand and drawing his knees up towards his chest. Altair remained sitting on the edge of his bed as Aziz curled up against his back, hands folded and elbows resting on his knees.
“When did you arrive?” Malik asked, frowning until all the tenderness left his expression.
“Just now,” said Altair, evading his eyes and glancing over his shoulder at his son. He set a hand on the boy’s back and began to rub circles against it until Aziz’s breathing slowed and evened out completely. “He is more stubborn than Rauf. He would have forced the man to play with him well into the dawn if someone did not stop him. I brought him up,” the Grandmaster raised his head, smiling underneath his hood. The peaked tip made it difficult to see his eyes. “And found you.”
“Surprised?” Malik swept his robes out from under him as he lowered himself to the pillows, putting them at not-quite eye level, but at least he could see Altair’s face this way.
Altair looked tired, not drowsy like his children, but worn. There were shadows under his eyes, etched in by the years he had lived and the ones to come, the ones he had seen in the Apple, and in the unsteady light cast by the lamps, they seemed to flicker like a small flame. He held out his hand. “You help me with much already, Malik. I should not impose this on you as well.”
“I chose to, brother.” Malik took his hand, clasping it and let it hang, palm to palm for a brief second before letting go. “I wanted to see what all the fuss was about. Maria used to call them devil-spawn, and I don’t think she was alluding to herself.” Carefully, he lifted his head and watched for Altair’s reaction to the mention of her name, only to be taken off-guard when he looked up to find the Grandmaster already eying him. “...What?”
“So you are worried.” Altair smiled.
“I am no such thing,” Malik sputtered, gathering himself quickly onto his feet, but before he could make a hasty, offended retreat, Altair grabbed onto the bottom of his robes to keep him there, forceful yet childlike. Looking down, Malik realized that Altair’s sons took after him a great deal. He could see it in the strong brow of one son, the angled jaw peeking out from the baby fat of the other. As if in the presence of another child, Malik eased, softened just a fraction. He reached down to remove Altair’s grip, but let his fingers hang off his own. “Should I be?”
“I am strong enough,” Altair shrugged.
“That is not what I am asking.”
Altair chuckled at that. “What a good mother you make,” he teased, reaching up to block Malik’s hand before the other man could cuff him over the head. “It is complicated,” he said in appeasement, voice low and reluctant, even if he hadn’t admitted to any weakness yet. “It is not what the rest of the Brotherhood thinks, but... it will probably still be difficult.” Looking past Malik at the baby sleeping fitfully on the other side of the room, Altair paused before clarifying, “For my sons, I mean.”
“For your sons,” Malik repeated dryly, but he did not press. Altair, in turn, seemed disinclined to expound on his (lack of) answer.
Ultimately, Malik sighed and took a few steps towards the door, lingering with a hand on the frame before passing through. There was a comfortableness in this room that he did not entirely want to abandon, but this was a warmth that he was not entirely sure he was welcome to share. Like Altair in his year of seeking fruitless redemption, and like Maria who never bowed her head, Malik was struck with the odd sense of being a stranger in his own castle. Sometimes it was just easier to leave, but that didn’t stop him from adding, “They will be fine, Altair. I will help.”
Altair looked to him.
“Your sons, I mean.” Malik smirked.
Altair’s smile came slowly and with some difficulty - it was like prodding a dying ember back into flames, but it did come. He nodded and without needing to express his gratitude for it to be clear, simply said, “Safety and peace, Malik.”
Malik nodded back and turned to leave. “We will bring your children both.”
Fandom: Assassin's Creed x The Frog Prince
Characters: Altair Ibn'La-Ahad, Malik Al-Sayf
Rating: PG
Warnings: Kink meme fill: Fairytale AU.
The toad shows up on his dresser table, dripping pond water and slime onto the polished oak surface.
Malik jerks upright in his bed at the sound of the wet squelch-plop and slowly reaches for the dagger tucked into the side of his boot. “Where did you come from, toad?” he snaps, finding nothing remiss about speaking directly to less-evolved member of the animal kingdom because between his mother having apparently slept for twenty-years of her adolescent life and his brother having found his girlfriend in a magic lamp, this is hardly worth even batting an eye at.
“We lurk in the shadows, serving the light,” says the toad in a croak-whisper, narrowing his beady gold (gold?) eyes at him before adding indignantly, “And I'm a frog, not a toad.”
Malik throws his dagger.
It lands with surprising accuracy, sticking point-first into the wall right behind the very space the frog was occupying not a moment prior. The hilt is still vibrating from the sudden impact when an algae-green head peeks out from behind the mirror. As he swings his feet back onto the floor, even Malik has to admit, however begrudgingly, that the creature certainly has good reflexes. It is the only thing that stops him for reaching for his other dagger.
The frog looks livid, which, for a frog, basically means that it is puffing itself up like a water balloon as if somehow, if he sucks in enough air, he might actually reach above Malik's ankle. “You're not a princess, either!” it snaps back peevishly, stomping one of its hind legs. It waves a webbed, balled-up fist at him with one of its spindly, mottled front arms. “Not exactly my first choice, but I'm not whacking you with my tongue or anything, am I?”
Malik curls his lips back in a grimace as he crosses the floor, the heels of his boots muffled by the plush carpet on the ground. “Please don't,” he says, stopping only when he's directly in front of the frog, who doesn't flinch when he reaches above its head to pull his dagger out of the plaster behind it. Perhaps it doesn't realize that the prince can flay and skin him in the blink of an eye, or it actually isn't intimidated in any way. (Stupid, either way, Malik decides.)
He can feel the frog eying the bottom of his chin without looking. It mutters something that sounds suspiciously like, “Won't use tongue unless you do, then.”
“And what are you supposed to be, then? That you need a princess?” Malik asks from above the frog's head. He pulls out the dagger and lets it slip down his palm until the sharp edge of its blade is pressing right between its eyes.
The frog just swats it away with a wet slap. “I'm a prince, just like you. Or, rather, actually, I'm probably at a higher standing than you now, because my father has since stepped down into his retirement years, making me the king,” it says smugly, puffing itself up just a fraction more. Malik withdraws the dagger only because he doesn't want frog guts all over his things if he accidentally bursts it open like a needle and balloon. “But I shoved away this wretched beggar woman away last week - so persistent - and she turned out to be a witch, and here I am: enchanted frog until an available prince or princess kisses me.”
Malik narrows his eyes in thought. “I've heard about that spell. Doesn't throwing you against the wall also break the curse?” he questions, slipping his dagger back into the snug hidden leather compartment he fashioned for it in the interior of the shoe. “One of my cousins had it for a while, before his little sister threw him out the window.” [1]
The frog deflates and crouches low against the dresser, ready to pounce like an animal of prey. “I'd prefer the other option,” it says slowly, glancing at Malik's empty hands with obvious suspicion.
“And if I refuse to help you?”
“I'd have to go to Acre - the next closest kingdom with an available member of the a royal family,” it answers with a sniff. Though Acre is at least three days' travel on a horse and no doubt significantly longer on nothing but a springy set of frog's legs, the frog doesn't lower itself to begging. If anything, it crosses its arms and looks even more obstinate, a curious creature by any measure, so prideful despite being so debased. It probably ate a fly for breakfast and it's still holding itself like royalty.
Malik sits down on the cushioned dresser chair and holds out his hand, smirking to himself. This isn't what he expected his fairytale to play out like, but he's sure there's still a dragon to be slayed and an evil wizard to be conquered somewhere. He could afford to peck a mystical creature or two. (Plus, he has an hour and a half to kill before sword practice and the map he has been studying had been giving him a headache.) But, however secretly kind, Malik is not easy, so he says, “You could afford to grovel a little in your state, Toad.”
Even as it jumps into Malik's palm the frog manages a convincing frown with its limited facial muscles. Its skin is damp and slippery but it clings to his thumb with both webbed hands nonetheless, trying to find purchase in case the prince really did throw him. “A frog,” it protests highhandedly as it is lifted to eye-level. “Not a toad.”
“No frog tongue,” says Malik and he kisses it.
Its mouth-slash-nose is wet and cold like the rest of it, but it warms up against his skin. Then, something damp brushes up against the seam of his mouth and Malik jerks back, snatching his hands back to himself and not really caring if the damned thing landed on the floor and hit its head on the way down. Certainly, as a prince, Malik is hardly as squeamish as his female counterparts, but even so, kissing a frog is still an act of charity and honestly, he had only one demand. One! He had said-
“No tongue,” he mumbles, blinking wide-eyed at the face peering straight back at him. It is golden-eyed and dark-haired, dusky-skinned and sharp in its angles, in the harsh line of its nose and the slopes of its cheeks. The mouth brushing against his lower lip is thin-lipped but hardly frog-like, a raised scar cutting across it on one side. The frog-turned-prince-turned-king has his hands braced on Malik's chair, arms on either side of the prince's hips, and he isn't moving except to take advantage of Malik's surprise to press another close-mouthed kiss against the tip of his nose.
The frog prince pulls back just as quickly, licking his lips and grinning. “No frog tongue, you said,” he argues. “You said nothing about the regular kind.”
Though the spell is obviously undone, Malik decides to take the safe route and, planting a foot against the other prince's stomach, throws him against the wall as well.
[1] - Apparently in the original versions of The Frog Prince, an act of violence (or more specifically, the princess throwing the frog against the wall) is what breaks the spell.
Fandom: Assassin's Creed x Harry Potter
Characters: Altair Ibn'La-Ahad, Malik Al-Sayf, Al-Maulim
Rating: PG
Warnings: A prequel to the like pillars four verse and its previous timestamps - Altair and Malik's backstory.
Unlike his younger brothers, Altair first blusters into Hogwarts with something to prove. The wizarding world knows of his family name, has smeared it under sensationalist headlines like, 'Freak Accident Leaves 3 Orphans' or 'Seer Family Secret - Coveted Or Cursed?' but it knows nothing about them, about Desmond, who has taken to Hide and Seek like it is a survival skill, or Ezio, who mumbles words like 'revenge' behind the house when he thinks no one is looking, or Altair, who grows into a quiet, proud child to defend his siblings from scrutiny.
But when he gets on the train to Hogwarts for the first time, Altair has no one to protect and the idea that he is on his own makes him cranky and sullen, pig-headed and unfriendly. Well-meaning children try to sit next to him but they fidget when they hear his name; curious ones outright ask. He becomes snappish with his deflections and eventually resorts to physically shoving people out of his carriage one by one, snapping the doors on their fingers and jabbing the end of his wand into their chests.
Altair is sighing at the slider handles when something ribbits from behind him.
He reels and finds one last boy reaching for a chocolate frog that has plastered itself to the upper right corner of the window. Catching sight of Altair’s reflection, the boy stops, hand still outstretched, face pressed close to the glass.
Altair grits his teeth and waits for the boy to speak. He is already thinking about how to pry the other away from the wall, how to wrench him around by his newly-bought robes, how to shove him into the hall. He is already rolling his ready-made 'No' around in his mouth, can taste the bulk and weight of it on his tongue. After this boy is gone, all he will have is blessed quiet, hopefully all the way up to Hogwarts. He will fall asleep and not think about how many miles lay between him and his brothers.
“What?” says the boy peevishly, looking no more interested nor impressed when his eyes settle on Altair's stormy face. There is a flash of recognition, sharp and fast like quicksilver in the boy's intelligent eyes, but nothing more. “Are you going to help me get the frog?” he demands, tapping one finger impatiently on the pane. He doesn't turn, as if Altair is not worth the effort of taking his concentration off the frog, as if Altair is just another boy, less important than chocolate at this moment in time. “If you're not, stop gaping. Go sit or cry or do whatever it is in the corner and be quiet.”
His lips are already curled into a half-snarl, so ready is he to spit out that last, “No,” but the opportunity never rears. Instead, Altair numbly slides into the cushioned seat, melting against the leather upholstery. He feels untethered, alone. “Don’t you know who I am?” he asks, finding the last shreds of indignation to fuel his question. It almost sounds accusing.
At last, the boy jumps up and in one well-timed swing of his arm, manages to snatch the frog into his palm, clutching it tight enough to begin to deform the chocolate limbs sticking out from the sides of his fist with the heat of his skin. A soft, muted, ‘bi-bibt’ is coming from the cage of his fingers. “I know your name,” the boy answers shortly, breaking off a hind leg, which instantly turns to solid, unmoving chocolate once it is detached from the enchanted body. He pops it in his mouth, plopping down into the seat diagonally opposite of Altair and looking up. “I don’t know who you are,” he elaborates, with the nonchalant air of someone who doesn’t actually care much about that fact.
Altair stares for a moment. “You don’t,” he says slowly in validation, but the pitch of his voice rises at the end, makes it sound like a question when it is only surprise.
The boy makes a face, brows furrowing. “That’s what I said.”
So, it is Altair who sticks his hand out, the movement awkward and unpracticed. It is a little too aggressive, reaches a little too far into the other’s space like it is trying to take rather than receive. His arm is a little too stiff and his fingers pressed too tightly together, as if trying to achieve perfect, piercing form in parallel to the rest of his limb. “I’m Altair,” he says, pulling down the hood of the over-sized sweatshirt he had been hiding his face in, and before the other boy can accuse him of repeating known information, he asks, “Who are you?”
Unlike many of the other first-years, Altair is not the least bit nervous when the Sorting Hat is placed on his head. The professor overseeing the process clears her throat once with a kind smile - Minerva, or something of that sort - and motions at him with her chin until he remembers to pull the hood of his sweatshirt down. He does so and sits, back ramrod straight and feet kicking lightly at the legs of the stool. All of Hogwarts looks back at him, waiting to see which House will get the Cursed Boy.
Ah, says the hat, its voice lilting in his head like a song. What a curious child you are, proud enough for Gryffindor, severe enough for Slytherin, stubborn enough for Hufflepuff, and perhaps clever enough for Ravenclaw.
Perhaps?, thinks Altair indignantly, glancing to the Ravenclaw table, where Malik Al-Sayf sits at the end with the rest of his House’s sorted students. The boy with the chocolate frog from the train was one of the first to be placed, and Altair remembers the smug, satisfied smile on his face when he walked to his housemates. I am, he answers defiantly, frowning up at the wide brim obscuring his vision. I could be.
The hat hums with amusement. You could, it answers, shifting a little in place. The fabric it is cut from is worn and soft, mussing up his hair where it sits on his brow. We are all capable of great and terrible things, of making good and bad decisions, regardless of which table you sit at in the Great Hall, child. Do you want to be brave, cunning, vigilant or wise?
Yes.
The hat shifts back on his head a little. Yes? it asks curiously.
Altair nods, satisfied with his answer, with all the openness and potential it implies, and the hat falls back over his eyes. For a moment, his vision is thrown into darkness. As he lifts a hand to pull it back into place, he hears the hat laugh. Oh, it chuckles, its loose-seam mouth flopping open and shut. I know what to do with you, it announces, sing-song, at the exact moment it shouts, “Gryffindor!” into the crowd.
Adolescence is not easy; it never is.
Altair is a Gryffindor, but he is still lofty and detached, like a kite flying high but untethered. He is impatient with his classmates and rarely offers or accepts help of any kind. He completes group assignments on his own, and while that is certainly convenient, it is also not at all conducive to establishing rapport in any way. Considering his less-than-favorable reputation to begin with, by the time his second year ends and his third begins, most of Hogwarts already knows to steer clear of or at least maneuver quietly when around the Cursed Boy.
Despite their tentative introductions that first day on the train, even Malik treats Altair with a certain sense of indifference. He keeps mostly to his fellow Ravenclaws and his brother, who enrolls when Altair is a third-year. All Altair knows is that Malik dislikes it when he completes his assignments before the Ravenclaw in their shared Arithmancy class, but Altair has never seen the point of humbling himself for the sake of others (or humbling himself at all, really), so the only type of attention he garners from Malik, like with the rest of the school, is negative.
He meets Professor Al Mualim as a third-year.
The D.A.D.A. professor is old and commands a certain air of respect from the staff and student body for having held on to his position for so many years. Before Al Mualim, there had been a rumor that any teacher who taught the Defense Against the Dark Arts subject could only last a year, as teachers had been rotating out of the spot for years, all somehow having mysteriously contracted one affliction or another at the end of their term. In other words, before Al Mualim, the school thought the position had been cursed.
“They call you the Cursed Boy,” says Al Mualim, stopping Altair with a wizened hand on his shoulder at the end of his first day in the class. One of his eyes is milky white, made of glass, but it rolls in his socket like it can see, and the other is surrounded by a white brow and crow’s feet. Altair stares back, entranced by the steady gaze of one and the fidgety listlessness of the other. “But I know about my curses, Mister Ibn’La-Ahad, and you are not cursed, are you?”
Altair frowns, jerking his shoulder out of the professor’s grasp, but Al Mualim smiles when he doesn’t retreat to his next class or draw away. Despite the curiosity of his eye, the professor’s face is kind with the expression, subtle and subdued with amusement but not mocking. There is no reproach in his stare, but no indulgence in its levelness. Al Mualim looks at him like he is looking at him, like he’s looking through him, like he can See.
He registers a deep, pulsing blue in Altair’s Vision.
“There’s great talent in you, boy,” says Al Mualim, soft and secret and satisfied. When he reaches out again, Altair doesn’t shrug away.
Altair keeps up a habitual vigilance about keeping a suspicious eye on Professor Al Mualim for a few weeks, as if trying to catch him in his bluff. Those terse few seconds stretch into wary minutes and when one month after their first private conversation, he approaches the teacher and asks about the practical applications of a Flaming Itch Curse, those wary minutes pull into cautious hours thereafter.
Unlike the first two years spent learning the basics, the precautions, and why one should avoid the Dark Arts at all costs, Al Mualim allows his third-year students the privilege of removing the blinders from their eyes. The Dark Arts exist - they lay in wait in the pages of old tomes, in family heirlooms and even sewn into the very fabric of everyday items. The most efficient method of handling them is not unlike handling firearms - to defend against a weapon, learn to use it.
Altair takes to the subject in his third year like a gillyweed vegetarian to water. Defense Against the Dark Arts is a practice in what Altair has always found to be his skill - protection in the form of aggression. This serves to both alienate him further from his fellow classmates (especially during practical demonstrations) and endear him to his professor, who rewards him with a spattering of points to Gryffindor for excelling at the subject.
He feels proud, like he belongs. Even Malik cannot cast a Finite Incantem as fast as he can, or throw a counter-Ridikkulus quite as quickly, even if the form Altair’s Boggart takes (a charging wave of water) is much more intimidating than the staggering, sickly old man Malik’s appears as (he refuses to explain that). It quickly becomes obvious who the professor’s favorite student is, but both instructor and student have reputations that few care to test.
Though kind, Al Mualim hardly lathers him with praise, but Altair nevertheless wants so badly to please the instructor, this one person who believes in him, who sees him, that he doesn’t notice the glint flash across the professor’s glass eye when he brings up the Unforgivable Curses.
“There are three,” the old man explains, pulling out a glass jar from the classroom cupboards. There is a hairy tarantula inside, clinging to a segment of birch branch as it is moved. Despite appearances, it is a docile creature - it doesn’t protest when it is picked up, removed from the jar and set on the table. There, it leisurely taps its legs against the polished surface and teeters from side to side, relaxed and at ease. “The first is the torture curse.”
A shudder runs down Altair’s spine, but he holds himself still, the perfect image of discipline and rapt attention, as Al Mualim pulls out his gnarled Backwood wand and murmurs, “Crucio.”
The spider doesn’t scream; without vocal chords, it doesn’t have the means to, but it goes painfully rigid, trembling for a second before it flattens itself against the surface, its legs drumming helplessly against the grain of the wood as its body spasms out of its own control. It is quiet and soundless, but Altair feels something cold brush against his neck, feels a sensation that is both terrible and strange, but too new to classify. He feels something dark.
Al Mualim smiles when Altair remains silent and says, “Then, there is the killing curse, which is only recited when you have the conviction to kill. Remember that - it is useless otherwise. Avada Kedavra.”
Altair watches the creature die. It only takes a moment.
There is a long, long pause, during which the afternoon sun (it is a pleasantly sunny day) streams through the high windows of the room and casts its corners into dusty light. There are echoes of students milling about and talking coming from outside these four walls, and perhaps one with exceptional hearing could even make out the occasional bump from the Boggart closet, but otherwise, it is silent. Altair inhales and it isn’t until he takes the breath that he notices it stuttering in his chest.
“The...third?” he asks, lifting his eyes. Al Mualim is already watching him, something weird and piercing in his usually-warm gaze. The dead spider’s corpse lays between them, its legs curled inwards in pain from its last few moments in the world of the living, but neither of them are looking at it. The air feels dense and frigid and sharp, like a million iron needles, against his skin.
“The third and last,” says Al Mualim, without dropping his gaze, “is Imperio."