Wednesday, April 11th, 2009 — 3:00 p.m.
Location: Potter-Peverell-Grey Apartment, Unplottable London
Tagline: The Past Never Dies. It Just Waits Until You're Mid-Sip.
They were back.
Not from battle. No, not this time.
This time, they had survived bureaucracy, which was arguably crueler, smelled worse, and definitely left more paperwork-induced injuries.
After the Ministry's latest installment of "Please Appease the 130 While Ignoring Actual Crime," the cousins had returned to their apartment with the kind of brittle, splintered silence only found after forced smiles and politely phrased accusations. They'd each received a fine, a pat on the head, and a diplomatically veiled hex-threat.
Also, a pamphlet on "Civic Peace and Public Screaming Etiquette" stapled with ominous friendliness.
They stepped into the apartment in unified, murderous exhaustion.
And the apartment?
It had changed.
Again.
The transformation this time wasn't loud.
It didn't come with a trumpet of eldritch announcement or a blood-slick new staircase.
It was… settled.
Intentional.
Two new doors flanked the corridor now:
The first pulsed with cold—walls lined in obsidian and old weaponry, each blade whispering its own name. Candles burned with violet flame, casting shadows shaped like warnings.
The second glowed warm. Not golden. Not welcoming. Warm like the aftermath of thunder. Like being curled in the ribs of a storm. Protective. Sacred.
It was the apartment's way of saying: The Blood Companions are home. Adjust accordingly.
Because the Potter-Peverell-Grey residence was Nightmare Court enchanted.
Which meant:
The house listened.
The house judged.
The house had opinions.
And today?
It decided everyone deserved their own trauma-ready safe room.
Seraphina sat curled on the couch, wrapped in a throw that might've once been a minor god. She was nursing a mug of chai so strong it had opinions about tax policy and a cinnamon stick shaped like a weaponized wand.
She had already hissed at two wall sconces for flickering too dramatically.
Caius lay across the chaise like a sarcastic painting—upside down, book in hand, feet pointed at the ceiling like rules were for peasants. He was reading Wards, Witches, and War Crimes: A Legacy Memoir while nursing tea that smelled like royalty and apathy.
Blood Fang sat on the floor, elbow-deep in a curse-ball he was inscribing with passive-aggressive hexes. A ward of "Not Today, Satan" shimmered around him in blue runes.
Raphael—silent, focused, composed—was polishing his knives.
Not as a hobby.
As a philosophy.
Each blade was treated like it had feelings.
And then—
Seraphina's past arrived.
Not like a whisper.
Not like a nostalgic shimmer.
Like a full-bodied, high-speed, magical brick to the brain.
She was one.
Just one. Small enough to be carried. Angry enough to challenge gods.
She remembered itchy black lace. A ceremonial iron rose pinned to her chest that hissed faintly. Her mother—probably—had insisted she wear it. The iron stung, but she hadn't cried.
She didn't do crying.
Somewhere near the edge of memory, her father had laughed and said, "She's the only baby I know who looks like she's planning a rebellion."
There were candles. Dozens. Shadows danced like nobles. The chandeliers were carved from bone and crystal.
Real Nightmares—the hooved ones with eyes like the end of time—slept by the hearth.
Then—
Him.
Raphael.
Not younger. Not warmer. Just less weary. His edges hadn't hardened into weapon-grade calm yet.
He knelt before her. Looked at her, not like she was a baby, but like she was a prophecy he'd already memorized.
His gloved hand tapped her forehead, and he smiled.
> "My little Nightmare," he had said.
"Domina-to-be. Don't forget who you are. Not even when they cage your wings."
She giggled.
Then she grabbed his braid—
—and bit him.
Back in the present, Seraphina's brain whiplashed back.
She choked. Hard. Mid-sip.
Tea went sideways. Her mug somersaulted across the room—caught neatly by the enchanted Mug-Net of Regretful Accidents™, which had been installed after the "scalding the cousin" incident of last week.
She wheezed. Coughed. Flapped dramatically.
Caius didn't even look up. "Another past life flashback, or did the tea sass you again?"
Raphael was suddenly at her side. No footsteps. No rustle. Just presence. Like a court decree in human form.
He didn't ask Are you okay? That would imply doubt.
He handed her a cloth. Perfectly folded.
"You remembered," he said mildly. As if they were discussing the weather. Or murder.
She blinked up at him. Still mid-cough.
"You were there."
"Of course," he said.
"You called me 'Little Nightmare.'"
"You bit me."
"You let me."
His smile flickered. Sharp. Fond.
"It was the only way to seal the bond."
She gawked. "I had teeth?"
"You had fangs."
Caius rolled over, spine clicking. "I knew it! I have an old diary entry that says, 'Seraphina bit Raphael. He bled politely.' I thought I was hallucinating."
Blood Fang glanced up, eyeing Raphael's neck. "Explains the scar. I always thought it was ornamental."
Seraphina narrowed her eyes. "So what—this was a baby blood ritual?"
"Technically," Raphael replied, tone infuriatingly calm, "it was a ceremonial trial-of-instinctual-loyalty rite."
She stared.
"A legal baby blood ritual," he clarified helpfully. "Traditional. Very sacred. Performed in a protected space. Ritual garments. Recorded in triplicate."
"I was one."
"And you bit me. Consent confirmed."
A long silence.
The kind of silence that usually meant either introspection or incoming explosions.
Seraphina sighed, flopped back dramatically into the cushions, and muttered:
"Why is my entire childhood a Gothic horror novella footnoted with weaponry and etiquette?"
Raphael folded the cloth again.
"Because you are Nightmare Court," he said. "And our childhoods are choreographed omens."
Caius raised his teacup in salute. "To trauma—seasoned with symbolism, plated with metaphor."
Blood Fang raised a rune-etched snack bar. "Cheers."
Seraphina groaned into her cushions.
But a smirk tugged at her lips anyway.
Because deep in her bones—somewhere older than thought—she remembered that braid. She remembered that moment. That warmth. That recognition.
No one else ever looked at a one-year-old in full ceremonial black lace and said:
> That one? She's going to make the world scream.
And meant it as a blessing.