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leftnotright · 7 months ago

Text

PROOF APOLLO WEARS HAWAIIAN SHIRTS

“The Tri-Ni-Sette machine is failing. The world will die.” “We can’t do anything going forward. Going backwards, however, is another matter.” Ryohei had his mission: To go back. To before the most recent Arcobaleno Curse, to before the slaughter of the Simone. To before the Tri-Ni-Sette System finally gave out. Ryohei was used to loss, in the ring and in life. But this time, he promises, he’ll win. Reborn had his mission: Get in this man’s pants, or die trying. After all, Reborn was nothing if not an Icarus. (Or: The ‘size matters’ fic)

Parings: Reborn/Sasagawa Ryohei

Characters: Reborn (Katekyou Hitman Reborn!), Ten Years Later Sasagawa Ryouhei, Sasagawa Ryouhei, Vindice (Katekyou Hitman Reborn!), Arcobaleno (Katekyou Hitman Reborn!), Checker Face | Kawahira

Tags: Time Travel Fix-It, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Ryouhei Time Travels

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10

CHAPTER 10: DO YOU GOT ROOM FOR ONE MORE TROUBLED SOUL

The Vindice was the culmination of parts. The chewed-up, spat out parts of what remained of the Best the world had to offer. The Giants of their time, whose shoulders now act as the stairs of success, steep and treacherous. In the same manner, the Vindice was the culmination of broken, dazzling minds.

Bermuda Von Vichtenstein was no stranger to eccentrics, in a past life he had dabbled his fair share, and his kin were cut from the same cloth.

But these men. These men that Ryohei Sasagawa had dragged in, sopping with an untimely downpour, were unbearable.

Verde, the supposed hidden trump card, all but crawled over the metal skeletons, getting shoe-marks on the fresh weld and jostling the delicate wiring. On his knees, Verde turned components around and upside down, inspecting everything like some sort of uncouth child would a shiny seashell. Only it was the very fragile, very important pieces of the Machine.

Water splashed Bermuda’s cheek and he bristled.

Reborn, the pest, slicked his wet hair back from his face with all the pomp and flamboyance of a preening peacock. He shrugged off his jacket and draped it over his arm, exposing his dress shirt that had turned tastefully transparent. He was dripping water on the floor. He hadn’t even wiped his sandy shoes.

Ryohei Sasagawa, the instigator, grinned at the two things he had brought upon Bermuda, joyous in his ‘progress’.

“Do you know where we have more copper solder?”

“Storage 3.”

“Ah, good. I’m so glad we’re labelling the rooms now.”

“Truly, it makes life so much simpler.”

Bermuda didn’t react.

Instead, Bermuda gritted his teeth against the loud clapping that came from Verde as he sat upon the floor, his glasses still rain-dotted and shoes crunchy with gravel and sand.

“Give me my design!” He called out, fisting a pen out of his pocket as his socks squelched. “Blueprints! Notes, surely you have them, I would never create something without the relevant calculations.”

“You’ll have to ask their code breakers, Verde. It seems even the Vindice cannot distinguish your chicken scratch,” Reborn chimed idly, then he stopped, blinked, and looked at his watch. “Ah, right on time. Pardon me, dear Ryohei, I hate to leave you in such lacking company, but I’ve something to pick up.”

“Sure! Oh, dude, while you’re up there, could you swing by nonna Hellena’s shop? She’s got that dinner I ordered waiting for us,” Ryohei said, and rubbed his hands together eagerly.

“Will do,” Reborn inclined his head before he disappeared through a swirling mass, courtesy of a Vindice ghoul.

Ryohei bounced on his feet as he watched Verde all but wrestle a stack of notebooks and folded papers from inside a well-stuffed folder. The Vindice codebreakers floated around him, tattered bandages stained with ink, spectacles and monicals smudged and the frames rusty.

Verde, ghastly pale, looked right at home as he adjusted his glasses and scratched the stubble on his chin. He leant the notebook up against that massive metal base and spread out the folded blueprints. Eyes, quick as lightning and just as bright, flitted across between crooked penmanship and the strict ruled lines of diagrams, ratios exact, footnotes copious.

Ryohei looked utterly elated as Verde called for paper, and — to Ryohei’s delight, and Jaeger's gripe — began making more notes in that same, abhorrent handwriting.

“Astonishing,” said a ghoul that loomed over Verde’s shoulder, spectacles glinted red from the fresh solder burnt overhead. “Who taught you to write?”

“No one. I taught myself,” Verde uttered, and started a new page.

“Shame. I would’ve much liked to have them shot.”

Ryohei grinned.

☀

For three days, Verde didn’t leave that amphitheatre of metal skeletons and solder for anything short of a bathroom break. He poured over those documents, reverse engineering his own future-thought to find exactly what the Vindice were missing.

Because that was their issue. There was something missing.

The composition and procedure for the glass walls of the Machine. It wasn’t illegible, or convoluted, or coded— it was missing.

…Or, more specifically: Excluded.

Verde stared, cross-legged on the uneven stone floor of the amphitheatre. In front of him, the pages were spread out in an array. He blinked and moved a page, unfurled another large sheet with the Machine drawn in bright white ink.

Still, he found no indication of a method, or even an allusion. He was baffled. Verde would never forget to include something so important. He had seen the original package, every paper and file crammed into the small, beige bundle. He, and whoever he had worked with, had been adroit in ensuring every necessary detail fit in place.

Verde frowned.

The air in the amphitheatre was moist, perpetually chilled-wet, the walls sparkled with condensation. Verde was pretty sure his pants were damp, his shirt had long become that specific kind of uncomfortable that came from the lack of dedicated moisture sensors.

It was night, then. It got colder in the Vindice caves when the sun went down.

He was close, Verde could feel it. It was like lightning in his lungs, the smell of ozone on his hands. In a few days, maybe a few hours, Verde would make a breakthrough.

A vibration in his pocket.

Instantly, Verde was irked. That livewire in his veins died to a low buzz. His focus was broken. This would add another hour to his discovery.

His pocket vibrated again and, with no less than great reluctance, Verde put his future-notebook down. Verde grimaced as he read the notification that blipped across his PDA.

☀

Deep within the catacombs of the Vindice’s Simone Base, the quarters of the only Suns for miles glowed with warmth and the soft scent of cardamom.

Reborn reclined comfortable across his pile of plush pillows, silken pyjama shirt unbuttoned just right and just a touch too tight around the chest. A tasteful flash of the edge of a nipple. The waist of his pants rode low, teasing his Adonis belt and the strap of Calvin Klein.

Ryohei grinned as he watered the potted tree in the corner of their quarters, the UV lamp that hung overtop almost eye-searing when compared to the soft, amber bulbs Reborn had selected for the space. The nonna from Ryohei’s favourite restaurant had given the small tree to them as a ‘housewarming’ present, some kind of Simone-style magnolia that boasted red-green-orange leaves all at once.

“Wow! Look, there’s a bud! It’s gonna flower to the extreme!” Ryohei cheered and poured more seaweed fertiliser into the soil.

Reborn drummed his fingers on his knee, impatient. Snubbed.

Because Ryohei wasn’t talking to Reborn. No, not this time. Ryohei had seemed to be utterly rapt with another man recently, someone else in his heart and in his hands—

Leon the Chameleon reached out from Ryohei’s arm to gently grab a green-gold leaf in his three-fingered foot, investigative. Then, Leon slowly plodded his way to bask beneath the UV bulb.

“Look at you go, little dude! Self-care!” Ryohei boomed, gassing Leon up as he sat there, tail curled in content.

Under the pile of pillows, Reborn’s pager vibrated once. Reborn stopped drumming.

He frowned as he read the message, thumb running across the black, metal shell. Reborn looked over to Ryohei who bustled about the room, never one to settle easy even so late at night.

Ryohei rinsed out the watering can and set it aside before he proceeded to wipe down every surface to an inch of its life, getting between nooks and crannies for dirt that wasn’t there. He paced, steps light and springy. Then Ryohei dropped to the floor and started counting as he alternated between push-ups and sit-ups.

Reborn rested his cheek on his fist and watched. Ryohei had been restless since Verde had arrived. Ryohei wanted progress and Verde was taking his sweet time down in the dome.

The pager beeped again. Reborn was tempted to let the damned thing slip between the bed and the wall.

“Who’s trying to call you? Is it important? You haven’t taken any jobs in a while, is that what it’s about?” Ryohei asked, peering over the edge of the bed.

Reborn blinked at him. Ryohei disappeared, then he popped up again, then dipped, then returned. Still doing push-ups. Still burning with energy.

Reborn huffed affectionately and rolled onto his belly, a throw pillow hugged to his chest in a way that squished his pectorals into cleavage.

Ryohei’s eyes flicked; up, down, up. Then he disappeared again.

Reborn grinned.

“I take on jobs exactly when I wish to, my dear Ryohei,” he said slowly, and Ryohei smiled when he came back up as if to say ‘of course’. “But it does seem like something has come up. Otherwise, I doubt I’d be called upon.”

“Is it something cool?”

“Unlikely. At most, it’ll be mildly interesting. Nothing like I get from you, my Ryohei.”

Ryohei snorted, “Not everyone has a Machine to save the world! Give ‘em a chance, Reborn!”

Reborn hummed, “I suppose. And not everyone is from the future.”

Ryohei didn’t pause, biceps working to take his weight, shoulders flexed, back muscles taut. His posture was perfect, flat enough to eat a meal off of.

“Ah, I guess you wanna talk about that now, huh?” Ryohei laughed awkwardly. “I said I was sorry! I forgot!”

“And then you forgot for three days more,” Reborn all but purred, and Ryohei pouted.

“We got busy.”

“Oh yes, so busy. Running around, showing Leon the whole of Simone Island.”

Ryohei gave a loud whine and flopped on his back. Reborn let out a laugh and peered down at the man below, splayed out with arms wide, warm skin flushed with the workout. Underneath him, Reborn could see the cold tiles mist, the heat of Ryohei’s skin leaving a shadow in his wake.

“So, Ryohei Sasagawa. Who were you, before you were mine?”

Ryohei stared up at Reborn, at the way the amber lights played on the edge of pale, silken pyjamas. Ryohei knew those pyjamas were smooth against skin, cool to the touch until early in the morning, just at dawn, then that silk had taken on the heat of two Suns under the same sheets.

“Well,” Ryohei uttered, pondering on where to begin. “I was born in this town called Namimori. My dad ran a gym, my mum worked for the local newspaper. I have a sister— but you knew that.”

“What is her name?” Reborn asked, his cheek rested on his arm.

“Kyoko! She’s the sweetest thing, you’d like her!”

Would like her. Does like her. Will like her.

“I was the captain of my boxing club in middle and high school. Did a few semesters of university and then dropped out, I’m just not built for studying,” Ryohei continued, trampling that panging thought. “But that was fine! Boss was too scared to go to Italy alone anyway, no way was I leaving my little bro stranded!”

Reborn’s fingers played with the decorative embroidery stitch of their sheets, soft threat against his fingertips. Ryohei watches his fingers move as he talks, eyes bright with an edge as soft as the thread as he reminisces. He’s eager, he’s jovial. Everything he’s kept bottled up pouring forth.

But still, no names. So careful, his Ryohei. Like a hammer in the hands of a stonemason.

“How old were you when you joined your Family?” Reborn asked, hearing ‘middle school’ so many times.

“Fifteen! There was this big inheritance issue between Boss and his adopted cousin and, wow, they nearly levelled the school! Had a bunch of Mists around to hide everything.” Ryohei laughed, his belly jumping. “My fight— I was in this big cage. Real cool set-up with a bunch of really bright, hot lights, I couldn’t see! So I went and shattered them using the salt crystals from my sweat!”

Reborn blinked, and let his eyes drift to the dip in Ryohei’s clavicle. The UV light in the corner glowed a soft white light which pressed against Ryohei’s skin. Then his eyes snapped back to Ryohei’s face, the quiet prolonged.

Ryohei laid there, arms spread like a crucifixion, breath slow. He looked dazed, distant. The sacrificial lamb of his Set.

Reborn didn’t utter a word. Not of encouragement, intrigue or comfort.

The UV light snapped off with a click. The timer run down.

“Let’s go to bed, Ryohei,” Reborn said finally.

Ryohei’s fist clenched. Left-hand side. Sometimes he complained about it aching. ‘Early-onset arthritis’ a doctor had told him once upon a time, because that was what happened when you shattered your fist.

“Let’s go to bed, my dear Ryohei.”

Ryohei took a breath through his lips, tasting cardamom and smoke and summertime air even so deep in the caves.

“I’m still their big brother,” he said. “I’m still their big brother. Even if I never will be again.”

When Ryohei settled into bed, it was to the cool touch of a silken pyjama shirt and the scalding brand of skin. And as he closed his eyes and drifted, Ryohei felt warmth lay over his still-clenched fist. Felt that heat seep into his skin and soothe the ache in the joints.

Ryohei hoped if he didn't say anything, Reborn wouldn't let go.

Ryohei didn't know if he could do it. Again.

☀

A line of townhouses made of cut stone and limewash paint. Old, but well kept, their windows aglow with a warm, yellow light as a summer’s night took the town. Shadows cut the yellow glass, children and adults, families in silhouette as they set their tables for dinner and toasted to another good day gone.

Taste the air. Count the doors.

Reborn’s shoes clacked against the uneven cobblestone as he walked the street. He took a breath and tasted fog, tasted lilacs. There was one door too many.

“This is entirely unnecessary,” Verde grumbled, scratching at a notebook with a pen running low on ink.

Reborn didn’t deign to answer him. For the past two hours of travel, he had been making a fine effort in ignoring the fact that Verde existed. Reborn reached for the doorknob and swung it open.

Verde’s shoes scuffed the stone stairs loudly as they entered the foyer, and Reborn heard the moment those footsteps all but disappeared. The smell of lilacs and damp came stronger. It seeped into their clothes— Reborn had to remind himself to let it happen, let it breathe into his lungs.

They were meeting in Viper’s territory. They were easily the most skittish of the group, the ‘team’, so it was no surprise that Reborn and Verde were met with thorough investigation.

Reborn stepped over a tentacle that slithered across the floor. It made way for Verde who walked on blindly.

The door at the end of the hall seemed to fade in and out of sight, like eyes adjusting in flickering light. The hall tilted, flexed like a gulping throat, the carpet squelched underfoot thick with saliva—

“I see you made it,” Viper grumbled as Reborn and Verde entered the room.

Viper was slumped a bit in their chair, seven seats wrapped around a large circular table. Their hood was up, eyes obscured, hands out of sight.

“You never call unless it’s important,” Reborn said and pulled himself a chair. He sat, one knee crossed over the other. “I hope this holds true. I have places I’d much rather be.”

Verde dropped himself into another seat and immediately started using the table space, pulling out more notebooks and scraps of paper from his pockets and spreading them around. He muttered something, before grabbing a blank paper and proceeded to fill it with symbols and code.

Reborn glazed around quickly. It seemed he had been fashionably late.

Every one of the other seats, save two, had been occupied by the rest of their company. Fon sat comfortably as he waited for the meeting to begin, his hands tucked into his sleeves and his eyes closed lightly. Under the table, Reborn could see his foot just barely bounce with restlessness.

Beside him was Lal Mirch, arms crossed over her chest and chin raised to show severe, steady eyes. Her uniform was tight to her, hair pinned back and sleek. There was a thin chain around her neck, barely peeking out from beneath her collar.

Reborn quirked his brow. That was new.

On Fon’s other side, Skull rocked in his chair. The young man balanced precariously on the back legs, arms raised to disperse weight as boredom crawled into his bones.

And, in the last seat, sat Luce. Always early, always eager to welcome everyone personally. Luce smiled at them as they all got comfortable. In the centre of the table sat a plate of sugar-dusted scones, cream and jam supplied with spoons embellished with the Giglio Nero coat of arms. You could feel it on your tongue, rich with cream and sweet with jam.

The basket sat untouched. Reborn could smell her perfume, some kind of tangerine blend. Bright and citrusy.

“It’s so good to see you all again,” Luce beamed as everyone settled and Skull’s chair clattered as he rightened himself to attention. “Viper, would you like to begin?”

At her bay, Viper cleared their throat.

“We’ve been posed a new request,” Viper began and a scroll unfurled along the centre of the table. “A set of artefacts. Somewhere in Brazil. The amount they are willing to spend is exorbitant.”

Reborn relaxed into his chair with little regard for the crusty parchment and flamboyant script. Rich eccentrics with a hankering for traditionalism were in no short supply.

“This is something that can be done solo?” Fon pondered, reading the curling cursive seemingly cast by a quill.

“Unfortunately no,” Viper murmured and indicated a map as four points took a purple glow of their influence. “The four artefacts are connected and react in tandem when touched. As soon as one is displaced, the others will alert the guards. All four will have to be taken at once.”

“Several kilometres apart,” Lal Mirch said and traced the map's key to get an idea of scale. “Too far for your illusions then?”

Viper pointedly did not respond.

“So it’s a smash and grab! Easy money!” Skull crowed and crossed his arms behind his head.

“Read the stipulations, newbie,” Reborn sighed.

Skull leant over and squinted at the page. It was times like these Reborn wondered if the youngest of their merry band had ever taken an eye test.

The words ‘covert’ were emphasised. Whoever wanted these artefacts didn’t want the original custodians to know they were gone until it was too late.

Reborn read the payment statement and wondered if it was worth it. An 11-12 hour flight to Brazil and then whacking around in the mosquito-infested, South American jungle when he could be enjoying a night in with Ryohei, prying stories and whines from smiling lips.

After all, Reborn had yet to hear about himself. Where would Reborn be in thirty years, pushing fifty-five? And how he had played a role in Ryohei’s young life, a role so large he had whispered “Reborn” while kneeling on a church’s floor. How he had made him look happy.

Reborn tried to imagine it himself, older, mature, greying at the temples. Tried to imagine how he had entangled with Ryohei, young and eager to impress, to break out into the world like nothing short of a big bang.

Cute as it was, recalling those young eyes from the photos in Ryohei’s suitcase, Reborn was glad he had met this Ryohei. His Ryohei. Tall and loud and muscled and eye-searingly bright.

Reborn liked looking up.

Skull made a loud noise at something Lal Mirch said and threw his hands up in the air, nearly knocking Viper’s candelabra. The shift in lighting brought Reborn back to present, and with him, a low lying…dissatisfaction.

Reborn tilted his head forward and let the brim of his hat cover his eyes. He observed. Skull laughed as Lal Mirch half-heartedly attempted to organise a strategy with Viper whose face was lemon-pinched at the concept of cooperation. Fon breathed in deep as Verde’s pages kept piling up and crawled to encroach into his space. And overwatching it all with a smile and a warm, motherly gleam in her eye, was Luce.

Ah. That was it.

They were lacking. No drive, no fire under their heels. He had been spoilt recently.

Reborn frowned, his Flame stirred.

Luce looked at him. Eyes wide and alert.

“Is something the matter, Reborn?” She asked.

There was something in her tone, but Reborn was glad for the invitation.

“I’d much like to bring someone along,” he said, airy and casual. Like he wasn’t offering to add another person to their already precarious balance. Like his Flame wasn’t flickering and sweeping, licking at the underside of his ribs with the scent of Dual Guardianship.

Like she could smell it, Lal Mirch turned her head first. Everyone else was slow to follow.

Reborn regarded the woman out of the corner of his eye. Lal Mirch was interested. Her Flame hissed like the white noise of rainfall.

Verde glanced at Reborn with a raised brow.

Reborn remembered how Ryohei had laid out on the floor with arms wide like Icarus after a fall. His voice sad-happy-nostalgic and heavy as he spoke of a Family of a future long past. How he spoke gently of his Sky, too immature and inexperienced. Of his Mists, always willing to enshroud him. Of his Rain, Storm, Cloud and little Lightning. A Set too small for him, that he still wanted to cradle in his hands and protect from the world—

Reborn looked upon those Flames before him. Purities of the highest degree, size almost colossal, and with an individual drive near unmatched. And a vast Sky who welcomes even Reborn with open arms.

He could imagine Ryohei at the table, another chair at his right-hand side. Almost seamlessly in place, warming the Set from the inside and setting them on fire in just the right way to send them running for greatness.

“Well—”

Luce’s voice broke through. It cracked unpleasantly, caught off guard.

“It is…certainly something to think about!” Luce smiled. Reborn watched her slide her hands off the table, hidden clenched in her lap. “I’m so glad you’ve found someone you like so much Reborn!”

The ‘but’ hung in the air.

No one said a word.

Reborn saw Lal Mirch fix her collar, that little chain around her throat now completely out of sight.

#fanfiction #leftnotright #katekyo hitman reborn #sasagawa ryohei #reborn #fix it fic #khr rare pair #proof apollo wear hawaiian shirts #khr #ao3 #time travel fic #alternate universe

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onceabluemoonwrites · 7 years ago

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Cavity

Fandom: Katekyo Hitman Reborn & Harry Potter

Summary: On Bermuda and the creation of Dementors.

Disclaimer: I don’t own Katekyo Hitman Reborn and Harry Potter.

AO3

Warnings: Graphic violence, some cursing.

Once upon a time, Bermuda was a lovely little boy, who liked the gleam of steel and the red, red, red of blood against the white of bone. Then the murders began.

He’d never liked the taste of human flesh- too similar to chicken, he’d tell his prey. But the rats? Oh, they loved the feast.

Nibble on it, they did, in the corners of his little alley with their yellow teeth gleaming in the low light. Disease crept through their fur like a vulture swooping down on a carcass. They hunched like birds of prey too- signs of imminent death all over them.

The rats were ravenous, but Bermuda only needed dead men’s gold to pay for his meal. He slid his grabby hands into their pockets and fished the clinking coins out with quick fingers. It left brown smudges on the silk.

He could’ve taken his victims’ wallets, but he liked stealing better.

It kept him on his toes.

Checker Face rips his flame from his body, and it’s like lightning, like fire, like his every inch has been set aflame, nerves screaming, crying, keening at what has been done to them. Agony courses through his veins. Acid burns them through.

His skin is crumbling, his lips dissolving, sucking the air out of him like a vacuum until he can’t breathe. Oxygen leaving his cells and he’s drowning a thousand miles underneath the sea, the water pressure’s weight so heavy he can’t even describe what it feels like. Or perhaps he can- like starved rats gnawing on corpses and the will to live.

Humans do not last long without a soul, and he isn’t foolish enough to think it was anything else Checker Face stole. Flames are curious, so irrevocably bound to their owner that their bodies decay, unable to continue existing, when they are ripped away.

He wants to hack. He wants to slaughter. He wants to take Checker Face’s neck, choke him, and break it with a snap so loud, so harsh that it will pulverize into pieces so little his moronic, ever-smiling servant could search for his bone slivers for the next thousand years and still not find them.

He thirsts for slamming nails into his tormentor’s hands, making him wail in wretched pain. Bermuda wants to pierce the masked man’s skin, steel through soft flesh, and watch the blood seep out the festering wound, staining the man’s white clothes forever.

He’d wait for the blood to dry- to watch his victim’s unmasked face twist in agony, before gouging his eyes out with his very own hands and spit in the cavities left behind.

And he is going to no matter what.

His skin quits flaking off, his blood continues to boil, but he gets up and crawls, stalking Checker Face at every turn.

He’s hungry, so hungry, and he fashions himself a soul made of dolls left behind in pools of blood, pacifiers trampled beneath heavy feet, a little boy’s anguished cries and the nibbling teeth of the rats in a New York alley way.

He is a demon, but he’s not satisfied with that. He’ll be the goddamn devil by the end of the day.

His stomach is empty. A cavern, so hollow, so endlessly echoing only hunger.

They all feel it, he and the ones he rescued from their own rotting corpses. He knows the smell of decay, and gunfire powder sure as hell ain’t it.

Decay smells like autumn leaves under a tree- wet, damp and dark. It’s green, then brown, until the flesh has turned to dust and only bones are left. Decay is an infection, it crumbles from within and leaves nothing behind.

But they don’t die.

Bermuda made sure of it.

It makes the Vindice hungry, all of them, and some days, Bermuda thinks his stomach is going to rise up from his throat and devour him alive (he’d gorge on his own damn stomach if it tried to feast on him before he got his revenge).

They’re so empty, lacking even the desperation to fill it. The hunger is an instinctual drive, but no food can sate it, because the dead don’t digest, and the cavity stays empty. Their stomachs are bottomless pits. Try throwing a stone down there- you’ll never hear it land.

Flames are delectable, echoes of the souls they no longer have. The Vindice run off white hot anger, the embers in the hearth, burning their fingers all the while, but still holding on to the scorching coals, blisters coating their palms.

Flames, souls, maybe…. Maybe they would fill the void.

Sometimes he wonders how it would taste- just a little lick of flame, just a small bit of juicy, sweet life-essence. But he doesn’t.

The Vindice who do taste the forbidden fruit lose their minds, chasing their hunger ever more. Sucking out humanities happy memories by their mere presence alone, a black hole, all empty, never completely filled.

They’re still dressed in tar-colored cloaks, their corpses remain maintained by the eight flame, but they’re lost, abominations. Not Vindice anymore. They call them insane, dēmens, and eventually, Dementors.

They guard a prison because they have been doing so for eons- just as instinctual as the hunger by now.

…Bermuda does not know anything other than vengeance and hate. The idea of happiness is foreign to him. He craves, famine spreading through his tiny starved body with every breath he takes.

(They suck souls. He loathes them, the animals they are)

Hunger is a monster, hiding in the closet, like the secrets he buried in Azkaban.

But Bermuda?

He only hungers for revenge.

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