There were things that every person knew about themselves: things that were apparent to everyone else, but which went unmentioned just because they were so painfully obvious that they became unmentionable. Elliot bit his nails. Sometimes, when his nails were gone and there was nothing to bite, he began to pull out the hair at the nape of his neck. No one mentioned Elliot’s bitten nails or conspicuously high, patchy, uneven hairline, though consciously Elliot knew these things could not go unnoticed by the people around him. It was impossible for the person sitting behind him in class or his Slytherin dormmates not to notice the bald patches on the back of his neck. But the lack of verbal acknowledgement made it possible for Elliot to comfort himself. It made self-delusion possible: the idea that maybe no one really saw it after all.
Elliot’s complete insignificance was one of these unmentioned things.
August couldn’t know the extent of Elliot’s hollow relationships with his parents. He couldn’t know the loneliness Elliot felt even when he was with friends. Yet August had just named the very true thing that Elliot had pathetically and desperately allowed himself to believe other people didn’t see on himself.
It was true: August could bury him, and no one would know. And if August could see this on him, others could too.
The shock of this realization was so great that Elliot froze when August put his wand to Elliot’s throat. He made no move to pull away or reach for his own stolen wand. Humiliated and wretched, Elliot just let August pin him against the shop front. Flecks of spittle flew from August’s mouth and landed on Elliot’s chin as he ranted. Elliot didn’t even realize he was speaking back until the pressure on his throat increased, an he felt the sharp end of August’s wand digging in and around his Adam’s apple every time he gasped, “I won’t, I won’t, August, please, I won’t.” He looked into August’s crazed eyes and wondered if maybe, maybe August actually might–
The pressure on his throat let up. Elliot sagged against the wall, afraid to move.
By the time August actually said the words it’s not like anyone would remember you anyway, he had already proven it to Elliot a thousand times over with the wand digging into Elliot’s throat, with his words, with his proprietary actions, and with Elliot’s complete lack of ability to stop him from doing any of it. August had proven to Elliot something that no one had ever bothered to mention to Elliot that they could see. It turned out Elliot had never fooled anyone at all.
Elliot’s hood had fallen off during August’s assault. Elliot pulled it back up around his ears, careful not to touch the sides of his own neck. “It’s–this way,” he heard himself say, but it was strange, like even though he tried he couldn’t get his voice to come out above a cracked whisper. Had August used some kind of spell on him? “His name is Mathis. He only deals with people from–good families.”
Truth be told, the increased pressure the Ministry had been putting on Magical Law Enforcement to clean up Knockturn was only partly part of the problem in August’s supply chain. Mathis was the real game changer. Mathis had come to Diagon at the start of the summer, around the same time Renfield had. He was the reason Aldon had been so fiercely territorial lately. Mathis had scored an early victory by securing Nezza’s business. Mathis was older than Aldon, sporting gnarled teeth, perpetually dry lips, and a missing ear he wore hats to cover. His arrival and the ensuing territorial dispute had transformed Knockturn into a more dangerous place as of late. Mathis had Aldon spread thin and losing customers, runners, and suppliers for months. Since at least November, Elliot had known that it was only a matter of time until he himself was forced to turn to Mathis instead of Aldon to fulfill August’s needs.
Mathis could be found in a flat not far from Renfield’s. Elliot led August to it using the darkened back alleys that ran parallel to Knockturn, supposing that August would prefer the rats and overflowing rubbish bins to the risk of being recognized. Elliot didn’t talk. Along the way, he opened and felt inside August’s coin purse in the front pocket of his hoodie. The amount inside didn’t shock him, but it made his head swim. It was more than enough.
A man wearing spectacles let the boys into a perfectly ordinary, run-down Knockturn flat when Elliot knocked at the door. The sound of sizzling and the smell of meat hit them immediately upon entering; in the kitchen they found rashers of bacon flipping themselves on the grease-spattered stove and Mathis, talking to a witch and a wizard seated at a low table. One of them Elliot recognized from the pub by his amputated fingers and leathery face; the other was Nezza, whom Elliot hadn’t sold to since right before the school year started. They stopped talking when August came in the door behind Elliot, closely shadowed by the man wearing spectacles. “Elliot,” Nezza greeted him, but she was looking at August. Elliot only nodded. He knew it wasn’t an invitation to begin speaking.
“I remember you,” Mathis said, abruptly. “Nezza, this the one you introduced at the pub ages ago? The Hostoge boy?” Mathis was not wearing his customary hat. There was a hole where his ear should have been that would have normally given Elliot chills. Today it barely registered.
“It’s him,” Nezza said. “Elliot Fincher. His mother married some halfblood friend of the family.”
Mathis’ eyes slid to August. “And who are you?”
“My schoolmate,” Elliot lied, pulling out the coin purse he’d emptied half of into the bottom of his hoodie pocket. He tossed the artificially lightened purse in his palm, trying to distract Mathis from looking too closely at August’s face. Elliot watched as Mathis’ head turned slightly to the sound to compensate for his missing ear, his gaze straying from August to the coin purse. “He’s looking for things I can’t get from–from Aldon–”
Mathis waved him silent. Elliot hadn’t quite managed to divert his attention, even with the mention of Aldon. Perhaps Elliot hadn’t tried nearly as hard as he could have; or perhaps he just wasn’t as present as he needed to be to make this work. His brain felt like it was levitating a few meters above his body. “I’m talking to you, boy,” Mathis said, fixing August once again with his heavy, half-lidded stare. “I like to know who I’m speaking to.” His teeth worried at a dry, peeling patch of his lip. “What’s your surname? Where’re you from?”
August’s heart was racing. He’d never pulled his wand on someone before - never really even successfully got a hit on someone, except in the safe confines of the DADA classroom, or when Solo let August get a hit during Duelling Club. He’d never felt that kind of power before - of actually being in control, of more than one possibility stretching out before him. August’s life was carefully controlled and dictated; had been from the moment he’d been born and they declared him son and heir rather than take into consideration who he was and wanted to be. Every moment since had been carefully laid down: August’s life had been decided for him, and anything that didn’t fall in line, he had to conceal. But this -- his wand tip in Elliot’s throat, Elliot begging August with promises -- this felt different. It wasn’t good, because August had a heart and a conscience, somewhere deep down, but he felt strong. People around him did what he asked because he paid them to, because he had status, but this -- this was August forcing Elliot, and it made him shiver. He could get what he wanted by force, he realised - and the rush was only dulled by the fact that August’s head was splitting open, it seemed. Heady, in control, August followed Elliot, keeping his wand tucked just inside the sleeve of his coat, but still in the palm of his hand - he wouldn’t put it past Elliot to make a run for it, now that he had the money. And August might’ve been shit at duelling, but he could perform a leg-locking hex if need be.
Knockturn was dark and dirty, and the smells stung August’s nose. He liked to think of himself as possessing a finely tuned palette; only the softest materials adorned his body, only the best smells were spritzed at his neck and wrists. He liked expensive things, because they inherently held more value; Knockturn was cheap, filthy, and had none - and everything from its rats in the gutter to waste littering the streets offended him on some level. August wondered if he’d ever truly be clean again. He was grateful when Elliot made a turn and took them off the street - in through a door and out of the darkness, and into one of a different kind. There were people here, And August’s head throbbed, making him blink rapidly to clear his vision as he tried to look at the people in the room - and almost wished he hadn’t. One man was missing some fingers; another lacked an ear. Looking at them repulsed August, and he almost took a step back, wanting to retreat to the door. His grip on his wand in his sleeve tightened, thinking about the man’s stump of a hand touching him. His skin crawled all over, and his eyes darted to the witch who addressed Elliot -- but it was this one-eared man, Mathis, that instead addressed August. He wanted to spit that this man - a halfbreed or blood traitor, no doubt - had no right to demand answers of August, but Elliot got there first.
But it didn’t work - even the promise of money wouldn’t deter the man, and August wanted to both shrink behind Elliot and force him to deal with the situation, while simultaneously threaten the lot of them with his father’s retribution. August was frozen under Mathis’ gaze, the question of his identity lingering - and August couldn’t think. His brain ached, an anvil-like pressure forming in his temples, and he just wanted the drugs and to leave. “Park,” he said, unable to think further than his cousin’s name on such short notice. “And I’m from England, thank you very much.” It wasn’t uncommon, given his Korean heritage - one look at his eyes, and people started speaking slowly, as though he didn’t understand English. As though he hadn’t been raised here like the rest of them. “My mother is French, my father is English,” August said, co-opting Yejun’s life for his own. There were plenty of Park’s - it would check out, at least; but it was neither a pureblood name nor a traitor’s name - it was foreign, and therefore mostly unreadable, unless their knowledge of French politics was greater than August was banking on. “And like Elliot said, I’m looking for things. We came here to buy, or are you not interested in money?” The impatience in his tone was obvious, a snap to his words that belied how much he needed these people to stop bullshitting. “So if you’re done with the twenty questions, can we talk business? I’m looking for-- pain killers. Whatever you’ve got, as strong as you’ve got.”
It exposed his weakness to say it, to give away what he needed like that, for free - but there was no time; August would be writhing on the floor if they waited much longer, and his palms were slick with fear at what they’d do to him then. Elliot would probably leave him to the dogs, and they’d extort the Callow’s for money. August swallowed thickly, and grabbed the purse from Elliot, holding it out to Mathis. “Whatever you’ve got,” he repeated, looking at the bigger man with a gaze that more than once wavered.
