The dungeons were dark, damp, and silent, and Lysander’s skin was prickled with goosebumps from the moment they entered.
It was strange to walk through Hogwarts castle at night - the stone hallways were so devoid of life. Each footstep echoed, but not with the chattering or laughter of students going to or from class, as Lysander could remember; it was as though a blanket had been laid over everyone and everything, muting it beneath layers of heavy fabric. They’d all been nervous and put off by the nothingness of Hogwarts, instinctively on high alert and wands drawn, even though they knew the castle had been secured, save for one or two persons of question.
It didn’t ease the jumpiness of their demeanour when Corbin Elloway led them down into the sealed-off dungeons, the oppressive silence even more pronounced. Lysander had given the instruction for the dungeons to be evacuated, to make way for their party, as well as to dislodge the great blathering idiot that is Samwell Whitmore, but even still - they’re so quiet that Lysander can feel the back of his neck prickle. He isn’t a man that fears much; he prides himself on being unshakeable, persevering through the worst of it with a grin, and it would take more than an empty labyrinth of dungeons to spook him. And yet - it unsettles him, because Lysander, better than most, knows what’s possible down here.
The solid presence of Henry at his side calms Lysander. He senses him there, rather than sees him, though all of Lysander’s other senses ring with the familiarity of him, too: the smell of him, like wooden sawdust, crushed fall leaves, the salt of the ocean, clinging to him from home, or what’s become home since this whole thing began. The steady gait of his walk, heavy and measured, his long legs always keeping stride with Lysander’s own. And the feel of him, like Lysander’s body and his are in a constant orbit, push and pull, gravitating both toward and around one another. It comes from being life long friends; it comes from being bonded mates within a pack. Lysander needs no other.
But others, he has, filing in behind them in lines of two, their wands clutched at their sides. It’s been years since any of them had a chance to step inside the walls of Hogwarts again; not since their ill-fated attempt at guarding it before the riot in London had they set foot here. Back then, they’d been a group barely out of its infancy stage, still learning how to be together, fight together; they’ve had ten good years since, and Lysander knows all of them deeply, each of them earning their place within his pack and proving themselves over and over again.
And prove themselves they must.
They duck their heads as they enter a tunnel, Lysander in the lead behind Elloway, noticing the way the man seems a little more ragged than when they’d seen each other last. His letters had betrayed nothing of the weariness that hangs on Elloway’s shoulders, the grey at his temples; there had been trials at Hogwarts, but Lysander couldn’t have guessed the toll.
“Straight down, only a little further,” Elloway says, navigating a path through the rocky tunnel, dotted with the misshapen boulders of hard granite, protruding from the tunnel walls.
It’s not the most homely place that Lysander’s ever stayed, and speaking as someone who’s lived out in the open forest for months on end at one point, he knows uncomfortable when he sees it. And the deeper they go, tunneling further under the castle, the more Lysander feels trapped. He’s never been claustrophobic, but then again he’s never been so far from the grass and trees and sky; he’s never had to go without, not like this, and it already messes with his head to feel no wind, carrying the scent of wild prey and the last gasps of winter.
“It’s alright,” Henry says, voice a low rumble as his hand falls onto Lysander’s shoulder. “It’s not forever.”
“Feels like a fuckin’ tomb,” Lysander snaps, eyes darting around, seeing better in the dark than most of the others.
“But not ours,” says Henry, fingers tightening, grounding Lysander.
Lysander’s jaw is tight but he nods, a small jerk of his head to let Henry know he’s alright, that he’ll keep it together, and his eyes have to readjust when they step into a cavernous room.
It looks like its been hollowed out by a giant ice cream scoop, the sides smooth and the room feeling rather circular. Lysander’s eyes trace the walls up, up, to a pointed ceiling somewhere in the distance - but it never touches the ground nor the light beyond. The knowledge of that sits heavy in his gut as the rest of the Order spread out among the space.
“It used to be the Chamber of Secrets,” Elloway says casually, and all eyes turn to him sharply. He doesn’t seem to notice, busy inspecting one of the many tunnel mouths that lead away into the darkness. “Funny that, isn’t it?”
“Hilarious,” drawls Lexie, dumping her large bag down in the centre of the room, where several beds have been set up. “I can’t think of anywhere else I’d rather sleep than the same place a giant serpent did.”
“Actually--”
“Not now, Knox,” June says gently, cutting Knox off before he can start.
Lysander doesn’t like it much more than the rest of them, but he keeps his mouth shut, eyeing the surrounds carefully. They’ve got a lot of exits, but each one is also a potential entrance.
“Where do these lead?” he says, pointing to the two in the back wall.
“We’ve yet to complete an exploration of each in full,” Elloway says, bashful, “but as far as we can tell, they lead into the castle. Some are caved in, while others remain functional.”
Lysander drops his things without care and walks toward one of the tunnels, its great, gaping black mouth yawning open, larger and larger as he walks closer. The myths and legends about the basilisk that had once roamed these tunnels doesn’t frighten Lysander, even though he’s not of pure blood. He figures his odds are better than the average.
“We’re going to need a full search of each tunnel as soon as can be arranged,” Lysander says, looking over his shoulder at Henry, who nods. “I want each of them mapped by distance and time taken to travel, as well as its condition and potential entrances or exits to the greater castle beyond.”
“Of course,” says Henry.
“Once we’ve established that, we’ll ward each of them so that students are not able to enter,” Lysander continues, feeling himself get back into the groove of it. “We might also be able to use one or two as a rigged trap.”
Henry nods, and starts taking notes by hand in a notepad, muggle pen scratching across the paper.
“We’ll also simultaneously establish our base down here, with a clear means of communication with the outside world. We’re expecting letters,” he says, adding the last bit to Elloway, who nods.
“If you need anything, we have the usual means of communication,” Elloway says.
Henry keeps writing, and Lysander wanders from tunnel to tunnel, looking at each of them. They’re intimidating, and he’d feel a lot better if he knew where each of them went.
“I should get back, I’m supposed to be patrolling the second floor,” says Elloway, rocking nervously, the dark circles under his eyes catching the shadows. “Georgette said she’d come in the morning, to see how things are.”
“Right,” Lysander says, preoccupied by the twists of one tunnel that make him crane his neck.
By the time he straightens, Elloway’s gone, and everyone is spread among the beds that have been erected for them. They look listless and dispassionate, and Lysander sort of knows the feeling - Skylar and Lexie undoubtedly missing the outside world as much as he.
“Come on, get off your ass,” he calls, and they perk up at the sound of his voice, but only slightly. “We’ve got a job to do.”
Lexie groans, but June makes a show of standing up, wand in hand, and brushing herself off. Always demure and spotless, June competes daily with Henry for most loyal, which makes Lysander smile.
Henry steps in.
“Alright, we’re going to assign each tunnel a number, and you will each be given a number and expected to explore, map, and catalogue it within the hour,” he says, voice authoritative, carrying around the cavernous space.
Lysander folds his arms and watches from the back.
“Lexie, tunnel one,” Henry calls, as though he’s raffling off prizes, pointing with the end of his pen to the tunnel on his right. “Tunnel two, Knox with Violet.”
Knox gives Violet a weak smile, but Lysander’s sure he can see sweat forming on his upper lip.
“Tunnel three, Skylar. Tunnel four, Demetria.”
They don’t look happy to be split up, and Skylar looks as though he’s about to protest when he catches Lysander’s eye. Lysander stares him down until Skylar’s mouth closes and his brow furrows.
“Tunnel five, June. And I’ll take tunnel six,” finishes Henry, looking up from his notepad while pushing up the frame of his glasses by the bridge. “Questions?”
Skylar looks to Lysander, who stares back coolly, and no one says anything.
“Great. Within the hour, people,” Henry says, and everyone jumps to action, wands in hand.
Lysander stays where he is, propped against the cold stone that bites into his shoulder, watching his pack split up, taking their assigned tunnels with quiet determination. Knox takes Violet’s hand, allowing her to help him into the tunnel mouth, while Lexie strides into the darkness of her tunnel without so much as lighting her wand. They’re an odd bunch, no denying, but they’re as close to family as Lysander has allowed himself to get.
Once they’re all gone, swallowed up by the darkness, Henry walks over. He’s taller than Lysander - shot up like a string bean in their third year and hasn’t slowed down since.
“You coming?” Henry asks, jerking his chin to the tunnel to Lysander’s left. “Might lead somewhere interesting.”
“Pass,” Lysander says. “Thought I’d stay and unpack the essentials.”
Henry snorts. “You mean that stash of whiskey you smuggled in? Not sure that counts as essential, Lys.”
Lysander just grins, pushing off the wall and closing the space between them. “That’s for me to decide.”
“And I don’t think it’s going to last you,” Henry adds, a thoughtful frown on his face. “You’ll have to get more from somewhere.”
“Hogsmeade is only a short walk away, and I’m positive I could get a crate or two brought over,” says Lysander, shrugging. “Where there’s a will.”
Henry doesn’t smile, even though Lysander knows he’s being downright charming.
“Stop worrying so much,” Lysander says, bringing his hands to Henry’s robe, smoothing out the lapels. “We’re going to be fine here.”
“I think you’re being a bit too nonchalant about things.” Henry keeps frowning this small little Lysander-specific frown, for when he can’t work something out about him. “Did you forget why we’re here in the first place?”
Now it’s Lysander’s turn to darken, pulling away from Henry. “Stop the bad guy, save the day. What other heroics would you ask of me, Hen?”
“I’m not asking you to do anything--”
“Aren’t you?” snaps Lysander, staring Henry down. To his credit, Henry stands his ground. “Isn’t the whole fucking reason why we’re here because of you?”
“No, we--”
“No,” Lysander says, cutting him off. “You. You wanted this, and I agreed. You wanted to do more. You were the one tired of waiting. You were the one who thought being more proactive is what we needed. Well, we’re here, aren’t we?”
Henry says nothing, watching Lysander, who shoves past Henry to kick open his trunk. From within, he pulls out one of the bottles he’s stashed within, and instead of reaching for a glass, takes a mouthful directly from the bottle.
“You happy now, Hen? Got what you wanted?” he says, taking another mouthful, eyes closed as he swallows, relishing the feeling of his throat burning and lungs screaming for air.
“Lys,” say Henry, coming closer. “Lys, stop.”
Lysander doesn’t.
“Lys--” and Henry snatches the bottle from Lysander’s hand, spilling some of it, and Lysander can’t help but watch the liquid fall to the floor, anger swelling up. “Christ, Lysander,” Henry murmurs, looking at him.
He feels the concern radiating off Henry, but doesn’t meet his gaze.
“Just go,” Lysander says, and when Henry doesn’t move, Lysander turns to look at him properly. “Go.”
It’s not an order - not an alpha order, anyway - but Henry nods, placing the bottle on the ground and walking away, over to his assigned tunnel. Lysander watches him go, slipping into the darkness, and when he turns to look at Lysander, their eyes meeting, it’s Lysander who looks away first.
The silence once Henry’s gone is absolute.
Exhaling loudly, running a hand through his long hair, pushing it back away from his face, Lysander sits heavily on one of the beds. He misses home - the sea air, the sound of the gulls in the morning, the crash of waves whenever there’s a pause in conversation. He misses the woods that butt their home, knowing an escape is always possible. He misses his room, his study, his bed - Henry beside him, the others around.
Lysander never wanted this war - he never wanted to have to do any of this. But the war came to him in the form of Lowell Tegus, a face that had become twisted with revenge and determination, and Lysander knew that he was the only one who could stop this world from imploding. Because Lowell was more than capable of doing everything he did - and didn’t - promise; he would make it happen, because that’s what he did. He got things done.
The weight of it all sits heavily on Lysander’s shoulders, and he reaches forward for the bottle, now lighter than when he’d last held it. Without thinking, he drinks - drinks until his throat burns in that beautiful way, and his lungs beg for air. He drunks until his head rings, and when he surfaces, eyes watering, the ex-Chamber doesn’t look half bad.
It’s just another place, it’s just another job. He’ll get through this, and they’ll be one step closer to finishing the whole thing.
Or Lysander tells himself, taking another swig from the bottle, anything to feel the burn, anything to feel something other than this - the gnawing ache for release, for this to be over. He drinks until it goes, and then he drinks a little more to make sure it stays that way.
He’s drunk by the time the others return, but it’s nothing they haven’t seen before. They’ve come to expect it from him, stumbling, propped up by Henry to make it to the bathroom. Lysander might be their leader, but it’s Henry that takes care of everyone, not him.
There’s a hand easing him into a bed, water pressed against his lips, and then he’s out, the sound of voices bubbling around him, none quite penetrating the fog in his brain.
And when Lysander dreams, it’s of the past, rather than the future - why dream of something and torture yourself with a promise you’ll never keep?