Chapter Text
Sebastian’s first murder was an accident (if one squinted enough). He’d only been fifteen, after all, but it soon became apparent he had a knack for killing. With an ailing sister and no trade to speak of, capitalizing on his natural talents seemed a logical progression. If one needs charm, a pretty face, and imperviousness to magic, there’s only one name traded underneath the cover of darkness. Sebastian may be young, but he likes to think his youth works in his favor. Few suspect someone his age and he can still wield an air of youthful vitality that lures in would-be predators. They never realize who the true prey is until it’s too late.
He smoothes the front of his suit as he nears the castle, a lovely dark green he was assured is the Crown Prince’s favorite. The auror looks unimpressed, extending a hand. He produces his invitation with a flourish. “I’m here on behalf of Lord Rookwood.”
She snatches it, scanning the neat script before begrudgingly handing it back. Sebastian tries not to look too smug as he pushes past her. Rookwood is far from his favorite client but he’d promised Sebastian the only thing that really matters, a cure for Anne. What’s the life of one spoiled prince in comparison?
He affixes a debonair smile, striding down the carpeted staircase with practiced ease. The ballroom is encased in a glass dome, the night sky arching overhead. Hundreds of candles are suspended from the ceiling for additional light; everlasting, no doubt. A simple enough parlor trick for most but impressive on this scale. A raised dais at the head of the room holds two thrones with the king and queen sitting atop them. They're clad in gold and silver respectively, neither bothering with the flimsy disguise of a mask. The king is a well-known figure, but this is the first time he's ever seen the queen. She's a mousy-looking woman and even her regal ensemble can't disguise the uncertain hunch to her posture.
Near the center of the room, the Crown Prince is already swarmed with would-be suitors, only visible by the gold-tipped antlers of his costume.
Sebastian has taken down at least two targets through a potent mix of seduction and poison. Marvolo Gaunt is a notorious playboy and Gifted with Legilimency, hence Rookwood's recruitment of him. The Crown Prince flaunts his ability with arrogance but has grown over-reliant on it. Once Sebastian attracts his attention it will be laughably easy. Joining the queue around him means becoming another invisible face in a sea of hundreds. No, Sebastian will bide his time and find his own way to create an entrance when the time is right.
He does a casual lap of the perimeter instead, noting each exit and possible escape. There's an auror stationed at each one, and he takes care not to linger. His gait slows as he passes the banquet table, overflowing with enough food to feed his entire hamlet for a year. He can’t even name all of the dishes piled in ornate displays: fish, duck, boar, oysters, cheeses in an assortment of colors and smells, a veritable rainbow of roasted vegetables, an intricate display of choux pastry swans. The pheasant is only half-eaten but a servant shuffles out of the kitchen and replaces it with a fresh bird, dumping the other in the bin.
“Vile,” he mutters.
“Are you not finding everything to your liking?” a voice asks. Its owner must have superhuman hearing.
“If one ignores the wealth disparity and starving hamlets.” As if to emphasize his point, a lady in green empties her entire plate into the garbage. Most of the food looked untouched.
“You would blame the Royal family for their own failure to thrive?”
“It is hardly a failure to thrive when the ports are under heavy regulations that favor a select few merchants,” Sebastian scoffs. “Furthermore, the nepotism of–” He turns to face his companion, and the words die in his throat.
Ominis Gaunt, the second son of the royal family. He’s clad in black and gold, a mask of red and gold feathers sparkling around his opaque eyes. A gold-handled cane is held in a gloved hand, completing the regal ensemble. Sebastian has well and truly ruined everything.
“Forgive me,” he says, bowing as deeply as humanly possible. “I meant no offense, Your Highness.”
“There’s no need to lie,” the prince says and curiously his lips quirk into a smile.
“It was highly inappropriate.”
“Perhaps. Yet your assessment is just as valuable, Lord…”
“Morganach. Sebastian Morganach, Your Highness. And I’m merely a commoner.” It was decided this was preferable over trying to claim a lineage.
The prince waves a hand. “I assure you, there’s no need for the pomp and circumstance. I am only the spare, after all.” The words are light enough but he notes their presence at all.
“I couldn’t, Your Highness.”
“Then I shall command you to cease the formalities. Surely you wouldn’t disobey direct orders?”
“I suppose not.”
The Ashwinders didn’t provide as much information on Ominis as they had Marvolo. Everyone knew the spare was blind, of course, but he was rather reclusive and rarely seen outside of the castle walls. Some speculated it was due to his condition, while others claimed he was simply haughty and aloof. A few bold souls declared it was proof Ominis didn’t have a Gift like the rest of the royals. None of them mentioned how attractive he was. His fair hair is swept back from his forehead, porcelain skin unblemished in a way that only comes from a lifetime of luxury.
“What were you saying about nepotism?” the prince asks.
Sebastian blinks. “Merely that with the current system many laborers feel as though they have no opportunity to advance, as higher positions are given to those already with close relationships to the Crown.” He pauses. “…So I’ve heard, I mean.” It had been one of Solomon’s biggest gripes.
The prince’s fingers tap against his cane, head tipping to the side thoughtfully. “I have heard similar concerns. An economy cannot flourish without diversity.”
“Diversity in class included.”
“Indeed.” His lips thin. “That is my personal opinion, at least.”
Sebastian senses an opportunity and pounces. "But not a popular one?”
“It would depend on who you ask." The prince shakes his head as if to clear his thoughts. "But I’m afraid this isn’t appropriate conversation for a ball.”
“Of course.”
“What creature have you come dressed as?”
“It would depend on who you ask,” Sebastian echoes. “My stylist informs me it’s meant to be a mermaid.” The scales look more like a snake to him, but Gwendolyn had been insistent.
“Yes,” the prince says wryly. He touches his own mask, though the movement is absent-minded. “I was told I’m a phoenix but that means very little to me. I suppose I’ll have to take your word for it.”
“The resemblance is truly uncanny,” Sebastian deadpans and that quiet smile grows a little louder.
“Do you dance?”
“With the right partner,” he says, letting his voice drop into a lower, more flirtatious register. “Though I’ve yet to be asked this evening. And yourself?”
“On occasion. Join me?” Without further preamble the prince begins walking toward the center of the room, the crowd parting around him. Sebastian takes it as his cue to follow, staying in the small bubble the prince’s mere presence seems to create. He tries not to feel too irritated his acceptance was a foregone conclusion. A few courtiers glower in his direction as they near the dance floor and his smile sharpens.
The prince hands his cane to a waiting servant, a girl about their age in a yellow dress. She disappears with it, ostensibly to wait until she’s needed again. He bows slightly and extends a gloved hand. Sebastian mimics the action before clasping their hands together, placing his other on the small of the boy's back. His fingertips tingle where they make contact—the thrill of making contact with a royal. He might be an assassin but he’s not completely immune to flights of fancy. The five-year-old boy from Feldcroft is mesmerized by the prince and his strange-colored eyes. The nineteen-year-old without a home thinks they’d look pretty in a jar.
The prince’s skin is ice cold even through his clothes. It’s fitting, given the Gaunt coat of arms includes a basilisk. He’s a little taller but Sebastian could easily slit his throat—or even drive his blade past the submandibular triangle and through his tongue. He’s far too trusting in the way he exposes his pale neck. They begin the steps of a waltz, and Sebastian is grateful Rookwood insisted he practiced dancing before attending (though he’d protested at the time).
“I am flattered to have attracted your attention,” he says demurely. “It’s truly an honor. Your Highness must have the pick of anyone in the kingdom.”
The prince, to his disappointment, doesn’t react to the compliment. “Are you from Hogsmeade?”
“Feldcroft.” Sebastian has learned the less one has to lie the easier it is to maintain the facade. “Though I often travel for work.”
“Then you’re a merchant?”
“My father is. I assist him in his old age.”
The prince makes a quiet noise of consideration. “A dutiful son, I see.”
“Family is the most important thing in one’s life; as I’m sure you know, Your Highness.”
There’s a curious twitch of the other man’s jaw, unnoticed by anyone except those trained to. “Certainly.” He pushes Sebastian into a spin and when they’re facing again the tension is gone. “Why attend the ball? Are you hoping to catch my brother’s eye?”
It’s a test. “I have no such expectations. I’m content to merely be here.”
The prince raises an eyebrow. “Is that so?”
“I’m nothing more than a merchant, and only an assistant to one at that.”
“And what of your qualms with the kingdom’s inequality? You would attend a perfect representation of that frivolity without any ulterior motives?”
“I think it’s a necessary evil,” Sebastian says.
“How so?”
“The Yule Ball has been a tradition for centuries,” he recites. “I think morale is important.”
“And how does the Yule Ball raise morale?”
“The Royal Family gives people something greater than themselves to aspire to.”
“Do you know what I think?” The prince’s hand tightens in his but his voice is low, discreet. “I think you’ve been lying to me since we first started dancing.”
Sebastian affixes a dumbstruck expression. “Your Highness?”
“Many think simply because I’m blind that I’m more easily fooled. I’ve found the opposite to be true. A pretty face or charming smile means nothing to me.“ The prince releases him, a crease forming between his brows. “I had hoped you might have something interesting to say, but it’s clear you’re as superficial as everyone else. How disappointing.”
Sebastian scoffs, hands balling at his sides. He is many things, but boring has never been one of them. “Perhaps I require a more stimulating conversation than banal pleasantries,” he hisses. He’s spent the nineteen short years of his life studying twice as hard as any spoiled prince to hide within civilized society. “Your Highness,” he adds belatedly.
“Prince Ominis,” the prince says after a pause and Sebastian thinks he might have broken him.
“What?”
“If you’re going to raise your voice you may as well use my name.”
(Sebastian’s questionably accidental first murder had been a result of his rather short fuse.)
“My sincere apologies,” he says, bowing so deeply that his mask almost falls off. He's getting rather good at this. “I’ve made a fool of myself yet again.” And likely doomed Anne with his stupidity. “I’ll take my leave.”
“I didn’t say I felt slighted.” The prince grabs his sleeve. “I find your honesty refreshing.”
“Your Highness would be the first.”
“I told you, Prince Ominis.”
“Alright,” Sebastian says slowly. He’s half-expecting one of the aurors to arrest him any second. “…Prince Ominis.”
The prince smiles through the gaps in his mask. The gold makes his eyes shine even brighter. “Tell me, what is your idea of a more ‘stimulating conversation’?”
“The political tension along the southern border?” Sebastian is taken aback by the sound of the other boy’s laugh, fleeting but impossible to miss. Like the chime of a bell near Clagmar Coast.
“You would know more about that than me, I’m afraid, given your travels. How does the son of a merchant come in possession of an invitation?”
“Lord Rookwood,” he says and the name is oily on his tongue.
“I’m surprised Lord Rookwood would forgo attending,” the prince says, a twinge of amusement creeping into his voice.
“He’s fallen ill,” Sebastian says, perhaps a touch too gleefully. He steels his expression back into one of polite concern. “I’ll be sure to pass on your regards.”
“There’s no need.”
It’s Sebastian’s turn to laugh, the bluntness catching him off guard. The ensemble begins a new song and he starts to bow before realizing the prince is still holding his sleeve. “Would you allow me to redeem myself with another dance?”
Long lashes blink uncomprehendingly. “Of course. Though you have nothing you need redemption for.”
(If only he knew.)
The gasps from the assorted onlookers grow louder and considerably less discrete when it's clear Sebastian has won the honor of another dance. He's certainly attracted attention now, the only question will be if he can leverage that to ensnare his true target. He keeps his appropriately awestruck expression on the prince as if he doesn’t even notice the rest of his surroundings. Any normal civilian would be enthralled to dance with a prince–even if it is only the spare.
“What is Feldcroft like?” the prince asks.
(Claustrophobic, empty, haunted.)
“Small.” Sebastian spins, releasing one of the prince’s hands to minimize their contact. For more intimate partners, the turn is meant to bring him into the prince’s arms. “There’s a market every week with the best rolls. You know everyone in a place like that.”
“It sounds nice.”
“It can be.”
“And what of the radicals?”
The inquiry is such a deviation that at first he thinks he must have misheard. “What?”
“In Feldcroft. Popp—I heard there were skirmishes in the area.”
Last year, Sebastian had to attend a funeral dedicated to an acromantula for one of his jobs. Somehow this is stranger.
“I’m afraid I haven’t been back in some time,” he says.
The prince’s cheeks turn a curious shade of pink. “My apologies. That was improper of me, I would imagine it’s a sensitive subject.”
(That was how Sebastian had gotten his start. The Ashwinders had been hunting a Nora Treadwell. Sebastian left her disembodied head on the doorstep of their hideout.)
“I’m in no position to judge given my own impropriety.”
“I don’t have the opportunity to meet many people outside of the castle,” the prince says and Sebastian has to hold back a snort. That much is obvious.
“Even in Hogsmeade?”
“Perhaps it would be better to say I don’t have the opportunity to leave the castle, much.”
A coddled royal, even worse. “I’m sure work consumes much of the time.”
“It’s not by my choice,” the prince says. “It’s out of concern for my condition.”
There’s a loose thread there, worth picking at, but Sebastian has already misspoken several times tonight. He’s fortunate the spare is so peculiar. “If you do have occasion to visit Feldcroft,” he says. “I would be honored to show you my favorite spot.”
“Where is that?”
“The coast. It’s often too cold for swimming, but if you stand at the very edge of the cliff it feels as though you're flying.”
“Perhaps I’ll have to make an occasion,” the prince says. His chin tips toward the ceiling as if he can somehow see the stars, the candlelight accenting the hollows of his cheeks.
Sebastian casts his own gaze downward, a flirtatious gesture but also one that allows him to glance at those dancing beside them. They still maintain a respectful distance but it’s not as large a bubble as surrounds the Crown Prince. The target is a few meters away. He's smiling with his teeth barred, eyes gleaming manically as he runs an improper hand down his partner's rear. Sebastian is very familiar with men who smile like that. He won’t feel guilty about poisoning him.
“You dance well,” the prince says and Sebastian’s eyes snap back to his.
“As do you, unsurprisingly.”
“Did Lord Rookwood teach you?”
It’s a jest, and Sebastian responds in kind. “He did tread on my toes an unfortunate amount.” The prince’s laugh seems to catch both of them off guard. It also attracts a dirty look from a red-haired man hovering nearby.
“Are you two…close?” The prince’s hand flexes in his. “If you’re here on his behalf.”
“Absolutely not.” The insinuation is revolting. “Just business associates. He owes me a favor.”
The smile doesn’t return but his mouth softens. “If not Rookwood, who did teach you to dance?”
“My parents.”
“They taught you well.”
(They were professors, after all.) “They always valued a well-rounded education,” Sebastian says.
“Politics and dancing?” the prince asks. “You’re more equipped than most of the courtiers.”
“One never knows when it might come in handy. Case in point.” His parents had taught him and Anne the basics before their passing, and once he started to take his career more seriously he’d hired someone to round out his education in the finer things.
“For someone with so much disdain, you fit in with the court seamlessly.”
Sebastian bites back the real answer, that some people have to bend to the world rather than the world reshaping itself to one’s whims. At least he has only bent and not broken. “Not all of the court is so disagreeable,” he says instead.
“Perhaps,” the prince says, as though they could ever have anything in common beyond Sebastian’s hollow flirtations. Those in power are all the same, so easily swayed by some well-placed flattery and a pretty smile (or voice, in this case).
“I should let you entertain your other guests,” Sebastian says as the song draws to a close. It’s better to leave them wanting more than to overstay his welcome. “Thank you for your companionship.”
“The pleasure was mine,” the prince says, and he doesn’t think he’s imagining the look of disappointment. The servant hurries over with his cane, perfectly on cue. He wonders if this is the prince’s true Gift, ordering peasants around telepathically. “Will you be returning for the rest of the ball?”
The Yule Ball lasts for five nights, at which point the Crown Prince will be expected to announce his choice of consort. The prince inquiring about his future plans is a very good sign indeed.
“I will,” Sebastian says. “May I be so bold as to request a dance tomorrow?”
The prince inclines his head. “I eagerly await.” He straightens, the crowd once again parting around him as he takes his leave. It’s no wonder the power goes to their heads. His cane taps against the ground and Sebastian swears he can hear it even over the music.
He heads in the other direction with a coquettish smile, meeting the inquisitive stares and downright glares head-on. He takes a flute of champagne from a nearby server. He doesn’t drink on the job in case something goes awry, but he’s found people are more permissive if he’s holding something in his hands. It looks less like he’s eavesdropping and more like he’s lost in contemplation. He pretends to nurse his drink as he meanders through the crowd.
The Crown Prince never uses the same dance partner twice. A few times he discards them before the song even finishes with that same haughty sneer. The spare, fittingly, is more discerning. He only accepts two other partners, and neither for another dance. It may be the wrong brother, but at least Sebastian has captivated one of them. It means sacrificing some of his anonymity, but it will be worth the privileges and knowledge he gains in its stead.
The younger prince is a curiosity. Sebastian hopes to see a hint of his exterior cracking, but he remains stubbornly aloof for the rest of the evening. His stick-straight posture never wavers and his smile doesn’t reach above his mask. By the final hour, a strand of hair has come loose to fall across his forehead. The prince keeps slicking it back, but it refuses to submit. The struggle is amusing to watch. It's an oddly human gesture.
Sebastian leaves a little early, confident in his plan for the rest of the week. He makes his escape through the palace gardens, sneaking through the hedge maze and back to the Three Broomsticks. His lodgings are small but more than suitable for his purposes. He waves to Sirona on his way upstairs, not allowing himself to relax until the door is firmly locked behind him. He sets his mask on the table before shedding his clothes. He’ll have to visit Gladrags tomorrow and see what he can add. Most guests add small enchanted objects to their clothes as the week progresses, but Sebastian will have to do things the old-fashioned way.
He thinks about the strange earnestness of the spare, and if he had a conscience it might feel guilty for using him so blatantly. He's peculiar and sheltered, but that's hardly a crime. When it comes to Anne, though, he would do anything. (He has done anything.) Sebastian is so close to a cure; he just needs to hold out for a few days longer. Soon, it'll all be worth it.