Beauxbaton and Durmstrang "Shipping"

The last night Adalrik saw his mother was branded into his mind forever like so many white hot scars on the surface of his memory. If she was still alive he did not care to know; she was nothing to him. Her frail form still uncovered itself in his deepest nightmares but he shunned it aside to bury it in the farthest recesses of his mind. It was a distraction he could not afford. Adalrik would not allow a soft memory of her to lessen his anger or to deter his goals. When his icy blue eyes were closed in slumber, though, the scene replayed uninterrupted.

The night was dark, a storm looming in the churning clouds. They wove and coalesced in a threatening mass that hid the light of the moon and stars. In this remote part of the world where light was so precious and rare in the winter the storm was a nightmare ready to feast on the cold sad souls of its inhabitants. A bright burst of lightening sparked in the distance and rolling plains and deep lakes could be spotted dotting the landscape. A far off rumble of thunder ominously broke the nights silence as its roar sped over the sleeping village.

Heavy footfalls pounded the gravel walkways, deep breaths rhythmically keeping time. Adalrik's body glistened with layers of sweat that fell in torrents over his large muscled frame. His blue eyes were glazed over as if in a trance as his heart beat steadily in his chest. Time and life had been forgotten while he ran across the landscape of his homeland. Hours may have passed as he legs moved tirelessly to bring him back home. He had no notion of how long he had been out.

He slowed as he reached the door to his house, coming back into himself. He let his momentum stop and his body rest, the sweat now freezing on his soaked shirt. His breath returning to normal, Adalrik reached out his hand to grasp the door knob but instead found the door slightly ajar. A low growl escaped his lips as he shoved the door inward and stepped through the threshold.

The living room was in shambles. The low light of a static filled TV threw its harsh white glow over the tables covered in piles of newspapers, used plates, and who knew what else. The sharp scream of a tea pot boiling on the stove pierced Adalrik's ears, blending with the buzz of nightlife outside. On the couch lay his mother, blonde hair that was once beautiful all a mess and tangled about her sullen face. Her eyes were glossy as she looked toward the door, her movements slow. Adalrik noticed the empty bottle grasped in her frail hands. More lay scattered about the room, all empty.

Rage began to bubble inside Adalrik. This was how he had left her much earlier in the day. She had yet to even move from where she lay wallowing on the couch. He calmly walked over to her supine form and took the bottle from her hands, holding it out of her reach. She looked up pleadingly into his eyes, their blues matching perfectly.

“Oh, what? Do you want this?” His voice was deep, a low rumble to mimic the thunder in the distance. He raised an eyebrow as she stuttered out an unintelligible reply. With a rapid fling of his arm Adalrik threw the bottle against the far wall. It hit with a crash and exploded glass fragments around the room, their tinkling as they hit each other resounding in the small space. He brought his face close to his mothers and he could feel her heat radiating onto his cool skin. “That is the last time,” he hissed into her ear, “that I will ever see you drink again.”

Straightening up, he took a step back but kept his eyes locked onto his mothers until he knew she was in a state to understand his words. She made a feeble attempt to raise, to reach out to him. He shoved her arm aside as his words gathered intensity and volume. “You want to end up like him, don't you? You want to be buried and rotting and forgotten!” He turned his back on her and made his way to the door. “See if I come to help you. You're just like him.”

Adalrik was about to leave the house, never to return, when two dark figures formed before him in the doorway. They wore dark cloaks with their faces hidden inside. Their hunched forms did nothing to hide their brute strength and the wand tips poking out from their large sleeves were unmistakable.

“What do you want?” Adalrik barked, not in the mood for interruptions.

One of the figures stepped close to Adalrik, his tense body mere inches away. “We've come for the money we are owed.” The voice was menacing and firm. It was one Adalrik could almost place, for these type of men were no strangers to his life.

“Do you never cease? Even after your debtor is dead?” A flint like spark took over his eyes as he watched the figures carefully. He could feel his temperature rising, his blood rushing through his veins.

“He may be dead, but you and your mother are not. Give us our payment, now, or you will be sorry you attempted to put up a fight.”

A smirk played on Adalrik's face as he took a small step back. “Attempted?”

With that he flung himself forward, whipping his arm back before landing a solid punch right onto the first figure's face. He crumpled to the ground, blood flowing profusely form his nose. Adalrik wasted no time going for the second cloaked man, this time narrowly dodging a spell aimed at him. Red sparks illuminated the room, cascading into darkness as they hit the floor. He lunged forward and grasped the figure's head under his arm, pressing into his throat. The man was choking, trying to plead for mercy but all that escaped were strangled gurgles.

Adalrik placed his mouth on his ear and whispered, “I am not my father. You will not come after me again.” His wand emerged from his pocket and he placed it on the shaking figure's temple. “Stupefy.”

Letting the form thud to the floor unconscious, Adalrik kicked him aside and stalked out into the stormy night without a single backward glance.