Experiment 0001 [ISO], (Serpens Venere)

[Michael O'Dair]

It was widely gossiped that Michael O’Dair, a recent addition to the faculty who kept his head down and stayed mostly out of sight, was merely another obedient puppet for his vicious wife, a pawn and a spy and a wand and a tool rolled into one neat package. It certainly explained how he had suddenly appeared as the Head Healer, her old position. And there was nothing that Michael did or said that annulled any of these rumors in any way.

His reasons for staying married to the Warden were his own, although the situation must have been drastic and unusual; no normal man in normal circumstances could have been convinced to stay otherwise. At best, he rarely saw her and at worst, well, she was as merciless with him as she was with anyone else. Maybe even more so at times.

He drew a breath, his black robes heavy on his shoulders, and watched the door. The experiment notice had been handed to him by his wife wordlessly. It was for any member in the House of Tisiphone, the beast House. Michael himself had no opinion either way on creatures, and preferred to let well enough alone if they were willing to do the same, but his wife’s insistence became his actions. It always had.

His origin was Russian, though not pure; by his hair color he had some European mutt mingled in his bloodline. He spoke fluently in English but an accent prevailed throughout all of his words; he finally said after Serpens had arrived, “Good afternoon.”

Michael’s eyes were dead, or at the very least they did not seem as focused as they should have. He continued with a lack of fervor, a man given instructions to follow and who would be following them, to the T.

“Recent interest has been taken in the study of specific effects of certain magics on non-human creatures, and your name, Mister Venere,” Michael chose to use the surnames rather than numbers of the inmates when he could get away with it, “Was foremost on the list. We will be applying some of these to you, and observing their results.

“Firstly, it is understood that your race has some difficulty with wands. They wish to know whether this hardship comes directly from your body, or from something else entirely.” He reached into his robes and drew out a small flask filled with a pale blue liquid. “This is a modified Polyjuice Potion. It ought to turn you into a human wizard – I do not know who, the company brewed this - for approximately an hour. It may not.”

He did not elaborate, but likely had other potions if the first did not work.

“Then, please take this wand when you are prepared. We shall do a series of simple drills.”

[Serpens Venere]

Serpens shivered as he entered Room Two. It was partly from the chill the sublevels of the facility had, but mostly from fear. Serpens didn't like allowing himself to fear, but this place scared him to the bone. Though he was a predator at heart, Serpens felt like a little mouse here in Room Two. Like something to be played with.

“Good afternoon.”

Serpens' head jerked up involuntarily at the sound of the voice, which had a slight Russian accent. He immediately looked at the floor again. He had promised himself that he wouldn't react to any of this. When he was told about his 'special education', he had considered hiding for the rest of the day. In his experience, anything referred to as 'special' was most definitely bad news, especially in Furiae. But he came anyway, because he was a coward, and he didn't want to die by the Warden's hands for refusing a direct order. But that didn't mean he had to co-operate anymore than was necessary.

“Recent interest has been taken in the study of specific effects of certain magics on non-human creatures, and your name, Mister Venere,was foremost on the list. We will be applying some of these to you, and observing their results."


Effects of certain magics? Harmful effects, most likely. Observing results meant atching impassively as he screamed, and non-human creatures normally meant testing things before selling them to the public. He had to bite his tongue when the man mentioned his actual name. Serpens didn't know if he wanted to ask him why he bothered being civil, or to tell him he had no right to call him by his real name when he was about to torture him.

“Firstly, it is understood that your race has some difficulty with wands. They wish to know whether this hardship comes directly from your body, or from something else entirely.” Serpens tensed as he reached into his robes, expecting something very painful, very soon. His eyes hardened and flashed with anger, and Serpens fought the urge to leap at the Warden's husband, helped by the fact he only produced a flask filled with some sort of potion.

“This is a modified Polyjuice Potion. It ought to turn you into a human wizard – I do not know who, the company brewed this - for approximately an hour. It may not.”

Serpens recoiled from O'Dair as if the words had physically hurt him. "What?" he spat, before he could stop himself. He bit his tongue again, drawing blood, which he swallowed pensively. He could not react. He couldn't. Gingerly, he reached out and slowly took the flask. He ripped it open and downed its contents in a single gulp. For a moment he didn't think it would work. He opened his mouth to tell the Healer this, but then a wave of pain hit him and he dropped the flask. He could feel his body twisting, and he arched his back, throwing his head back as his bones changed positions and his fangs retracted. His skin felt like it was on fire, and the last time he had felt pain like this he had nearly died, but he couldn't smell any blood. His tongue changed shape under his teeth as he tried to stop himself from screaming.

And then it was over. Serpens refused to look at himself as a human. He didn't want to know what colour his eyes were when they weren't tainted by the yellow of a cobra, and he wanted to ignore how blind he felt, how dulled his senses were. But he couldn't avoid seeing his smooth, scaleless skin as he reached out a hand to snatch up the wand. His hand closed on the rough wood, his eyes closed for a moment, before his looked up at O'Dair, his glare just as strong as it had always been.

"What next?" he hissed, and he couldn't help but notice how different he sounded without a forked tongue.

[Michael O'Dair]

Michael watched the changes happening in the boy’s body impassively. From somewhere within the depths of his robes he had withdrawn a quill and parchment, and was annotating something about the proceedings. Long before Serpens had gathered himself and accepted the wand the Healer finished whatever it is he had been noting, and both materials disappeared again.

He studied the boy.

Michael did not feel sorry for him, but nor did he relish the idea of doing these tests. In fact, the wizard showed no emotion, no grief or interest or even boredom. Whether it was a technique he had developed in self-defense from being around his wife for so long or he was naturally like this, there was nothing there, and when the boy had finished, had straightened and examined his hand and then glared at Michael with a fire, the Marshal did not blame him for this.

”What next?” Serpens hissed and Michael made no correction on the tone but answered calmly.

“We will do a simple spells at first, and then something else. Here,” and the man drew his own wand, a sturdy birch, and stepped closer to the inmate. He produced a feather and let it fall to the ground. “I am uncertain, have you ever stolen a wand? Do you have any casting experience?”

The question was purely for instructional purposes. Michael continued quietly and, if anything, perhaps a little kindly; no, kind was not the proper word. Patiently. He demonstrated with his own wand as he spoke, “You lift it and direct it at the feather, and you will say, Wingardium Leviosa. Flick your wand upwards – as I do here.” The feather lifted at his command and as he broke his wand away, it floated back down.

“Try,” Michael added gently, “Until you succeed, adjust your flick and intonation. Even with wizards their first spell does not always come easily. If we are successful, we will move on.”

[Serpens Venere]

Was there something wrong with this man?

Serpens had hardly acted respectfully, and yet O'Dair didn't even glare at him. In fact, his expression held nothing. Absolutely nothing. It was as if O'Dair had either no emotions at all, or he was extremely deatatched from the proceedings. But Serpens had more pressing matters to deal with. He dedcided to ponder the matter of the man who was dead behind the eyes later, and concentrate for now on the fact that O'Dair may or may not be trying to kill him.

He eyed the conjured feather with distaste as it fluttered to the stone floor. It looked so insignificant and useless, which really, it was. Serpens scoffed at the question of stealing a wand. He was a murderer, not a thief. Larceny was so below him. Unfortunately, that did mean he had no casting experience. This was going to prove troublesome if the exercise involved using any complicated magic, but he was confident he could master the basics if need be. Serpens resisted the urge to kick the marshal, as the calm, patient voice washed through the room. His voice really did not suit his occupation. He sounded like a polite schoolteacher, not the meek husband of a psychopath.

Serpens raised a sceptical eyebrow at the parlour trick O'Dair performed by levitating a feather. He could definitely do that! His hand spasmed, about to repeat the motion, and he caught sight again of the unblemished skin that should be dotted with the scales of his heritage. His expression became stony and uncooperative, and Serpens resolved not to even try to perform the 'spell

“Try. Until you succeed, adjust your flick and intonation. Even with wizards their first spell does not always come easily. If we are successful, we will move on.”

Serpens clenched his fists at his sides so hard he thought the knuckles would break free of the skin. This...man had no right to be so almost-kind to him. It actually confused him a little bit, and Serpens suddenly began to wonder if Michael O'Dair was just as dangerous as his wife, but his forte was simply less messy. What if, Serpens thought frantically, what if he's just really talented at mind games? Serpens gave an almost unnoticable shiver. Violence he could deal with, but extreme manipulation was way out of his league. Deciding that the best way to escape O'Dair was to aggravate him to the point of violence, he gave the wand a loose, lazy swish and a miniscule flick. After mumbling the incantation half-heartedly, he dropped the wand to the stone floor where it hit the ground with a clatter.

"It's impossible," he proclaimed, trying t olook innocent. "I can't do it." Serpens scowled and crossed his arms like a petulant child, but on the inside he was gleefully awaiting O'Dair's reaction.

[Michael O'Dair]

Even before the boy had started he had given up, but it was strange; he had begun to perform the task willingly, and then something had stopped him. Michael O’Dair watched Serpens throw his wand to clatter on the ground while declaring, "It's impossible."

Whatever reaction the inmate had been expecting, he was likely disappointed; Michael merely nodded once and noted something else on his parchment. He put them away once more, taking his wand in an easy grip in his hand.

“I understand,” the man said and seemed as though he meant it, as if it had been somehow out of Serpens’s control. And he lifted his wand and pointed it at Serpens and said with the straightforwardness of someone without an investment in the proceedings, “Imperio.”

His instructions were to have Serpens attempt to perform the spells, and Serpens would be attempting to perform the spells. Even under his command the magic cast would still come entirely from the inmate; if his race was simply unable or had difficulty channeling magic through a wand, they would know soon enough.

“Pick up the wand and direct it at the feather,” Michael spoke again, using the exact same tone he had used to give the instructions the first time; he acted as though he had never said them originally. “And intone, Wingardium Leviosa. You will flick your wand upwards as you speak.”

Interestingly, Michael would be checking off two of the boxes after this attempt. Further down his list was the statement Race responds similarly to being placed under the Imperius Curse ( ) Yes ( ) No Commentary:

[Serpens Venere]

Serpens hissed in anger as the sadistic Healer directed the Imperio curse at him. He wasn't stupid, he knew exactly what that spell was intended for. But he had not been prepared for it, his guard had been down around the confusing man who didn't seem to want to kill him (obviously, he'd spent too long in this god-forsaken prison). The beam of light hit him square in the chest, and with no scaly armor to protect him from the force of the magic, Serpens was bowled over. He tumbled backwards, but instinct kicked in, and he rolled as best he could, arms covering his face.

He could hear O'Dair's voice echoing eeriely in his brain at the same time he spoke out loud, and he had an overwhelming desire to do what he said. Serpens wanted to clamp his hands over his ears as the man's eternally pateint tone reached him. He hated this man, hated him for being so normal in a prison filled with things that would very much like to eat you. He almost hated that Michael O'Dair was so unlike his wife, so unprejudiced.

And he hated that the man had no emotions.

Sadly for the healer, Serpens had more than his fair share of emotion, and though most of those emotions were anger, hate and maniacal glee, he was also very stubborn. Combined with his snake-like psyche (the spell had changed only the physical effects of his race, not the mental ones), Serpens was able to think of a plan. It annoyed Serpens when people underestimated him, just becuase he liked to kill things doesn't mean he was stupid. Not all people who exceed at excessive violence are so thick that's all they can do. Of course, Serpens wasn't exactly amazing at planning, and he really did prefer to kill things. Messy though it was, he found there was very little to deal with afterwards.

That is, of course, unless you live at Furiae.

So Serpens obeyed. It wasn't something he was accustomed to, and just the thought made him grit his teeth, but very slowly, he bent to the floor and snatched up the wand. He straightened again and looked the healer directly in the eyes. Serpens felt a sudden aching longing to have his real body back, with strak yellow eyes that could burn your retina, and fangs. Fangs were what he missed the most, their comforting shape against his bottom lip. But his dead, human eyes looked directly at the healer, and with a smile that was easily as disturbing without the fangs, he intoned

"Wingardium Leviosa."

He flicked the wand up and marvelled at how easily magic flowed down his arm and into the core of the wand. He had felt similarly when doing demon magic back at home, except with demon magic and rituals, you felt your entire body fill with lightning. Serpens felt a twinge of homesickness, he had not been able to perform demon magic ever since he came to Furiae, and he was sure the Warden had placed some sort of limiter on him. Images of him and his little brother, Everto, crashed into his mind, and Serpens ruthlessly pushed them away. No time for melodramatic Hollywood flashbacks. Using the emotions made so accessible by thoughts of his innocent, dead sibling, Serpens slashed the wand through the air, smile still fixed in place, eyes locked on the eyes of his tormenter. The magic, somehow feeling his anger and hatred, changed the feather. A silver sheen swept over it's fluffy surface. Serpens realised with a start that he had changed it to metal. He hesitated, but then sent the feather spinning toward the healer.

It wouldn't hurt him much, just teach him a lesson.

[Michael O'Dair]

Michael O'Dair watched impassively as the boy bent, as he flicked his wand and intoned the words and when the feather rose he made another note on the parchment, releasing any hold his Imperius Curse may or may not have had.

Notes finished, the quill and parchment again vanished and the man returned his gaze to meet Mister Venere's eyes. The inmate appeared to hate him; frankly, Michael was uncertain of why for the boy knew nothing of his past, but he could hardly hold the emotion again him. His marriage made his remaining social contacts, those that his wife approved of in some fashion, strained at best, although he found that most people chose not to cozy up to him for obvious reasons. Back when they did not live at Furiae, back when they had (oddly) a home and (even stranger) Sicila fulfilled the traditional wife role and cooked supper after a day of serving by the Dark Lord's side, back when things were as normal as they would ever be for Michael O'Dair, even then they did not entertain much. Sicila was not the easiest woman to get along with.

Mister Venere smiled a smile that did not reach his eyes, and it did not bother Michael because that was the only sort of smile that his wife ever had.

Then for the first time the wizard expressed an emotion; his brows rose very slightly in what could only be mild surprise as the levitating feather began to transfigure, silver metal permeating the wisps to the very edges, turning it into a beautiful and delicate piece of art.

The sleek artwork then flew abruptly at Michael's face.

Honestly, the Healer approved of this action as he lifted his free hand to snatch the feather from the air. The boy was not broken, an increasing rarity in Furiae Correctionals. It was like finding the last of an animal you had thought to be extinct. His thumb and forefinger closed on the spinning metal and its thin edges bit into his skin, drawing droplets of red blood that pooled, coloring the silver metal, rolling down the stem, dripping once, twice, three times onto the floor in thick pat pat pats.

And still he was calm, his voice deep and measured. "Good," Michael rewarded, although for what was unclear. He pocketed the feather. Serpens's Transfiguration meant they could both skip several steps ahead. He said, "Attack me now, with a spell."

[Serpens Venere]

Serpens felt like killing something. This man had finslly shown emotion, and it was surprise! He was surprised that a Furiae inmate had tried to attack him? Serpens wondered for a moment if O'Dair actually knew where he worked. Serpens had watched with distaste and grudging respect, knowing it took guts to grab a flying steel object out of the air when it is flying at your face. He'd really have preferred it if he hadn't though. Initially, he'd had nothing against the healer, it was the experiment he'd had a problem with. Serpens hated being forced to do things, and being forced to take part in something that caused him to lose his snake appearance, something he was rather fond of, was not his idea of fun. But now... He really wished that metal feather had taken O'Dair's head off.

"Attack me now, with a spell."

Ah. Now, this could be a slight problem. Serpens knew a grand total of two offensive spells. The strongest cutting curse he had ever heard of, and the Cruciatus Curse. He very much doubted either of those would be appropriate for the experiment, and he opened his mouth willingly for pretty much the first time this lesson,

"If that's what you want."

He sort of hoped that the healer would pick up on the warning edge to his voice and get ready to dodge, because as far as he knew, 'Protego' wouldn't help against what he was about to do.

Serpens adjusted his grip on the smooth surface of the wood, and wracked his brains for the incantation. As he did so, he raised the wand above his head, and prepared to make the wand movement. He remembered the words, and swept the wand down in a vicious arc, whispering hatefully "Incendio apere!" An arc of black lightning crackled menancingly as it flew through the air. Serpens kept his eyes wide open, he wanted to know how the man would react this time.

[Michael O'Dair]

The intensity of the spell did not shock Michael; he wouldn't have expected anything else, especially after the way the boy had been glowering at him. Frankly, Michael O'Dair wouldn't have been shocked if Serpens had taken the opportunity to try his hand at an Unforgivable Curse. One so rarely got an opportunity to cast one, and it wasn't as though the Healer had been specific in his instructions.

"If that's what you want." The boy's eyes had a strange glint and there was an edge in his voice that clearly projected his intentions.

For once a bit of life came to his face, something of interest and focus, he held his birch wand steadily in his hand, he straightened to fix Serpens with a sudden intensity in which one could finally see that perhaps he and his wife were not so different after all. Sicila had not chosen just anyone to be her mate, and there was actually a reason that the wizard's face had been plastered on posters beside his wife, that the name Ademar had been known and feared.

Of course that had been a different time and past, an age that seemed almost surreal to Michael now with his new name and his new face, it was so far away.

Serpens lifted his wand and slashed it through the air, murmuring an incantation to which the Healer smiled almost fondly. Ah, to have the days in which one actually spoke incantations! Telegraphing your intentions like that was the best way to get you killed.

The countercurse was something automatic, a twirl of his wand that suddenly jerked at the end as Michael remembered his purpose, why he specifically had been chosen to administrate this experiment, and all of the sudden he stopped the gesture and lowered his wand and stepped barely to the side so the dark curse struck him in the shoulder. His wand clattered to the floor. The Marshal was lifted inches from his feet and slammed into the wall a foot behind him, gasping involuntarily from the blow and impact. Where the curse hit him was now shredded robe and blood blood blood, a thick wet stain blooming and spreading from his shoulder.

Well. Michael O'Dair could officially mark down the Interspecies Polyjuice Potion as a success.

He was already reaching for his discarded wand with his good hand, his wandhand hanging uselessly at his side, blood now visible at his sleeve's cuff, now spilling onto the floor.

His voice was tense, control control control, not quite hiding the pain. He said, "Good."

He said, strained, "You - may go."

He wanted to say, get out, to issue a curse, his eyes were dark, he fought the pain back. Michael O'Dair did not lose control, what would his wife think?

He pressed the tip of his wand to his shoulder, sucking in a short breath, and murmuring softly some long and fluid incantation that did not seem to have an end; it was almost a song, quiet and low.