#host!verse

Now that Gellert has made it behave, there is a certain amount of tending to do.

The host, for all it was a meek, snivelling creature, stored up more than enough fury for Gellert's Obscurus to feed from over the years - a bottomless well of sulphur and brimstone at the treatment that muggle inflicted upon it. The Obscurus is weak now, depleted from pulling itself back together into one form, but Gellert needs his treasure strong, ready to fly free and wreak glorious havoc whenever he requires.

Before, the host was furious but suitably downtrodden, or too attached to a 'sister' it had no relation to by blood to leave. Either way, it had felt compelled to stay, and let its thirst for violence stew behind that hopeless, gormless expression. Much as he hates to admit it, Gellert owes Mary Lou Barebone a debt for forming such a perfect echo chamber for his Obscurus to thrive - but her blessing on his cause took years to flourish, and he does not have that much time to encourage the crown jewel of his army out again.

Of course, Gellert has taken steps to ensure its host cannot go anywhere, but he must be swift to pursue the other side of the equation which encouraged its sheer magnitude - its majesty - before. Decisive action is required.

Gellert stands over the host, which is sprawled on the floor of their bathroom and has to be stepped over to reach the sink once one has used the toilet. He considers where to start.

Its hair has grown out of the bowl cut inflicted upon it; it wore it slicked with oil and parted a little to one side, the muggle way, when Gellert rescued the Obscurus from it two blocks from the docks with a suitcase in its hand. Disregarded, its hair springs into wayward curls, which a barber has shaped so it's long at the sides and short at the back. Its sideburns have grown in. It must have taken some time - months.

Gellert is no herbologist, but even he knows the stubbornest of plants require good pruning to encourage them to flower.

He chuckles to himself as he bends down, slips his fingers into the loam of its hair and hauls it up off the floor. He drapes its chin over the lip of the bath to keep it in place, slumped and sprawled with its legs akimbo, arms dangling with its knuckles dragging on the tile. It's lighter than it should be, by all rights. Gellert wonders if his Obscurus bothered to reconstruct its host's bones, or if it is just made of skin and magic and the tattered remains of a soul.

"Percival!" He calls, over his shoulder.

It takes a minute, but Percival duly arrives on the scene, a roll of parchment in his hands. His sleeves are rolled up to the elbow in practised, even turns of the fabric, his waistcoat pristine.

"You summoned?" He asks, leans insouciantly against the doorframe. "Help me with this." He plucks up a hank of its hair, tugs it tight. With a flick of his finger, he creates a pair of silver scissors and cuts the lock with a satisfying sharp snip. He lifts it for Percival's inspection and then drops the clump of hair where it can see it, inside the clawfoot tub. Of course, he could do it with a swift 'diffindo' and have done with it, but there's something about the noise of the scissors which adds to the effect.

Percival chuckles, and comes to assist.

They take their time over it, of course. Endeavour not to snip too large a chunk in any one go. This is a process to be savoured. They do not touch where they have been, only pluck hair they have not touched from the scalp. Gellert varies the lengths at which he cuts, and they choose locks of hair from where they will, so Percival's predilection to neat uniformity in all things does not spoil his fun.

Gellert leaves a long forelock for last. Pulls its chin up as he yanks until he thinks the hair might pull out, but when it doesn't he cuts it very, very close to the skin, so it can feel the cool metal on its scalp.

It is not shorn to nothing when they are finished, but it is quite short enough, and uneven at that. It befits its status in their household. Dark curls lie scattered in the bottom of the tub; Gellert draws them together into a riotous pile, scoops up a handful, and rubs a portion of what he has taken against its face for good measure.

Percival puts it back on the floor where it belongs, pulling it with a hand around its forehead until it can be released to fall back to the tiled floor, knocking its head with a sharp thud. Its eyes have leaked.

"Put it in front of the mirror," Gellert says. "I think it liked how it looked, before."

"Vain thing, is it?"

"Nearly as bad as you."

Percival would rather not have the obscurial on their bathroom floor: it takes up a great deal of space and it drools if they don’t close its mouth. But there’s a reason they have it, and thus it remains, an inconvenient skin rug splayed across the tiles.

The obscurial is not human, not any more; it looks human because the Obscurus is clutching at its husk of a host like a shroud. Only the dead things - the hair and nails on it -  grow, and it’ll need shearing again before long. Otherwise it remains entirely as it is, a lanky body spreadeagled across the floor. It doesn’t need to eat or drink, so they haven’t bothered. It can’t exactly complain, after all.

All it can do, after Gellert’s permanent solution to its disobedience, is drool and weep. Percival is mildly interested to see what other reactions he can inspire from it. How well he can judge whether it is in pain or not. How else do they judge how much it feels, how much it is affected by their intervention?

Percival is a man who believes in metrics. He’s brought a notepad with him for the occasion.

The obscurial watches him as he stands over it and carves a piece of ginger with a knife. Percival can feel its gaze on him. Left in the pantry a few days in a glass box to ferment, the outside skin of the root has bloomed with mould.

He wonders, idly, if it has ever tasted ginger before. In his childhood, they drank ginger ale like it was water and enjoyed its bright fizz; two slices in hot water could stop nausea in its tracks before his mother resorted to a potion. They always glutted themselves on freshly baked gingerbread before it was cool. Does it know what ginger looks like, even? He imagines not. Perhaps that’s why it’s staring at him. That or the knife. He drops another peeling on its bare chest and continues his work.

It’s odd, to be observed so. Unsettling. Animals watch. Humans watch. This wretched thing is barely a creature - it is the shell a hermit crab has taken for its own. It’s a shame the Obscurus kept its eyes.

Percival briefly considers putting it on its front, for ease of access, to remove its gaze, but if it gets to stare at him he can enjoy the full spectacle too. He should be able to see all the results of his enquiry sooner rather than later.

Percival takes the ginger root, kneels, and pulls up the bottom of the thin, torn piece of sheet they’ve wrapped around it like a loin cloth (neither of them wanted to look at its genitals half the time as they sat on the john). Tugging up one thigh to expose it to the light, he knocks its flaccid penis out of the way with a flick of his knuckles.

It still has a tight, dark furl between its legs. Without fanfare, Percival pushes his handiwork inside it. Doesn’t ease the way. He inserts the plug, drops its leg and casts a hand cleaning spell for himself as he settles back on the lip of the tub to observe, notepad in hand. This might not work, after all. It might not feel it, the nerves might not run that deep. Percival is prepared for that disappointment.

As he sits back, the hair begins to stand up on its arms and legs. Its eyes widen, and its pupils dilate.

Percival can’t help but smirk.

A deep flush creeps across its cheeks, its chest. Before long fluids stream from it like gutters in a rain storm - saliva from the corner of its lips, tears, even a dribble of snot from the nose. Sweat beads copiously across its skin, trickles down the hollows between its ribs. It doesn’t know if it wants its eyes open or shut.

The experience will only gets worse for it. They’ve only just begun.

Percival notes each symptom down, watching it wear itself dry, until the tears stop and all that it can do is drip from the nose, a steady ooze of fluid across its jaw. It’s revolting. Gellert will think that line of running mucus beautiful. 

But they know now that it feels more than skin deep, and how it reacts to agony. They can see the effect of pain on it, and go looking for those reactions next time they interact with it. This was a useful experiment, and next time he will try something else.