A/N: Sorry for the delay guys !

Two separate divided silences,
Which, brought together, would find loving voice.

- 'Severed Selves,' Dante Gabriel Rossetti

Magnus and Demetri reached the Institute at dawn. The warlock had always hated mornings; there was just something about the light laying everything bare in the open, without the cloak of darkness, which irked him and made him uneasy. Demetri also seemed to be wary of the early sunlight; he shaded his face, still frozen into a condescending mask of arrogance, and none too gently pushed Magnus along the street.

New York was waking up. Along the sleepy street that lay alongside the church that was the home of the Nephilim, market vendors were setting out their wares, and the pair caught a scent of roses and soft clay. Magnus smiled a little, and traced a finger along a potter's bowl, zigzags in tribal red and azure indicating its foreign origin.

"Ow!" A seraph blade jabbed him sharply between his shoulder blades and he clenched his fists. "Would you stop?!" Demetri regarded him lazily, his eyebrows raised. "No." Magnus felt the urge to slap him.

"Just bring me to the Midwinters. Oh wait; they're your parents, right? I bet you're the spoiled one in that family, you little brat." Demetri poked the blade close to his eye and Magnus cackled, missing the clouded look that passed his face.

"We're here." Demetri sheathed his blade and strode in front of Magnus, peering thoughtfully at the building whilst chewing his lip. Studying him, Magnus though absently that he looked like a warrior; muscular and built, with long, floppy dark hair, he looked like a pissed off Adonis with a couple of swords and a face that never broke a smile. He wondered why.

"My parents have brought down the wards for you for a couple of hours, so you should be fine." The Shadowhunter walked up to the door and with a definite flick of his wrist, watched the door creak open. "Welcome to the Institute, Magnus Bane."

Magnus's first impressions were that it was big. Huge, actually, though most of it seemed pretty run down and mildewed. He shivered at the coldness, and wondered idly if it was below zero in here. Demetri in any case didn't seem bothered, and walked purposefully ahead, pausing in the hallway. "Mother? Father?"

They seemed to materialize on the balcony above, and Magnus jumped, sparks rising to his fingertips. Lissanda and Cornelius Midwinter seemed to radiate coolness and a cracking, crumbling aristocracy that even he knew himself was vanishing. Their faces and hands were as pale and flaky as chalk, wrinkles lined their cheeks and the hollows in their temples and their stiff, buttoned attire only highlighted the fact that they were basically walking corpses. Magnus visibly flinched as they descended the staircase. The closer they came, the more he saw and heard; clouded, milky eyes, the creak and snap of old bones and the sound of difficult, clogged breathing. No wonder they needed someone for an assassination; they were so ancient and incapable they couldn't do it themselves. He wondered why they were even in charge of the Institute anymore.

"Your name is Magnus Bane?" He nodded warily, and let a few blue flames fall to the floor. This was his challenge to them. You can't trick me, or fool me, or blackmail me. I am centuries older than you ever will be.

They visibly flinched, and Magnus extinguished the flame, satisfied. They're easy to break, and they won't put up a fight. Just get the job done, get the Book and get out of there. Shadowhunters made him uncomfortable.

"Mother, Father, he's agreed to do the job." The Midwinters ignored Demetri as if he hadn't spoken, passing by him in a swish of crinkling crinoline. Magnus would have thought that was strange, and would have noticed Demetri's face fall back into his regular frown, but he was too busy eyeing up the runners of the Institute. They looked him up and down in unison, and Lissanda Midwinter extended a gloved hand, wincing a little.

"Come with us. This job will not be a struggle for you."

Magnus shrugged. Frankly, when it came to the Book he would do anything, but h appreciated the thought. They fell away through a tiny servant's door, and he felt like he was descending into Hell.

Alec started a little and tried to open a bruised, swollen eye when he heard the oak door of the cells creak. "If you're here to kill me," he croaked, "can I please be buried with my parents?" His voice cracked, and he repeated. "Please. I know you won't listen, and I'll probably end up in a dump or a fire," he said shakily, and felt tears running down his split, dry face, "but I can't fight anymore. I want to be with my family. Tell the Clave I died in a terrible accident if you want, but one last wish." He closed his eyes in defeat, and realised there hadn't been a word spoken since he had begun.

A voice rang out, a voice Alec had never heard before in his life. It was beautiful and rich, low and musical, and sounded like pure magic. "Who are you?"

"Who are you?" Alec tried in vain to open an eye to see his companion, and failed. He arms were floppy by his side, and he felt like all energy had drained from his body. "Are you here to kill me?"

The voice hesitated, and Alec knew the answer before he had even spoken. "Yes."

Alec sighed in almost relief, and as he slid to the floor, he heard the rustle of the stranger's clothes as he leapt up. Was he shocked? Surely an assassin wouldn't be so considerate.

"You're dying." It wasn't a question, and the stranger sounded a little sad, but clouded with concern. Alec realised he must look like a corpse already, bloody and beaten and lifeless. He felt the rattle of a faint breath in his lungs. "You mightn't have to kill me after all. I might just go on my own." He felt the bitterness in his faint rasp and stretched out an arm, as if to feel the earth outside his cell.

"Goodbye. I never even knew your name." His whisper was thin.

He felt voices calling him and blacked out.

Magnus was expecting many different types of prisoner to execute. A rogue werewolf or vampire. A demon. Maybe even a Shadowhunter who had severely broken the Law, defiant and proud to death.

What he certainly was not expecting was a young man, bruised and beaten within an inch of his life, who asked, strong though he was pretty much dead, to be buried with his family.

He couldn't do it.

When the boy closed his shining azure eyes and slipped to the floor with a hard thump, Magnus felt from his position by the door that he was dying. He could have left him there, collected the Book, saved himself some energy, but just seeing the crumpled figure collapsed on the ground made him angry and emotional in ways he hadn't in years.

What was wrong with him? His heart was twisting itself in knots and he felt light headed. How dare someone beat and abuse someone young, defenceless, then try to kill them off? Red clouded his vision, and sparks leapt through his hair and across his clothes, frantically sputtering in violent shades of navy and black.

He kneeled by the cage, and noticed the boy's hand had drifted from his motionless form and a few fingertips rested just outside the iron bars, seeming to feel for the earth trapped beneath the frozen concrete. Magnus extended his long, elegant hand and felt power rush up his arm, veins pulsating with an ethereal glow that made the young Shadowhunter's pale digits seem ghostly in comparison.

Without thinking, Magnus grasped the boy's hand in his. He would be damned if the Nephilim got away with another heartless death on his watch. It had absolutely nothing to do with the young man's lips, or his captivating blue eyes, which were currently hidden under sickly, purpling lids.

Heat and light seeped from through his fingers to the boy's, lighting their arms in a linked stream of molten vitality running through their veins. Magnus felt sweat beads form on his forehead and grunted, pushing all his healing energy into the connection, fighting to keep the boy's weak pulse going, pumping the golden blood around his body as he regained life. A faint blush crept onto his ashen cheeks, and he let out a guttering breath, gasping for air.

Magnus let the last of his power trickle into the boy's veins and stood quickly and silently. The Shadowhunter moved his head groggily on the ground, a wing of raven hair flopping and sticking to his damp forehead. Without thinking, the warlock leant forward and moved it away, marvelling at the smoothness of his skin, so pale and thin.

The boy was waking. Smiling softly, though he had no idea why, he turned swiftly to leave.

When Alec woke, there was nothing to be found except a few stray sparks and a whisper of a quiet voice. You will live.

He had been saved.

The Midwinters jumped back from the cellar door as a blur of glitter swept past them into the foyer. Sparks; no, flames, leapt from his palms, and his cat slitted eyes burned with a terrifying intensity that made the Nephilim shrink in fear.

"What was that?" A gale grew around them. Plates and furniture rattled treacherously, and carpets and tapestries ruffled. A few mirrors cracked, and Demetri almost smiled from his perch by the doorway, arms crossed in amusement.

"You didn't kill the prisoner?" Cornelius Midwinter drew himself up to his full height of 5 foot 6 and drew his wife behind him. "How much do you want this Book, half-breed? Your kind disgusts me, thinking you can get away with stealing and threats," he snarled. As soon as the words had left his mouth, flames roared from the warlock's hands and incinerated a vase of flowers on the mantelpiece. The pottery cracked and shattered, and the delicate carnations disintegrated into black ash that blew softly to the floor.

"Don't you dare, Nephilim, or your Institute will also go up in flames," Magnus hissed. Cornelius kept up his snarl, but visibly paled. The amount of rotting wood in the building would cause an inferno if one of the warlock's elegantly manicured hands grazed over any surface.

"And I'll repeat my question. What on God's earth was that?" Magnus was quivering with rage, his whole body tense with coiled energy. Cornelius sneered. "You have no right to speak His name, half-breed. We do what we want with our own. It is not your business to interfere; if you want out of the deal, then leave. We don't need you."

Magnus bristled. He stalked up to the Midwinters, deliberately leaning in uncomfortably close to Cornelius, and looked deeply into his eyes.

"I know what I saw. I don't know who that boy is, or what he's done. But I know what you have done to him."

He paused, and turned his back to them. "I'm leaving now. I will be back for the Book, and none of your defences will be able to stop me. That is a warning, but listen carefully."

He drifted his fingers over a rich, dusty tapestry, and heard Lissanda's sharp intake of breath. He let the blue flames burn for a few uncomfortable seconds. The Midwinters were silent, though Magnus knew they were close to running. How foolish.

Extinguishing the fire, he turned again to them. Lissanda's face was full of a shallow kind of terror; her glazed eyes were fearful, and her head flitted from side to side nervously. She was looking for escape routes, and her hand was grasped tightly in her husband's. Cornelius smirked right into the warlock's eyes, but behind that Magnus knew he too was scared. This was beyond anything he had done in his life; beyond his comprehension.

"Either you take care of that boy, or I will tell the Clave you hired a Downworlder to kill one of your own."

Lissanda gasped, and clamped her hand over her mouth. "Cornelius!..." Cornelius shushed her, his eyes locked into Magnus's. "He's bluffing. If you go to the Clave, they will kill you first."

"That is your gamble to make. Take it or leave it, Nephilim. Though I can't understand why you would want to kill him so badly."

Cornelius looked at his wife's wide eyes and quivering hands, and Magnus's fingers, still ignited. Finally, he looked down. He was an old man.

"Fine. But, mark my words, Downworlder, this isn't over. We aren't the only ones in the Institute; we have others, younger, fitter, who will take you down, like…" Cornelius stopped, his eyebrows furrowed, as if trying to remember a long lost name. Magnus raised his eyebrows in surprise, and glanced towards Demetri's direction by the door. The boy was gone.

"I'll hold you to that, Shadowhunters. I will be back, and if it is not as you say, you will not have an Institute to run."

Leaving the Midwinters alone and broken in the foyer, he strode towards the huge oak door that was the entrance to the church. He felt a rustle of air from the corridor, and before he knew it, Demetri had swept in, silent and shadowed.

"What do you want?" Magnus felt uncomfortable at the boy's presence; partly covered in shadow, he stood in the corner of the hall like a ghost, crossed arms and leaning against the cool stone. His eyes flashed in the darkness, and Magnus tensed.

"Thank you." His voice was hollow and cool, but Magnus could feel it tremble. He wondered.

"Why? As far as I could tell, you didn't do anything to stop it. You don't do much, actually."

Demetri flinched visibly, as if the warlock had hit a nerve. He huffed a slow, low breath, and spoke quietly, evenly.

"In case you haven't seen it in practice, warlock, which you have, nobody notices me around here. I learn to observe. While you were downstairs, I was there too. I saw you with Alec, and I am saying thank you. He is the only good thing here, and he deserves to live."

Magnus's eyes flickered. "His name is Alec? Who is he?"

Demetri quirked a small smile from the gloom. "I think that is for you to find out, Magnus Bane. There is a garden out behind the Institute. Try every day, from sunset." With that, he soundlessly disappeared into the night.

Magnus smiled a little. Humming, he left the strange Institute and its strange inhabitants to the early song of the lark. Morning was breaking, and the city was bathed in a deep golden glow.

Maybe New York was looking up.