Invictus Maneo

Pain was an old friend at that point, a constant companion that refused to leave her side. Right now, it wore the face of her father, and the leather whip he wielded. The lashes it left on her back stung, as the skin split apart layer by layer after each strike. Father was scarily accurate with that thing. The strikes rarely missed the target, each landing precisely on the same spot.

She kept her head down, biting hard on her lips, valiantly keeping the scream contained within her throat. Crying never helped, rather only made things worse. Father hated hearing her scream. He hit harder whenever she did.

So, she kept silent, not moving an inch, not even flinching, as the gash on her back opened up further. It wasn't new, and it would be healed by sunrise anyway. Pain was familiar. Unwanted as it was, at least she knew pain.

The lashes kept on coming, the man holding the whip hitting as hard and as fast as his strength could let him. He kept screaming obscenities and curses as loud as he could, never taking a moment to breathe.

And then, with one last hit, it stopped.

She waited for another moment or two, not daring to peep, not daring to move. When it was certain that the lashes truly stopped, she carefully, slowly pulled out a short, rounded stick from her left sleeve, gripping its slightly flared handle. She took one, long shaky breath, and carefully shifted her body so that she could aim the stick properly.

Conflundum abintus.

First a gasp, followed by a grunt, and then a growl that gradually faded into a whine. It wasn't until a full minute had passed that the screaming started, prompting her to finally look up. The man was kneeling on the floor, frantically clawing at his face and chest in a desperate attempt to rip through his shirt and robes.

Blood and pus trickled down his eyes, mixing with tears of agony. His fingers, slick with the fluids, came away with the skin they'd dug into, stretching it like rubber. As he clawed, his flesh began to sag, like wax melting in a furnace. His eyes bulged, threatening to burst from their sockets, and his mouth hung open, revealing jagged teeth stained with blood and bile. The air was heavy with the stench of decay and corruption, and she could feel it settle down on her like a comforting blanket.

His body began to contort, twisting in ways that seemed humanly impossible. His limbs elongated, stretching like rubber bands, and his skin rippled with strange, pulsing growths. The screams grew louder, more anguished, and his eyes rolled back in his head, revealing only whites. She laid there watching, with a mixture of morbid curiosity and satisfaction as the bundle of flesh that once was a man melted down into a puddle of blood and pus.

“He doesn't look that scary like this.” She spoke in a voice barely louder than a whisper.

They rarely do. For all their power, men usually face death on their knees, crying and pleading. Spoke a voice, distinctly male, in her head.

Giggling at the dry tone, she poked at the puddle with the stick in her hand, half expecting the man to rise up from it. When nothing happened, she got to her feet, dusting off the dirt from her clothes.

“Did I do good, Tom?” She asked.

You did splendidly, child. Now you're truly free.

“What should we do now?”

Aren't you hungry, child? You haven't eaten anything all day.

She perked up at the mention of food. “And then?”

We wait until Hogwarts reopens.

“What if they find out what we did? What if….”

I'll protect you, child. I always will. No one will hurt you ever again.

“You promise?”

I promise.

12 Grimmauld Place, London

The dimly lit hallway, once a testament to the opulent tastes of the House of Black, now stood as a sterile, stripped-bare monument. The old, dark green wallpaper, with its intricate patterns and faded grandeur, had been replaced by pristine white paint, its brightness a jarring contrast to the shadows that lingered. The air was thick with the scent of fresh paint and the faintest hint of decay, a reminder that even the most fastidious attempts at renovation could not entirely erase the past.

Even the magic that permeated the air seemed to have undergone a transformation. The oppressive, suffocating quality that once characterized the house's aura had given way to a cold, calculated comfort. Yet, despite this change, the power that lingered within the walls remained unchanged, its presence still palpable, a buzzing energy that seemed to vibrate against the skin. Lucius couldn't help but wonder if this transformation was a deliberate attempt to erase the dark legacy of the House of Black, or merely a superficial facade, a thin veneer of respectability applied to a foundation of rot and decay.

Lucius's aversion to the house was a deeply ingrained sentiment, one that had taken root the moment he first stepped inside, a young man fresh out of Hogwarts, seeking the then Lord Black's permission to court Narcissa. The house had felt oppressive, its dark, gloomy atmosphere suffocating, and its intimidating presence had left an indelible mark on his psyche. Every detail, from the blood-red carpet to the ornate mantelpieces, seemed to whisper warnings of danger, echoing the House of Black's notorious reputation for darkness and power.

The memories of that day still lingered, a persistent reminder of the feelings of inadequacy that had long plagued Lucius. He recalled the sense of smallness, of insignificance, that had washed over him as he stood within the grandeur of the Black estate. The weight of his family's name, the accumulated wealth and influence of generations, had not been enough to assuage the feeling of unworthiness that had taken root within him. Decades had passed since that day, yet the sensation remained, a nagging reminder that there existed realms beyond his grasp, no matter how far his family's reach extended.

Even the house-elf leading him down the hallway exuded an air of quiet confidence, its pride and self-assurance a rarity among its kind. The elf's attire, immaculately clean and tailored with precision, only served to highlight Lucius's own sartorial shortcomings, making him feel dull and unkempt by comparison. The elf's very presence was a subtle yet potent reminder of the refined elegance that Lucius felt he could never quite attain.

He hated it.

Lucius's thoughts were so consumed by his own insecurities that he almost failed to notice the elf come to a stop before an ornate door to the right. The soft knock that followed was a gentle prompt, a discrete signal that their journey had reached its destination. As the elf vanished into the shadows, Lucius was left standing alone, his hand instinctively smoothing his robes as he adjusted the cane in his hand, a nervous gesture that betrayed his growing unease

With a loud click, the door slowly swung open, revealing a well-organized office inside. The first thing he noticed was the floor-to-ceiling window that took up most of the wall facing the door. A large table sat in the center of the room, with tall cupboards in the corner on either side. The chair behind the table was occupied by a woman, who seemed lost in the bundle of parchments on the table. Lucius tapped his cane on the floor impatiently.

The woman looked up, and Lucius's breath caught in his chest. She looked like a perfect copy of Bellatrix, only slightly younger and more put together. Once he put a name to the face, Lucius felt so insulted.

“Andromeda,” His words were biting. “I was under the impression that you were thrown out of the family.”

The woman smiled. It was sharp and predatory. “I'm sure you were.”

Lucius bit his tongue at the first remark that came up, and grimaced. “I was asked to meet with Lord Black.”

“I'm aware.” The smile never faded, and Lucius felt like she was mocking him. “Lord Black is busy with other things, and has asked me to meet with you on his behalf. Sit down, we have a lot to talk about.”

“I can't imagine what.” Lucius drawled in a bored tone.

“Indulge me, Lucius.” Andromeda said, setting aside the bundle of parchments, and leaning forward. “I imagine you've been keeping up with the current events happening in and out of Hogwarts, being a governor and all.”

“Yes.” He bit out, voice strained. He was aware, oh, he certainly was. From the moment he'd deposited that diary in the youngest Weasley’s cauldron, he had been dreaming about how the school would finally be cleansed of Dumbledore’s influence and the mudbloods’ stench, just like the Dark Lord had promised. He had waited for months, with bated breath for Draco’s owl, signaling the start of things. And each day that passed without any news, he grew anxious. Until the news came.

And it wasn't what he imagined at all.

Lucius swallowed nervously at the thought. Things had gone terribly wrong, and he had no idea what to do. Severus, his closest friend was dead, and he couldn't shake the feeling that it was his fault.

“What do you think, Lucius?” Andromeda asked, her tone curious. “There are talks in certain circles that Albus has finally begun to lose his touch. You've been on the board for years. I'd love your insight.”

“Huh? Yeah, umm… Dumbledore, yeah.” Lucius cringed internally at the unintentional word vomit.

Andromeda's well groomed eyebrow curved upward, mocking him, as her eyes took on an amused shine. “So eloquent, Lucius.”

Lucius's gaze dropped, his eyes fixed on the floor as he struggled to marshal his thoughts. His original plan, meticulously crafted and honed over time, had been to manipulate events from behind the scenes, orchestrating the ousting of Dumbledore and installing a more pliable figure in his place - Severus, perhaps, or another individual more receptive to his suggestions. The ultimate goal, of course, had been to present Hogwarts to the Dark Lord on a silver platter, a gesture of fealty and loyalty that would cement his own position within the new order.

But fate, it seemed, had other plans. The cursed diary, that insidious and manipulative artifact, had seen fit to destroy his most trusted ally, the one individual who had been more than just a mere acquaintance - a surrogate younger brother, if he were to admit the truth. The brutality of the act still lingered, a festering wound that refused to heal. The consequences of that event had been far-reaching, drastically altering the trajectory of his plans and forcing him to reevaluate his priorities. And so, in a cruel twist of fate, he found himself bound to the very individual he had once sought to supplant - Dumbledore. The old man, it seemed, had become an unlikely insurance policy, a deterrent against the unpredictable. Should events take a turn for the worse, Dumbledore's presence would serve as a deterrent, the only line of defence.

“The headmaster and I have never been on good terms,” he began carefully, “and I suspect we never will. But honestly, I'd rather have him occupied with the matters of the school than give that meddling fool more free time on his hands.” He paused for effect. “Who knows what troubles the old man is capable of cooking up.”

Andromeda sat silently, her cool gaze never leaving Lucius. “Tell me the truth, Lucius. What exactly was expected to happen at Hogwarts when you gave Ginevra that diary?”

Lucius choked. For a moment he considered drawing his wand, his fingers curling around the handle. Andromeda, seeing his action, simply leaned back in her chair with a smile, completely unbothered.

“Really, Lucius? Let's forget about the sheer number of protective enchantments this room hosts for a moment and focus on skill alone. There's a reason why even my dear sister Bella rarely dared to raise her wand against me. I'm sure Cissa must have told you some stories of what happened in those rare instances when she did try. The only one who's ever kept up with me was Sirius, and you, dear Lucius, are not him.”

Andromeda hummed in amusement as she watched Lucius’ fingers loosen. “Well, you were always smart enough to recognise when to quit, I'll give you that. Now, I'm sure there are a million other things you'd rather be doing instead of standing here talking to me. So let's get on with it, shall we?”

Snowflakes danced in the fading light, casting a serene silence over the castle grounds as the old man ascended to the top of the tower. The grounds, already blanketed in a thin layer of snow, glistened like polished marble, and the lake’s glassy surface reflected the somber mood that had settled over the old man. His eyes, etched with a deep sadness, washed over the grounds with a solemn intensity, as if searching for solace in the stillness.

The tower, with its stone walls and imposing presence, had always been a sanctuary for the old man, a place where he could escape the burdens of his office and find a measure of peace. Many students before him, and after, had shared his affection for this secluded spot, drawn by the sense of calm and tranquility that pervaded the atmosphere. Yet, on this evening, the old man’s usual sense of serenity eluded him. His face, set in a grimace, seemed to reflect the turmoil that churned within him.

As he stood at the edge of the tower, his eyes followed the Thestral herd as they made their way towards the forest, their ghostly forms glowing softly in the fading light. The giant man who trailed behind them seemed a looming presence, a dark specter that cast a long shadow across the snow-covered grounds. Though the old man’s gaze remained fixed on the distant scene, he was aware of the movement behind him, the soft footsteps that signaled the arrival of another.

“Minerva,” he greeted, his voice low and soothing, as the woman emerged from the stairway. “You have news, I believe?”

The woman’s face was etched with concern, her eyes red-rimmed from lack of sleep. “Aye,” she replied, her voice thick with emotion. “Those fools are moving forward with their plan. Arrests will be made tomorrow morning.”

The old man’s expression turned somber, his eyes clouding with a deep sadness. “So, Cornelius has finally decided to take a stand.”

“What about Madam Tonks? Did she…?”

"She did," the old man replied, shaking his head. "Lucius sang like a canary, but the information he provided is too sensitive to be revealed to the Ministry. She agrees."

Minerva’s voice rose, her Scottish accent thickening with emotion. “So that’s it, then? These are children, Albus. Innocent, vulnerable children. And you exp….”

Though the old man’s expression remained calm, his tone took on a steely edge as he cut her off. “I am well aware of the situation, Minerva. The situation is unpleasant, but not unexpected.” He turned, his eyes glinting with a hint of mischief. “I believe Fawkes should be arriving any moment now.”

As if on cue, a blaze of fire erupted from the space between the old man and Minerva, and a majestic Phoenix arose from the flames. The bird’s eyes shone like bright rubies as it offered the old man a rolled parchment, which he accepted with a gentle smile.

As he unrolled the parchment, his eyes scanned the contents, a look of relief washing over his face. Minerva noticed the change and stepped forward, her eyes questioning. “Good news, I take it?”

The old man’s face lit up with a warm smile, his eyes sparkling with a hint of triumph. “It most certainly is, my dear friend. It most certainly is.” He turned to her, his voice taking on a sense of urgency. “How soon can you send a message to the children? No owls, I want you to meet them personally.”

Minerva nodded, her face set in a determined expression. “I can leave immediately. What’s the plan?”

The old man’s smile grew wider, his eyes twinkling. “Cornelius is expecting to face off against me. He thinks that I would jump right in front of his wand, in defence of my students. He is going to be sorely disappointed when he learns just who he's going to face in the courtroom standing against him.”

Minerva’s eyes narrowed, her expression questioning. “Who?”