Dark Moon 3
"I don’t see the point," the man in the suit said flatly.
"Because it’s exciting," the other replied in a hushed voice, her hand covering her mouth as if to shield her words from prying ears.
The two walked side by side down a dimly lit alley, a place shrouded in shadows and brimming with peculiar people and even stranger shops. This district lurked in the underbelly of another, catering to those seeking less-than-legal wares. They weren’t alone—hooded figures moved through the streets, some looking rough and sketchy, others surprisingly polished. An air of danger hung heavy, palpable enough to quicken their steps. One wrong move, one careless word, and it felt like the entire crowd might turn on them.
"Hardly," the man scoffed. "That rule is idiotic. Why bother with the game if you just chase the fly?"
"It’s called a snitch," she corrected, a hint of amusement in her tone. "And no, catching it doesn’t guarantee a win. Sure, it’s a ton of points, but technically, you can still lose even if you catch the snitch. Theoretically..."
The man still looked unconvinced, his expression as stiff as ever.
"It adds an extra element to the game," she argued. "It keeps both teams on their toes."
He scoffed. "It requires no strategy, no teamwork. It can completely devalue an entire team's hard work."
She rolled her eyes. "It’s not that easy. The snitch is tiny and ridiculously fast—faster than the human eye can track. Games can go on for hours without anyone even spotting it."
"So it’s just luck? One lucky catch, and all your effort means nothing? Your game has stupid rules," he said, his tone dripping with disdain.
"It’s not that simple!" she snapped, then quickly hushed her voice, glancing around to see if anyone had noticed. "Look what you made me do," she hissed, glaring at him.
The man’s grin widened.
"You ass," she muttered, giving his shoulder a light punch.
"It’s not my fault you’re so easily wind up," he teased, his smirk only growing.
"Well, it’s your fault for dragging this out," she shot back, glancing both ways before leaning in to whisper. "We’re on a mission."
"Say it louder, why don’t you?" he snarked, his voice laced with sarcasm.
"Do you want this to fail?" she hissed, her tone low and sharp.
"If you keep talking, it will," he retorted, gesturing dramatically with his hands. "It’s not my fault you’re so obsessed with this… thing."
"It’s not a thing! It’s Quidditch—the greatest sport in the hemisphere. Maybe even the world!" she declared, her eyes sparkling with enthusiasm.
He snorted, barely managing to cover his mouth. "It’s nothing but a bunch of nonsense wrapped in fancy magic."
She pouted. "It’s not just magic! It has history. Hundreds of years of it. Why are you such a grouch?"
He raised an eyebrow, his tone turning thoughtful. "During my travels, I visited a country called Boletaria. They had a sport with chariots. Riders raced in massive arenas, wielding spears and swords to take down opponents. Crowds of millions gathered to watch. The sport was so big, it shut down sections of cities—governments, even parts of the army, got involved. It bled into politics, with factions betting on their charioteers to gain influence. For a time it even shaped who became heirs of the kingdom. It was huge… but it was a blood sport."
"And you think Quidditch is like that?" she asked, her enthusiasm faltering.
"I see shades of it," he replied, his voice calm but pointed.
"Quidditch is nothing like that! That sounds…" She paused, racking her brain for the right words. "Backwards. Crazy. Barbaric! It’s a perfectly normal, healthy sport."
He snorted again, the sound filled with mockery. "That’s probably what they thought in the beginning too. From what you’ve told me, it started as a quiet game. Now it’s worldwide. How long before someone dies? Maybe they already have."
Her face twisted with frustration. "You’re doing this on purpose," she growled through gritted teeth.
"I’m just pointing out why it’s not worth obsessing over," he said, his tone calm but pointed. "Why get so hung up on something you can’t even be part of? It’s a dead end." The weight in his voice made her falter mid-step. His words stung more than she cared to admit.
"You don’t get to tell me what I can or can’t like," she snapped, her frustration bubbling over. "This is my life."
Without waiting for his response, she stormed ahead, scanning the alley for the rendezvous point they’d been briefed on.
"A girl can dream," she muttered under her breath, the words half a defiance, half a plea.
They stopped in front of a shabby, run-down shop. Its grimy windows showcased an odd assortment of dusty trinkets and peculiar potions. The items ranged from tarnished jewelry to skulls, cages, and dilapidated furniture, all bathed in the flickering glow of ceiling lamps. Despite their disdain for anything Muggle, they have no problem using electricity.
"This is it?" the man huffed.
Her gaze shifted to the weathered sign overhead. "Borgin and Burkes," she murmured. "This is the place."
"Alright," he said, steadying himself. His hand slipped into his coat, fingers brushing against the hidden recorder to ensure it was ready. "Into the fire."
He glanced at her, and she gave a slight nod in return. They both knew how quickly this could spiral out of control. Months of preparation had brought them to this moment—learning each other’s stories, practicing their roles, testing every detail until they moved as one. They were completely reliant on each other. If something went wrong, they’d have each other’s backs. And if the worst happened, they both understood what had to be done. No loose ends, no trails, no bodies. They would leave nothing behind—untraceable, untrackable. Who they were no longer mattered.
They were ghosts.
“After you Mrs. Pickering.” He held out his hand.
“Such a gentleman.” She replied, taking his hand in hers as they both opened the door. It was dirty, she could see bundles of dust and cobwebs in the corners. Dust lined the products, making everything look ancient. There was a certain charm here, a spooky kind, like walking into an attic not knowing what you’ll find. She thought things would be easier with magic, there has to be a spell to clean this all in a snap. But either the owner was too lazy or some other thing, she didn’t know.
"Oi! If yer just browsin', bugger off an' do that somewhere else!" a raspy, rude voice barked from behind the counter.
The speaker was a middle-aged man with dark brown hair, thinning to reveal a receding hairline. He lurked in the shadows, a shady character by every measure. What set him apart from the riffraff outside, though, were his eyes—hollow and sunken, the deep crow’s feet etched into his face making him look older than he probably was.
"Payin' customers only, mate!" he barked again, his voice sharp and grating.
"Yes," her partner spoke up smoothly, stepping toward the counter. "Me and my wife are looking for something special." He had to force a slight edge into his words, playing the part.
“Ehh?” The man behind the counter squinted, as if sizing him up. "Whatcha lookin' for, then?"
"Something silver," her partner replied with the cipher, his voice steady.
“Silver, eh?” The man’s beady eyes slid to her, lingering unpleasantly. "For your bird, mate?" he asked with a slimy grin that sent chills down her spine.
"Yes," her partner said, delivering the final cipher with practiced ease. "For a Walpurgis Night."
The man’s expression shifted. His eyes narrowed, and the grin melted into a scrutinizing stare. He fell silent, his gaze locking onto her partner, searching, probing.
Did he know?
For a moment, panic crept in. Had they gotten the cipher wrong? But she quickly buried the thought—they were professionals, and if the cipher was wrong, they had contingencies. Her hand drifted toward the gun hidden beneath her coat, ready for the worst.
Then, the slimy man’s grin returned, wider this time, revealing crooked, yellowed teeth. “Ah, I see. The new blood, ain’tcha?” he said, his tone dripping with smug amusement. “Which bloke is it, then? Yaxley, is it?”
Her partner tilted his head, behind his back he signed the signal. All clear, she relaxed her hand.
“The scrawny one.” He answered back.
The shopkeep raised a brow.
He sighed. “One with the quivering lip.”
"Ah, Ave," the shopkeep chuckled, his laugh as greasy as the rest of him. "Didn’t think he had it in ya." With that, he stood up, shuffling toward the back door. He unlocked it with a heavy clink, then pushed it open. "Down the 'all, second door on the left," he spat before retreating to his counter without another glance.
This was it—the go-ahead. They were halfway there.
She moved carefully toward the open door, her nerves tightly coiled but her steps measured. Her partner entered first, his posture calm but alert. She followed close behind, the air in the hallway hitting her like a damp, suffocating blanket.
The space looked worse than the shop, which she hadn’t thought possible. The wallpaper clung to the walls in grimy, peeling strips, its lower half darkened by stains she prayed were just dirt. The stench of old newspapers hung in the air, mingling with something acrid and metallic. She couldn’t help but think that if someone lit a match, the whole place might go up in flames.
Her partner’s hand twitched in the shadows, subtly signing to her. His fingers moved with practiced precision, almost disappearing into the dim light.
‘Are you alright? We're about to enter the lion’s den. Nod if you’re ready.’
She nodded once, her expression firm. They had trained for this, drilled every scenario until it was muscle memory. There was no turning back now. Once they stepped through that door, their old lives would be nothing more than distant echoes.
As they reached the door, murmurs of unrecognizable voices entered their ears. It was now or never. She gave the signal and he slowly opened, that’s when all the voices stopped.
"Who are you!?" a woman screeched.
In an instant, she rushed at them, her wand raised and aimed as if ready to unleash a spell. This was it—a do-or-die moment. Both of them moved instinctively, hands darting into their pockets to grab their weapons—
"Carrow, stop!" a voice barked from the shadows to their left.
Another figure stepped forward, grabbing the woman’s arm and forcing her wand down.
“They’re with me!” the man shouted, his voice strained but firm. Upon closer inspection, he was a wiry, disheveled man with a scraggly beard, messy blonde hair, and dark lines under his tired eyes. This was their contact.
“Traitor!” the woman spat, thrashing against his grip. “You dare defy the Dark Lord?”
“I did no such thing!” the man retorted, his voice cracking as he wrestled with her. “I was only following—ugh—orders!” With a desperate yank, he pried the wand from her hand and stumbled back, retreating before she could lunge at him again.
The woman glared at him, her face twisted with fury. Her previously sleek hair now hung in wild strands, making her look like a cornered animal.
“He told me to strengthen our numbers!” the man added, his voice pleading for reason.
“You lie…” she hissed, venom dripping from every word. “The Dark Lord would never trust a coward!” Her accusation struck him like a slap, making him flinch visibly. “The moment things go wrong, you’ll slither back into the dirt like the snake you are!” she continued, her voice rising with each insult. Her words lashed out like a whip, leaving him pale and silent. When her tirade ended, with a furious stomp, she spun on her heel and stormed out of the room, deliberately bumping against her partner’s shoulder as she marched into the hallway.
“Sorry about that,” the spindly man muttered, attempting to smooth over the tension.
“Is this normal?” her partner asked, arching a skeptical brow.
“No… Miss Carrow is just… stressed. We all are,” the man replied with a weary sigh, placing the wand on a nearby table. He straightened, shaking off the confrontation. “So, you came after all?”
“Yes. Matthew Pickering, at your service,” her partner said, offering a slight bow before gesturing toward her. “And my lady wife, Constance.”
She curtsied, her movements graceful and precise, the picture of noble refinement. Weeks of grueling practice had finally paid off.
“Oh. Y-yes. My pleasure, Mrs. Pickering,” the man stammered, bowing awkwardly. “I’m Avery the Second, a knight of Walpurgis,” he added with an air of pride.
“A knight? Really?” Constance responded with a whimsical lilt, a faint smirk playing on her lips.
“It’s an old name,” Avery replied, straightening his posture as though trying to embody the role. “I like to think we are knights, in a way—an order of defenders fighting for what’s right. For the freedom of all wizardkind.” He laughed as he finished, a touch of self-awareness in his tone.
“As noble as that sounds, I can see why they changed the name. It doesn’t inspire quite as much as the current one,” Matthew remarked dryly, stepping further into the room and glancing around. The space was underwhelming, with exposed brick walls, sparse furniture, and an overall sense of neglect. It felt less like a secret headquarters and more like a storage area hastily repurposed for meetings.
“It’s the backroom of a store, so I suppose I shouldn’t have expected much,” Matthew mused, gesturing vaguely at their surroundings. “Still, with the magic at your disposal, I’d have thought you’d create something more... impressive. Anyone with half a mind could force their way back here. At least you get points for anonymity—though this is practically the back alley of a back alley.”
Avery chuckled nervously, scratching the back of his neck. “We make do with what we have. This isn’t exactly Gringotts, you know.”
‘The goblins... fascinating creatures. I wonder if my counterpart has finished yet?’ Matthew mused silently, keeping his expression neutral.
“Is this where the initiation will be held? Are we going to meet the Dark Lord?” Constance asked, her voice trembling with just the right amount of fear to sound convincing.
“Oh, no, dear lady! The Dark Lord would never,” Avery blurted out, shaking his head so vigorously it was almost comical. “That’s only if... well, never mind. We’ve much work to do.” He hurried across the room, opening a cupboard to retrieve a small vial and two cups.
“Veritaserum? Really?” Matthew asked, his tone calm but laced with mild irritation.
“Just a precaution,” Avery replied, his gaze sharp as he handed Matthew a cup. “You can never be too careful, right?” He forced a weak smile.
Matthew let out a long, tired sigh. “Alright, if it’ll speed things up. Hand me the potion.”
Avery moved to pour a drop into the cup, but Matthew grabbed the vial directly from his hand, eliciting a startled protest.
“Not that!” Avery yelped as Matthew tipped the vial and drank a generous mouthful.
“Wait! Not so much! It’s ten galleons per drop!” Avery screeched, his face twisting in horror as he watched half the vial disappear.
Matthew pulled a face as he swallowed, tapping his tongue against his teeth. “Bitter,” he muttered, grimacing. “I thought Veritaserum was supposed to be tasteless?”
“Well, we had to water it down to make more,” Avery admitted sheepishly. “It’s expensive, you know! We usually mix it with wine before drinking, but it should still work just as well.”
Matthew shook his head, rolling his eyes as Constance stifled a smile.
“Well, get on with it,” Matthew urged, his tone sharp.
“All right...” Avery cleared his throat, visibly nervous. “First question: Are you pureblood?”
“Yes,” Matthew replied without hesitation. “Compared to the Malfoys, the Pickering’s been here since before the Romans.”
“Uh-huh… sure,” Avery muttered, swallowing hard. “Do you interact with Muggles?”
“No.”
“Do you—”
“We’re not blood traitors, if that’s what you’re implying,” Matthew cut him off smoothly, his voice carrying just enough edge to make Avery falter.
“Y-Yes, that’s the most important part. Why do you want to join the Dark Lord?” Avery wheezed, his voice barely steady.
Matthew didn’t answer right away. Instead, he stepped forward, slow and deliberate, closing the space between them. His imposing height made the already nervous Avery shrink back until he was pressed against the wall. Matthew leaned in slightly, his sharp glare cutting through the tension like a blade. Avery’s face turned so pale that Constance half-expected him to vanish like a ghost.
“I saw the Dark Lord’s first rally,” Matthew began, his voice trembling with a mix of pride and unease. “I watched as he killed those filthy Muggles in front of us all. He used Veritaserum on them too—I wished he hadn’t, but it was necessary. We all needed to see it, to know the truth about how depraved and vile they really are.”
He took a shaky breath, his eyes distant as if reliving the memory. “I remember the way they shouted their crimes, how they had no remorse. The things they admitted to… all fifty of them, what they did to their own people, their children. It was sickening. I smiled when he gutted them like the scum they are.”
His expression darkened, a flicker of something haunted flashing across his face. “That only convinced me, how dangerous Muggles are. They’re craven, violent, a danger to themselves and everyone else; that only know how to take and take. I knew their true face… and it’s a sight I’ll carry with me for the rest of my life.”
The room was heavy with silence, the air taut with tension until Matthew let out a low sigh.
“That’s why I’ll follow the Dark Lord,” he said calmly, breaking the stillness.
A slow clap echoed from the doorway, startling everyone. The woman—Mrs. Carrow—was back, leaning lazily against the doorframe. Her wicked smile had returned, and she looked far more composed, though her eyes still burned with a dangerous glint.
“Well said,” she drawled, her voice laced with mock approval. “I was there too.” She tilted her head, studying him. “Do you remember what the third one did?”
Matthew didn’t flinch. “He killed his own children, then harvested their bodies. Repulsive.”
Mrs. Carrow’s lips curled into a twisted smile as she closed her eyes, tilting her head back as though savoring a fond memory. “Yesss… His screams were the most delightful. Watching his pride shatter before my eyes… delicious.”
Avery cleared his throat nervously. “Mrs. Carrow? Are you, uh… feeling better now?” he mumbled.
She opened her eyes and gave him a sidelong glance, the smile never leaving her lips. “I’m here for my wand,” she said coolly, picking it up from the table. “But, on another note, Avery… where did you find this one?” Her gaze slid back to Matthew, narrowing slightly. “He couldn’t have been more than sixteen when that happened.”
“My father took me,” Matthew answered smoothly. “Matthias Pickering. Perhaps you’ve heard of him?”
Mrs. Carrow’s smile twisted, turning sly. “Matthias, Matthias…” she murmured, as though tasting the name. “Ah, yes. The fence-sitter. Did your daddy finally see reason?”
“I’m my own man, madam,” Matthew replied evenly.
Her eyes flicked to Constance, sharp and assessing. “And who’s this pretty little thing?” she asked, her voice dripping with venomous curiosity.
“Constance, Mrs. Carrow,” she replied, offering another curtsy, as polished as the first.
Mrs. Carrow’s laugh was a sharp, mocking bark. “Dear, if you can’t do it right, you shouldn’t bother at all.” She snatched up her wand and threw Matthew a sidelong glance before sweeping out of the room, her footsteps echoing down the hall.
Avery let out a shaky breath, rubbing the back of his neck. “Please forgive her. She doesn’t always act—” He paused, then sighed. “No, that’s a lie. She’s always like this.”
“It’s fine,” Matthew replied, brushing it off. “I’ve dealt with her type my entire life. Now, is that sufficient?”
Avery nodded quickly. “Y-yes, absolutely.”
Matthew’s eyes narrowed slightly. “And I trust you won’t feel the need to test my wife? I assure you, she’s as loyal to the Dark Lord as I am.”
Avery glanced nervously between the two of them, his discomfort obvious. “I-I, uh… sure. Of course. You’re both… in the clear.” He forced a shaky smile. “We’ll meet back here next week. If—if that’s fine with you.”
“We’re done here,” Matthew said, already moving toward the door. He gestured for Constance to follow, then stopped just before crossing the threshold. “Before I go, though… Is it true? Has the Dark Lord really returned?”
Avery froze, his face draining of color. “I… um… yes,” he stammered.
“How?” Matthew pressed, his tone calm but probing. “Didn’t he die in that explosion?”
Avery swallowed hard. “The Dark Lord is powerful,” he said, bowing slightly. His voice was reverent but rehearsed, like a line he’d memorized. “More powerful than we can ever understand.”
Matthew studied him for a moment, then nodded. “Good. See you next week.” With that, he and Constance slipped out of the room and into the hallway. They moved through the shop’s back entrance, stepping into the dim alley before merging into the main street. The bustling crowd shielded them from prying eyes, and only when they were certain they were no longer being followed did they duck into another narrow alley.
Constance reached into her coat pocket, pulling out the small, inconspicuous object—a portkey. They both gripped it tightly, and with a soft whoosh, they were gone.
The pair landed unsteadily on a bed in a modest hotel room in Liverpool. Constance exhaled shakily, pressing a hand to her chest.
“That was…” she whimpered, her voice trembling.
“Acceptable,” Matthew said flatly, standing up from the bed as though nothing had happened.
Constance stared at him, her nerves still raw. “Did the potion work? You called me your wife back there.”
“Of course,” he said without hesitation. His tone was as dry as ever. “Don’t you remember signing those papers? It was necessary. Don’t worry—we’ll get divorced as soon as this mess is over.”
Her mouth fell open in shock, and she was about to launch into a tirade when the memory suddenly resurfaced. She had signed something. It must have been part of their cover story, a detail she’d overlooked in the chaos of their mission. She gritted her teeth but said nothing, unsure if she was angrier at him or herself.
“Still,” she said after a moment, her voice quieter, “Ruggiero… what you said about muggles. If the truth serum worked, then—”
She stopped as his gaze met hers. His eyes were like two endless voids, dark and unreadable, absorbing every ounce of light around them.
“When I was young,” he began, his voice low and deliberate, “I lived in a small fishing hamlet. It was simple, peaceful… until one day, a group of scholars arrived. They sacked the village and took everyone—my family, my friends. I escaped to the shore and prayed to my god to save us. A great wave came and carried me away. When I woke, I was on another shore, ruled by a different group of scholars.”
She listened in stunned silence as he continued, his tone as cold as steel.
“I joined them, learned from them. And in time, I realized they were no different than the ones who destroyed my home. Everywhere I went, I saw the same thing—people who take and take, leaving nothing but ruin. Humans—muggles, wizards—it doesn’t matter. We’re all the same. Greedy. Cruel. Destructive.”
He paused, his voice softening but losing none of its weight. “That’s when I understood. I’m no different. Humanity won’t change. It never has, and it never will.”
She tried to speak, but her voice caught in her throat.
“Don’t dwell on it, Melissa,” he said, his tone suddenly brisk, dismissive. “My personal feelings won’t interfere with this mission.”
Without another word, he turned and walked out of the room, the door closing softly behind him.
Melissa sat there alone, staring at the empty space he’d left behind. Her thoughts raced, her chest tight. Not for the first time, she wished she wasn’t a muggle.
PortKey
A small, handheld object used for instant teleportation. Activation varies, from specific phrases to touch, with rare versions capable of transporting entire areas. While limited to a single world, PortKeys have no apparent range restrictions.
Favored by the Hierodas Conspectus, their experiments led to devastating weapons, such as pots that teleport enemies beneath the earth's crust or deep into the ocean. Today, PortKeys are primarily used for demolition and large-scale tasks, like relocating cities or ruins, transforming construction and warfare.