CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER ONE
Law 38page 317
THINK AS YOU LIKE BUT BEHAVE LIKE OTHERS
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All was quiet as the clock struck quarter to midnight.
The Lord sat at ease in his opulent drawing room, with one leg thrown over the other and a crystal goblet of wine in his jewelled hand. He sipped at it periodically, relishing the bitter taste of the crimson liquid, that ran thick like blood, as it moved down his throat. His eyes fluttered shut as he chased the remains of the liquor, his tongue slipping over his bottom lip to savour the taste.
A soft hiss broke him from his tranced state, he turned with a soft curl of the lips to face his familiar, “Come, darling,” he whispered as he dropped his free hand toward the floor. He watched, bemused, as the python coiled around his arm, slithering unhurriedly until she was wrapped around his upper body, her head resting on his shoulder, “The cold is among us, my sweet, you are due a shed,” he hissed, running a hand over her skin fondly.
He smiled softly as broken complaints tumbled out of her sleepy form before he turned his gaze to the meticulous tapestries adorning the walls.
The moving imagery whispered of tales of defeat, of sweet conquest, almost as if the threads were woven with minute strands of time. He smirked as his eyes ran over the oddly accurate depiction of a man donned in ghastly purple. He presumed the artist had added the detail in jest, though it still managed to ignite an age-old fire inside of him.
The image was slow moving, an embroidered masterpiece depicting his most satisfying victory. A trounce so fulfilling, he hadn’t waited for the price to be uttered before he had planned where such a piece of art would hang upon the walls of his castle.
The Fall of the Phoenix, the artist had named it, and his Lordship had laughed, and laughed, as they had mounted it onto his walls.
A petty endeavour, indeed, to hang embroidered evidence of his old mentor's defeat on his walls years after the event; but the besting had been too delicious not to milk it of its entirety; until there was no satisfaction left, only the aftertaste of triumph that tasted euphoric.
A knock at the door broke the quiet, as the clock struck midnight.
The heavy oak opened with a flick of his wrist, and Bella entered with a grace that matched her beauty. Her flowing, black cloak whispered against the polished floor, a subtle rhythm that accompanied her confident strides. Her eyes shone bright with devotion as she removed the emerald mask from her face and dropped herself into a low bow.
“My Lord,” she purred, almost breathless, her voice a melodious blend of honey and silk.
“My Bella,” he replied, smoothly, as his eyes roamed across her bent figure, “Come.”
Bella rose with an eagerness that remained unmatched. She ambled toward him with a hurried stride, before she dropped to her knees beside his seated figure. Her eyes were large as she stared up at him, plainly struggling to keep her hands to herself.
He panned his eyes down to her, giving her the attention that he wouldn’t offer any other - a small mercy, he concluded, for his most devoted.
“I bring news of progress, my Lord,” Bella gleamed, “You were correct in your deductions, the rebels had set up a temporary camp just outside the Forest of Dean,” her smile was all teeth as her gaze turned wicked, “Those bastards didn’t stand a chance! They tried to scram, they did, but they had grown complacent, what with their clever charms keeping them safe, just as you had said they would.”
The Lord inclined his head slightly, acknowledging her report with a faint nod and a small smirk, “How many?” he asked.
“Rod got the Prewett twin, the cocky one, all mouth, and Rab handled Meadows, the bitch,” she scowled, “The Longbottom’s too, the wench went out with a fight, I’ll give her that, and her blood traitor husband, well-“ Bella grinned, “Let’s just say that he won't be an annoyance anymore…”
He laughed shortly, under his breath, before he lifted a hand to Bella’s face to hold her chin between his thumb and index finger, “You have done well, as usual.”
Bella, seemingly emboldened by her Lord’s approval, inched closer.
The vibrant light of the cloudless night, coming through the window panes, accentuated the delicate curves of her features, and illuminated the lust hidden beneath the onyx brown of her eyes, “Then… may I be so bold as to ask for a reward, my Lord?”
The Lord hummed, amused, before he indulged her, “And what reward may that be, my Bella?” he inquired.
Her smile widened as her eyes began to sparkle with anticipation, “It is my duty and honour to serve you, my Lord…” she whispered before she lifted her hands from their place in her lap to clutch at her Lord’s trouser leg, “…I ask only for the reward of showing you just how deeply my devotion runs - for you, only, my lord.”
He played with a strand of her curled mane as he spoke in an alluring sibilance, “Your dedication knows no bounds, does it, Bella,” he smirked, “I only wonder what your husband would think; his wife on her knees before me, instead of laying beside him, so deep into the night. Rodolphus is but a man, after all, a man who sees you as his - the Madame Lestrange.”
“He would not dare challenge your taking, my Lord.”
“Is that the reason you come to me, Bella?” he asked, “Because it is only I that could bed you with little consequence?”
“It is but a footnote among the many reasons, my Lord,” she uttered, fiercely.
The Lord smirked, amused by the fire in the woman's eyes, “Let us see how many of those reasons you can name once I am finished with you,” he spoke firmly, his grip on her hair tightening before he pulled her up from where she knelt afront of him and lead her to his chambers, a room over from his personal drawing room.
As the night waned and Bella’s formidable cries of pleasure calmed, the Lord found himself staring deep into the dying embers of the fire that had been lit hours prior. The hungered fire crackled, a devastating display, casting shadows around the chamber.
Bathed in the warm glow of the flames that danced in the hearth, the opaque curtains draped around the ajar terrace doors seemed to glisten a delicate silver. The hue mirrored that of the rich moon, that beamed down on the castle walls that hallowed morn.
His familiar lay by the passing flames, soft looking in her slumber, a reflection of his devoted follower, who lay at rest beside him. Bella’s form was a picture of grace, albeit slick with drying sweat and exhaustion, a top of the silken sheets. He watched, detached, as her chest rose and fell irregularly to his own.
Silently, he removed himself from the poster bed.
He changed unhurriedly into his finest attire, before he glided through the unlatched terrace doors whilst pulling his gloves on. With a flutter of his gloved fingers, his lavish cloak jumped up, from where it was draped across the chaise lounge chair, to wrap around him.
The night was cold, the winds nipped at his skin with taunting bites - a testament to the season’s embrace. Though, the Lord, standing regal and tall, seemed untouched by the chill, instead, he seemed to revel in it as he took a deep breath that fluttered his eyes closed for a moment.
The lands surrounding his formidable castle stretched out as far as his eye could see. A mosaic of forests and distant fields, clouded mountains and broken pathways were shrouded in the mystical cloak of nightfall.
The stars seemed to shine brighter than night, hailing the beauty of his conquest, a King among men, a celestial acknowledgement of his Dark ascendancy. He basked in their soft light as they illuminated the lands below that belonged wholly to him.
Such fine work he had conducted, and yet there was still so much more to be accomplished, so many plans that had yet to come to fruition.
He turned away from his lands, as droplets of rain began to fall from the overcast sky, only for his attention to be suddenly captured. A subtle movement amidst the shadows of the forest had his magic flaring, colouring the wards surrounding the castle red.
Stepping closer to the edge of the balcony, so that he could rest his hands on the stone balustrade, the Lord leaned forward slightly, over the bannister, and narrowed his eyes.
…a flicker of light…
…a soft whisper…
…one that crooned a riddled name, long forgotten.
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He manoeuvred around the trunk of the grand tree, trying to climb higher as the sudden sheet of rain started to flood his hair, sticking it to his face. He clutched the branches tighter as they began to grow slick with the downpour, only moving one of his hands to push his dripping black locks out of his eyes.
He paused, however, as he placed his sights back on the balcony.
Green locked onto red and it felt like he was staring right at him.
He could hardly breathe as the Lord of the castle walked forward, his cloak billowing behind him, and rested his gloved hands on the stone balustrades.
With the distance between them, the Lord’s face was obscured but he swore that he could still discern the hues of his eyes. The tyrant's burning gaze seemed to cut through the air, rendering him speechless, feeling as if the distance wasn’t as large as he’d quite liked it to be.
A small whisper reached his ears, delicate in its sound and soothing, like a mother's caress. It danced around his head, almost teasingly, as he stared at the man across the way, unsure if they were truly meeting each other's eyes. All the same, the voice made him dizzy and only seemed to get louder the longer he gazed at the cloaked aristocrat…
Harrr…
With a delayed breath, he twisted from his position in the height of the tree to hide behind the dark oaks trunk. His heart thumped as he placed his back to the wood, concealing himself from any potential view. Not once in the numerous times that he had surveilled the castle had he been sighted, even from such a distance.
He swore under his breath; he had once been told that he had a staring problem.
He’d never agreed, however, as he considered his position, with a pounding heart and shaken hands, he began to wonder.
Who had told him, he couldn’t quite remember, though, if he had to pinpoint the exact moment such a problem began, he would start with the colour red.
Red.
Red; the warmth of blood, metallic and rouge and faces of people, ones he couldn’t quite remember, covered in its dark tone. His hands soaked, dripping with vermillion, tears and sweat, as he begged… please, no…
Red; the colour of wrath. A vivid, rhubarb shade that often rimmed his eyes when his temperature rose and his fists clenched. When his reasoning fled and all that was left was rage, rage, rage…
Red; the deep hue of Autumn leaves that fell to the Earth and painted the ground the same crimson shade that had dyed his pleas - please, please - leaving only bare trees to encircle the dark stone of the castle walls.
Red. Oh, red.
An intense colour that always led Hadrian Evans back to him.
Hadrian often came to the place to think. When Mad Eye’s galling voice strained his ears and the hustle and bustle of the Order’s Headquarters became damning, he would wander past the walls of the safe house to twiddle his thumbs and think things through. The Forest of Vale was the perfect place to do so, it being quiet and undisturbed. It gave Hadrian a solid ground to stand on when his life became troublesome.
Hadrian liked feeling the gentle breeze against his skin as it sent a shudder of movement through the trees.
He liked being able to look around and spot the stone peeking out from under a carpet of pine needles and broken leaves.
He liked the smell - that cold, Earthy smell - that entered his nostrils with every deep breath he took. It settled him, when his mind began to run quicker than he was able to keep up with.
Though, the beautiful scenery wasn’t what kept drawing Hadrian back to the Vale, time and time again, no. It was the primordial brickwork that stood in the centre of trees, under the gentle sparkle of the stars.
Salazan-Upon-Vale was almost medieval in structure; from towers and cylindrical turrets with flags donning The Mark, to trails of robust, red ivy scaling the lengths of the brick walls. The castle stood alone, tall and menacing, among the wildlife of the weathered forest.
From where Hadrian resided - halfway up one of the barren trees and settled against its trunk - he could almost feel the immense power of the wards surrounding the land. If he looked closely, with a keen enough eye, he could see the gentle glimmer of red, a ruby shade, that marked the outline of them.
He knew better than to get too close, despite how desperately he wanted to.
Because the structure was like a Siren.
It called to him, in such sweet, devious tones, daring him, begging him, to reach out and feel the enchanting magic that encased the castle. Hadrian did not doubt that many before him had succumbed to the bewitching tunes the wards emitted, it was but their nature to do so.
Hadrian, also, did not doubt that if he didn’t tread with caution, he too would be the next to follow in their stead.
Which was why the starred skies of the early morning saw Hadrian hiding in the trees, far enough from the allure to be safe, but close enough to see red.
With a bated breath, Hadrian removed his back from the wood of the old oak and chanced another look beyond the forestry, that dripped and swayed under the influence of a Winter’s torrent.
From afar, Hadrian couldn’t decipher what exact shade of red ran through the irises of his eyes but he could still see.
He stood straight backed, on one of the smaller balconies the castle had, with his hands clasped behind him. His azure cloak rippled in the breeze, flapping softly against his person with every change in direction. From such a distance, Hadrian could see the lithe form of his body and all of his height. He almost seemed to glow under the soft light of the moon, his skin turning from pale to starlight.
Hadrian’s lips parted as he watched the man look out beyond the wards of The Vale, as drops of rain fell from the night sky in quick succession. Absentmindedly, his hand lifted to toy with the chain that encircled his neck - the silver ring hanging from the metal suddenly becoming strangely warm.
After a moment, seemingly giving up on his search, the Lord’s head fell back, revealing a porcelain neck of soft skin.
With a shaky exhale, Hadrian shook his head, allowing another whispered curse to tumble from his lips. Furtively, he pushed away from the Oak’s trunk and lowered himself to the sodden ground, to begin his travels back through the woods.
The dawn was among them and Hadrian knew that he would have to be back at Headquarters before anyone rose, to avoid suspicion. After all, there were few excuses he could conjure up for being anywhere near the Vale, let alone being right on the perimeter wards watching the Lord of the Castle himself.
Landing with a short huff, Hadrian darted through the trees, Northbound, just as the short downpour of rain started to hinder and the whispers of twilight began to wane.
Though, in his hurried retreat, under the luminosity of a sky filled with light shades of pink and orange, Hadrian didn’t notice the curious stare that followed his footsteps as he disappeared deeper into the forest.
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Hadrian crossed the threshold of the Order’s wards with a short yawn. Long nights were a frequent occurrence for him, but there were rare occasions when the sleep deprivation clouded his waking mind, leaving him dazed and a little slower than usual.
It was due to that stalled state that Hadrian missed the signs.
He walked with no particular speed, not wishing to alert anyone who may find themselves awake in the early morning of his presence. Light on his feet and with his lithe form concealed by the shadows, he ventured deeper into the Headquarters, with steps that were confident in their placement, avoiding every creaky floorboard with ease.
The hallway he descended was poorly lit and almost eerie in its silence, however, Hadrian found solace in the fact, knowing that whilst the halls remained bare, none would question his early arrival. He’d been questioned before, on several occasions, after he was spotted returning to the base before the moonlight had begun to wane, dawn fast approaching.
However, with each passing instance, his ability to justify his actions dwindled.
It had welcomed unease into the eyes of his cynics.
As he turned a corner, the stairwell down to the underground layers of the base coming into view, Hadrian cursed under his breath.
Ahead, movement startled him into hiding, urging him to press against the wall and drape himself in the shadows that shrouded the hall. His heartbeat, an uneven croon, settled in his ears as he narrowed his eyes at the man making his way up the stairs.
Benjy Fenwick.
A slender young man, barely 25, with dark hair that cascaded in dishevelled waves, framing his angular face. His bright eyes, almost baby blue in shade and vibrant with an innocence only a babe could possess, were unusually melancholic. They carried a weight that seemed to drag him down, conveying a heaviness to his demeanour, as if the weight of the world rested on his shoulders.
If his mind hadn’t been hazed, hadn’t been numbed by a night of watchful eyes and Siren calls - and red, red, red - Hadrian wouldn’t have dismissed the young man, walking with heavy steps and slumped shoulders.
Instead, he breathed out a silent sigh of relief before walking further down the hallway, toward the stairs.
He felt the wards tremble as he placed a foot on the first of the many stairs leading to the underground Order Headquarters. They seemed to startle awake and immediately Hadrian sensed the phantom presence of eyes peering at him from inside the walls that encased the staircase. The eyes, imperceptible yet unmistakable all the same, followed his cautious footsteps until he reached the bottom step and stood before a door.
Withdrawing his wand, Hadrian raised the Holly wood and tapped out the pattern of a phoenix constellation onto the entryway. Each tap left behind a glowing spot which illuminated the door, casting a warm light on his dim surroundings.
Once the constellation was complete, the luminous dots, where his wand had met the door, sunk and disappeared into the wood to be replaced by an image of a phoenix. The phoenix appeared to be delicately painted with watercolours, its vibrant hues blending seamlessly into one another. The fiery reds and oranges of its feathers danced with the soft yellows and blues of its aura, creating a mesmerizing display of colour and light.
As the phoenix extended its wings and flew across the door, the watercolour-like hues shimmered and shifted with a dreamlike quality, that provoked a soft smile to overtake Hadrian’s face. Finally responding to the mythical bird's call, the door gracefully swung open, welcoming Hadrian to the Headquarters, like an old friend.
Stepping through the door, a cascade of selective memories surged back with such force that Hadrian nearly stumbled. The Fidelius Charm - or, an alternate, vicious version of it - while necessary for their safety, unleashed a chaotic onslaught of names, places, and faces every time he, or anyone, returned to Headquarters.
Despite the alterations to the spell having been made many years before Hadrian joined the Order, he could never quite shake his unease with the modifications. The idea of scrambling the minds of every member upon departure from Headquarters filled Hadrian with dread.
It was the feeling of certain uncertainty.
Of knowing something, with all ones being, and yet being so terribly unsure all the same.
In the secret world of the Order, the Fidelius Charm was a twisted maze of indecision, a shield against their enemies, a shroud of haze that enveloped every member, new and old.
As soon as a member, who had stepped beyond the exterior wards of the Headquarters, had thoughts that would veer towards the secrets of the Order, the charm would activate, triggering a tumultuous storm within their minds.
Selective memories, associated with the Order, would dance just out of reach, slipping through their grasp like elusive shadows, and, no matter how hard they tried to piece together the puzzle, clarity remained frustratingly out of reach.
A double-edged sword, leaving its victims uncertain of what was real and what was merely a figment of their imagination.
A charm, so heavily altered, that it could be controlled and used however the Secret Keeper saw fit, to conceal selective secrets - ones they considered important enough to conceal in such a damning, mind-altering way.
Hadrian loathed that that was Alastor Moody - a man who was profoundly suspicious of everything and everyone.
As Hadrian stepped into the entrance hall of the headquarters, he was greeted by a soft, welcoming ambience. It was a large hall, that was light as if the sun was streaming through the windows, despite it being underground. The room was adorned with photographs that lined the walls, capturing moving moments frozen in time: young faces illuminated with determination, laughter, and camaraderie.
Faces of those lost and those still fighting in their names.
Faces that had yet to sink in sorrow, eyes so full of light, of hope.
Yet, despite the room's outward appearance of light and hopefulness, an undercurrent of tension lingered in the air, palpable in the hushed silence that saturated the space.
Hadrian's footsteps echoed softly on the polished floor as he made his way further into the hall, his senses on high alert. Normally, despite the earliness, the room would be bustling with energy, but it felt eerily still.
Frowning, Hadrian glanced around, his eyes lingering on the familiar faces in the photographs.
Something felt off.
He couldn't quite put his finger on it.
“Where have you been?” he heard, a voice that cut through the silence like a knife, coming from the right of him.
“Observing - it’s better to be done at night.”
Turning, Hadrian met the downcast yet slightly hostile gaze of Marlene. Her brows were furrowed, whether in worry or anger, Hadrian couldn’t quite tell, and there was a tense urgency in her tone that left Hadrian with the feeling of unease.
“All night?” she replied, falling into step with him as he walked further into the depths of the Headquarters, towards the meeting room.
Hadrian snuck a look at her from the corner of his eye and noticed her narrowed eyes and tightly clenched jaw, “Yes,” he replied after a moment, his voice laced with conviction.
As they turned the corner, the one just before the double doors of the conference room, Hadrian caught a glimpse of deep red locks, along with angered scowls and damp eyes. His eyes crinkled in poorly hidden confusion before Marlene’s firm grip on his elbow pulled him back, whisking them both out of sight around the corner.
Hidden from view, and pressed flush against the wall watching Marlene breathe - in, out, in, out - hurriedly, the pair stood in momentary solemn silence, “Hadrian-”
“What’s going on?” Hadrian interrupted.
“What’s going on!” Marlene chanced a look around the corner before she turned her attention back to Hadrian, “The refuge camp, the one in the Forest of Dean, was attacked last night,” she whispered, savagely.
“What?”
She shook her head, a look of sorrow taking over her face, “Charity said a few of them had been taken, and that there were casualties… Fabian, Alice, Dorcas… Frank, too, but he’s not dead, he-” Marlene took a breath, one that seemed to drag her further down, before she looked up at him again, fire in her eyes, “Where were you, Hadrian? When the survivors turned up, they told us that there was no way that bastards men could’ve known where they were, and yet…”
“And yet?” Hadrian questioned.
“And yet, they’re dead, or locked away somewhere awaiting the next horrors that are in line for them,” she replied in a hushed tone with ice sprouting from her lips.
Hadrian met her furious gaze head-on, with an equally icy indifference, his resolve unshaken, “If you wish to say something, Marlene, do get on with it and spare me the suspense.”
Marlene breathed out, perhaps in disbelief, before her anger seemingly boiled over, her voice rising to a whispered crescendo, “You arrogant son of bitch!” she exclaimed as she pushed a pointed finger into his chest, “You think you can just waltz in and out of here whenever you please, without a care in the world, to what? Observe?”
“I do what needs to be done,” Hadrian replied, coolly.
“And in your heroic absences, do you know what they’re saying? What Moody is warning everyone of?” Marlene asked, her face close to Hadrian’s as she peered up into his eyes, “They’re saying that we’ve been betrayed. That one of us has defected, and who do you think they will turn to first? Because I know who it won’t be, and I know you know who the first person on their list will be.”
“I don’t particularly care for their accusations, I’m doing my job.”
Marlene sighed as Hadrian noticed the slight shake of her hands. Her usually vibrant hair, always styled and highlighted with a light purple, lay limp as it framed her sickly face. Hadrian was so used to seeing Marlene put together; always fierce, with heavy liner and bold lips. Yet, as he looked down at her she looked faded. The colour had washed away - she looked so terribly ordinary.
“I’m scared, Hadrian…” she murmured, “That’s the third attack this month. Seeing everyone around us die… and now knowing that there could be someone telling them everything! How did they even-”
Her voice waved as she spoke again, “I just want you to let me in, to trust me.”
“I do trust you, Marl,” Hadrian replied, “And I wasn’t lying, I really was observing.”
It isn’t a total lie, Hadrian thought.
“Alastor’s going to want to talk to you, you know how he is.”
Hadrian nodded before he took Marlene into his arms. She leaned into him, seeking comfort in the warmth of his embrace, “It’s going to be okay,” he murmured, reassuringly, against her greasy hair. As he pulled away, he cupped her face, making her meet his eyes, “As long as you’re here, nothing will happen to you, understand?”
He released her as she bounced her head in agreement, “It’s still early, get some sleep,” Hadrian suggested, before he walked away, toward the meeting room, gearing himself up for another integrity seminar.
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Yes, it was true, Hadrian had once been told that he had a staring problem.
… and sometimes, he agreed.
Sometimes, it felt like a compulsion; his inability to look away once his eyes had fixated on something.
To set the record straight, it wasn’t that there was anything particularly attractive about Alastor Moody.
He was interesting to look at, Hadrian thought, with his angled eyebrows and crooked aquiline nose. Even his eyes - almond-shaped, slightly wide set and would have been rather pretty if one hadn’t been replaced - were interesting to look at but, that wasn’t what ultimately drew Hadrian’s attention like a blind dog in a meat market.
No, it was his jaw.
Prominent, but loose, as if he’s used to having it open.
Which, given the man's reputation of being a damned blabbermouth, Hadrian allowed himself to nod his head in confirmation of his conclusions.
He spoke with accentuated jaw movements. His bones slid back and forth, popping and cracking the longer he nattered, as if it had been broken one too many times. Hadrian couldn’t help but watch as he clenched it and then relaxed, as if it were muscle memory. Perhaps he had too many teeth in that large mouth of hi--
Their eyes met, as Hadrian darkened the doorway of the meeting room.
“Have you seen this?!” the remaining ginger twin - Gideon - shouted as he slammed a newspaper onto the long table where Diggle, Weasley and Bones sat, rigid yet slumped.
Heavy, they looked, with the weight of grief.
Moody grunted.
The man often had a pinched expression painted across his face. He was impatient, with no time for anyone who couldn’t keep up, and possessed an array of tics and tells that often saw that one protruding vein on his forehead throb.
He fidgeted, as if he was habitually ready to jump into a duel, and sighed so heavily and so often that Hadrian sometimes had trouble discerning if it was just his normal breathing pattern.
His finger tapped on the tabletop as he slouched in his chair, eyeing Hadrian with his strange, magical eye.
Hadrian had always hated that eye.
Raising his brow slightly, Hadrian averted his eyes from Alastor’s to read the bold title stretched across that week's edition of the Daily Prophet.
The Season of Mercy? Salazan-Upon-Vale To Open Its Gates To All This Winter Solstice!
Hadrian sighed.
Moody nodded, briskly, making Gideon continue, “In all the years that that fucker has been sitting on his high chair, he has never, not once, accepted anyone below the Pureblood calibre into his domain, especially for the Solstice. He has them! You know he does!”
Hadrian almost rolled his eyes. Gideon was an obtuse fellow, with a considerable personality that often struggled to fit through the door alongside him. He was quick to anger yet goofy, in an odd, unlikeable kind of way.
Hadrian had always preferred his brother.
Moody clambered up from his seat to walk toward the pinboard at the back of the room. It was littered with faces, and names, all with notations surrounding them and thin threads of red string connecting them together, “They were taken there - I know it,” Gideon breathed out as his anger began bleeding out from him, “And I say we ransack The Vale to look for those that were taken from the camp, at the Solstice.”
Moody remained silent in his thoughtfulness, before he tapped the largest moving polaroid of the board: The Dark Lord, cladded in black, with a hood to obscure his face, “He knows,” Moody whispered, loud enough for Hadrian to hear, “He knows of the sentimentality that runs through our ranks, he knows we will come.”
“Then we prepare, because we can’t leave them! I won’t, Alastor, not even if you order it.”
Moody sighed before he looked Hadrian in the eye.
Hadrian had to stop himself from opening his mouth.
“You’re not seriously suggesting that we endorse this?” Weasley asked, “You said so yourself, this is a blatant trap and you want to, what? Run straight into it!”
“Ha!” Gideon patronised as he slammed his hands on the table to lean closer to Weasley.
Hadrian tried to flatten his mild amusement at the display; Gideon had always hated Weasley for knocking up his sister, it made for some entertaining arguments across the dinner table.
It seemed that hadn’t changed, despite the other twin being six feet under.
“As if you’ve never ‘run into’ anything before. Need I remind you about-“
Weasley hummed mockingly in agreement, “Yes, but the difference is I can get myself out of a sticky situation, can you say the same now that you don’t have your brother here to-”
“Shut it, both of you!” Moody ordered with a slam of his staff against the floor.
Moody sighed, Hadrian could see the exhaustion rolling off of him, “No one’s going to be leaving anyone anywhere, alright?”
“But we need a plan, if we’re going to go through with this, we need to prepare - vigorously - because we’re down on people who can fight, and if we’re going to go straight into the snake's den, we need to go with everything we’ve got.”
Weasley shook his head in disbelief, “Fine! Let’s just walk to our deaths why don’t we, it’s not like we’ve got anything to lose!” he exclaimed as he jumped up from his seat and made a beeline for the door, “If you can’t see that this is mad, then nothing will change your mind - but keep Molly out of it,” he demanded in his final strides out the meeting room.
Moody sighed as his eye rolled around in its socket, “I think I’ve had enough of dramatic displays this morning. You, you and you,” he pointed, “Be back here in a few hours - rest, eat, take a shit, I don’t care; just get out of here before another one of you decides to monologue.”
Hadrian watched Moody turn away from them, to face the pinboard, as the others quietly ambled out of the room. He allowed a moment, waiting for the echo of footsteps to diminish, before he stepped into the room and let the door shut behind him.
“You’re really going to go through with this?” Hadrian asked, keeping his eyes on Moody.
“They’ll go anyway,” he replied, holding his back to Hadrian - a sign of trust, if there ever was one, “Gideon - he’ll get them all killed before they reach the wards of The Vale.”
“So, what are you suggesting?” Hadrian replied as he slowly wandered toward Moody.
Alastor remained quiet as Hadrian reached him. They stood side by side in a moment of solace. Hadrian knew Moody could read between the lines of his words, he’d always been able to:
What do you need me to do?
Hadrian didn’t particularly like Alastor Moody but, in war, there was no room for such a thing. He’d learnt, long ago, how to fight beside someone he’d loathed.
“Wands-” Moody began as he turned away from the pinboard and faced Hadrian, “-we need wands, before anything else. We need to be able to train, and sharing wands just isn’t cutting it anymore.”
Hadrian nodded, in agreement.
“Go to the Alley, surveil for a few days, see if you can find an in to Ollivander’s - if we can avoid a fight, we should,” he ordered, without the same stern tone that he reserved for the others. He knew Hadrian; well enough to know that Hadrian was temporary - a gust of wind strong enough could lead him elsewhere, “Oh, and Hadrian? I won’t ask about where you’ve been, but the others will, so get your stories together, will you? I’ve got enough supposed rats to deal with as it is.”
Hadrian nodded once more before he turned to leave, trying, so desperately, not to think of red, red, red.
┈┈┈ ⋞ 〈 ⏣ 〉 ⋟ ┈┈┈
He stood atop the thatched roof of Ollivander’s Wand Shop, his eyes narrowed, as he watched the two mask-cladded men from above. They sauntered back and forth as soldiers would; wands peaking from under their robe arms, held tightly in their hands, prepared, always, for an attack.
They spoke not, allowing only the sound of their boots hitting the wet floor to penetrate the silence. For all their vigilance, they still patrolled blissfully unaware of the spy looming overhead.
His head tilted as his gaze followed the men's descent deeper into the alley.
It was a far cry past nightfall and the shops below had long since closed for business. It was a drab ending to the day, with gloomy skies and clouds that covered with a mirage of grey. A sheet of rain had fallen that afternoon, soaking the dimly lit alley, leaving blankets of puddles, in holes and hollows, that rippled at the force of the coming winds.
His hair whipped against his face as he jumped from Ollivander’s onto Flourish & Blott’s, landing uneasily.
With a huff, he steadied himself on the side of the chimney. It wouldn’t be long until he would have to leave, he thought, as the force of the wind began to pick up, his grey cloak flapping and ruffling against his skin as it did. He blinked, harshly, as his eyes began to dry out, before he clutched the stings of his hood and pulled them tighter.
The hairs on his arms began to rise just as a jagged line of lightning plummeted to the ground ahead. The clap caught his attention briefly, allowing the ominous light to reflect off of his viridescent eyes and highlight the barbed scar running down his forehead.
For a moment, Hadrian allowed his gaze to wander, beyond the cobblestone paths of Diagon Alley, toward the newly built estates of the Muggle world.
From his place on top of the famous bookshop, the divide between the two worlds seemed insignificant, perhaps it would have been, if not for the shimmering ward outlining the alley that could be seen with a sharp eye.
Total segregation - that was the first thing Hadrian could remember about the fall of the Ministry.
It seemed to have happened overnight.
The wards had gone up, powerful wards, that allowed no one, magical or the like, to pass through.
Hadrian could remember those days, the brief period when there was resistance from people from all walks of life.
He could recall the riots, how Diagon Alley had combusted with the ferocious spirits of justice, but just as vividly, he could recall how quickly the flames had been put out, as if there had been no resistance at all.
Hadrian remembered the public executions of Wiccan that wouldn’t fall in line.
Their names had been read one by one off of a scroll that had reached the floor. With a simple nod of a head, the stakes had been set alight with fire of painful heat, that seared and blistered the skin of the onlookers who dared attend the event. The roar of the flames had consumed the screams of the slaughtered until, at dawn, all that had been left, was falling ash of the Light that fell without a sound.
If one were to look close enough, they may still be able to see the scorch marks embedded into the cobblestone paths, could still hear the crackle of burning wood and wand, could still feel the steady build-up of charcoal gunk in their lungs.
Hadrian tore his eyes away from the sights beyond the wards and turned his attention back to the men below. An oppressive darkness had begun to swallow the Alley as raindrops fell slowly, then suddenly.
The air was heavy, Hadrian could almost taste it, along with the vivid smell of wet grass. They were in the midst of a storm, but that didn’t deter the patrolling men in Bronze skull masks.
The Knights or Death Eaters.
Hadrian could never forget when the Death Eaters - or, more sociably known as The Knights of Walpurgis - began roaming the streets.
Sometime after the Ministry’s demise, dark Wiccan, in skulled masks had replaced the Auror’s. In their robes of obsidian black, they patrolled all corners of Wizarding Britain, enforcing curfews and destroying every whisper of Light, wherever they could find it.
It seemed to have happened overnight.
The fear.
The subjection.
The prejudice.
Wiccan were no longer Wiccan on the basis of Magic.
The wizarding accords had been discarded and replaced with Pureblood supremacy; laws that saw Muggleborns taken from their mother’s breast not hours after birth. That saw orphanages, unforgiving places that turned a blind eye to the trafficking of children, pop up all over the country. That saw camps, located strictly in the Bloodlands, of famine and illness. A place where Muggleborns were made to craft ward stones that protected the very world that had vilified them for the false sin of a being born to the Muggle - Thieves, they called them, and as thieves they were tried and condemned to a life of imprisonment.
Hadrian couldn’t pin point the exact moment everything had gone so terribly wrong.
There had been no calm before the storm, no historic battle between Light and Dark.
There was simply before and after.
After: a dark dystopian country where one knew to keep their mouth shut before they had even learnt how to open it.
Manoeuvring his way around the back of the chimney, Hadrian looked North of the Alley to catch the moving hands on the clock tower hit quarter to midnight. The Death Eaters below continued to march, back and forth, uncannily and without a step out of pace.
┈┈┈ ⋞ 〈 ⏣ 〉 ⋟ ┈┈┈
For a long time I have not said what I believed, nor do I ever believe what I say, and if indeed sometimes I do happen to tell the truth, I hide it among so many lies that it is hard to find.