CHAPTER THREE
Chapter Three
Law 26page 200
KEEP YOUR HANDS CLEAN
┈┈┈ ⋞ 〈 ⏣ 〉 ⋟ ┈┈┈
He hated these meetings.
He was the firstborn son of the Huntsman, one long dead but immortalized among the stars, an initial light to his celestial lineage. From conception, he’d donned a crown; one crafted from stygian curls and ashen eyes. An Obsidian crown, veiled with shadows, that held a weight that should have bent his neck. Yet, an heir of Onyx never bows one's neck, his Father had warned. So, he’d bled crimson, a precious thing, as the Head of those most Noble had struck him with the whip of the Pure doctrine - and never allowed it to weigh him down again.
His name held history: the star and the noir.
Ergo, he hated these meetings as in that very room, his most ancient, most noble, name meant absolutely nothing: Sirius Black meant nothing at all.
He liked to imagine that those sat tensly around the lavish, trestle table felt the same.
That his dear cousin, under all of her devotion and esteem, seethed at the notion of being unknown.
For it was a Black’s way, to be known by all but so few all the same.
And yet, there he sat, anonymous among those who would soon bow their heads to him if they knew he sat among them, next to another in an identical emerald mask and ink black robes.
They paid him no mind as their heads lowered for another: one unblessed by the stars, one who had not been born with a crown as righteous as his, one who he, too, bowed to despite it.
He truly did hate these meetings.
“My Lord, we discovered one of his men during the altercation with the rebels,” Sirius hazarded a guess that it was Rabastan who’d spoken, from beneath his twin mask, “We assume he has since retreated back to the continent, but we cannot be sure.”
A deep hum came from the furthest end of the table, Sirius turned at the sound.
The Dark Lord sat regally in a throne-like chair, his presence an unsettling thing. He was a man of striking beauty; his features were sharp and crafted with a care to the finer details, every cut and curvature of his face was seemingly perfect from the distance Sirius sat from him. His skin, pale with a soft glow, matched the ethereality of his eyes, a piercing shade of red, that held a captivating depth to them. He looked akin to a deity - Sirius often wondered if he was born to the divine.
His lustrous hair, of dark pigmentation, framed his face and cascaded down to his shoulders like a waterfall of midnight silk.
He very rarely had his hair down, Sirius noted with interest.
The flickering candlelight cast shifting shadows across his face, highlighting the angular planes of his cheekbones and the smooth line of his jaw. Despite his almost delicate beauty, there was an undeniable aura of power that surrounded him, a constant reminder of who it was that was sat before them.
In one bejewelled hand, for his Lordship was always adorned with jewels, he held a goblet of wine, crimson red, it swirled within the crystal depths of the glass. He sipped it with a grace that belied his heretical nature; it left a faint, dark stain on his bottom lip, that he sucked dry with his top.
Sirius knew that he noticed how intently they looked at him - Sirius thought he looked as if he revelled in their undying attention.
He didn’t begrudge his Lord for it, after all, he would do the same - if every man and their woman looked at him in the same sacred way that they did him.
As if he’d swallowed the sun, and he was their only source of light.
“Be assured that his location is known to me,” the Lord spoke, softly. Sirius had to stop himself from leaning closer, in hopes of hearing his melodic voice more clearly, “Do not pay him any more mind; I will deal with him and his Master on the continent in due time.”
He smiled, a spurious thing with too many teeth, before he spoke again in the same pleasant tone, “Lucius, how does the belle, Madam Malfoy, fair with the Solstice arrangements? I do hope she is not too overwhelmed, what with her duty to your infant son.”
“Preparations are swiftly underway, My Lord, she is hard at work ensuring everything is flawless, per your request.”
"I do not doubt it; she's renowned for orchestrating perfect events. I trust she'll surpass herself, especially for this - given the significance of the Solstice."
…and something about that put Sirius on the edge of his seat.
The Dark Lord smiled, strangely.
There was a glint in his eye that was laced with humour, as if he was in on a joke that everyone else had yet to get. He took another sip of wine as his eyes landed on the other Black in the room: or rather née Black, “What say you, my Bella?”
Bellatrix spoke not, for a moment.
Sirius, even with the emerald mask covering her face, could see the cogs in her mind turning, trying to figure out what it was he was asking of her. Her answer was diplomatic, precious even, and fit for a properly bred pureblood woman, Sirius thought, “My sister will not disappoint you, my Lord, and neither shall I.”
“A perfect answer,” he praised, making his cousin lower her head with a soft thank you, my Lord, “My, my, perfection must run in your blood.”
The Lord’s fingers ran languidly across the tables as he drummed them one by one on the polished wood.
No one moved.
No one breathed.
“And what of you, Head of the Noble?” Sirius heard, making his blood run cold. He could feel the new weight of his Lord’s gaze bearing down on him; it was a relentless pressure that seemed to strip away his skin, layer by layer, “Tell me, does perfection run in your very blood?”
Sirius, very deliberately, thought before he spoke, “Of course, My Lord.”
The room seemed to drop in temperature as the tone of the Lord’s voice plunged to below freezing. Sirius was sure that if he exhaled, a cloud of warm mist would follow, “Then why do you disappoint me so?”
“My Lord?” Sirius spoke, in question.
“Perfect Bella,” he gleamed, almost mockingly, without looking away from Sirius, “Repeat back to me my one direct order, from the night of the confrontation with the rebels.”
“Kill the strays, not the Secret Keeper.”
“Another perfect answer.”
Sirius knew, without a doubt, that his cousin's face was the deep shade of a rose - she always had desired herself a Lord, ‘to have and to hold’…
…to torment, more like; the crazy bitch.
“Now, Head Black, answer me this and do try to answer perfectly like our dearest Bella,” he mocked as he traced the rim of his goblet with his index finger, “Where is Alastor Moody?”
Sirius realised too late that he was being played.
Toyed with like a puppet on strings.
The realization sent him cold.
His Lord’s words hung heavy in the air, like a hefty shroud that became more suffocating as the seconds ticked by. His question had been a finely honed blade, dipped in honey. Sirius didn’t want to answer, for anything that he said in return would tear apart the armour of his noble name, exposing his skin and bones and blood - everything that made him the Black - to the sweetly laced blade wielded by a Man-eater.
He exhaled, surprised that a cloud of warm vapour did not follow as he’d expected, “Dead, My Lord.”
“Dead.”
Sirius nodded, once.
“Dead.”
In truth, Sirius hadn’t thought much of anything when he’d killed Alastor Moody with a single curse. It was a job to him, another face that morphed into shock as the green glow of the Killing Curse spread across their chests.
A job he’d obviously fucked up.
His Lord was silent in his observation of the eldest Black. His eyes tore through Sirius’ defences, putting him slightly on edge.
It was with a small smirk, barely noticeable and only so because Sirius was watching the man attentively, that the Lord addressed the room, “Your Lord thanks you for your attendance; Ad Potentia, In Puritate.”
The attendees snapped into focus, and Sirius observed as, in perfect synchrony, emerald masks were lowered to the table while every member of the inner circle bowed to their Lord.
“Ad Potentia, In Puritate.”
They repeated, together.
It was a promise, something sacred that was shared among them, a motto that donned flags and marked the skin of the Mudbloods and the traitors - as was what they deserved.
To Power, In Purity.
Sirius didn’t dare move with the others as they filtered out of the grand meeting room through the large double doors, opposite the seat their Lord occupied. It was at the sound of wood hitting wood, that Sirius became nervous.
By no means was Sirius an apprehensive person, by no means at all, however his Lord had a way of instilling anxiety, of making every man in a room unsure of himself.
…and Sirius was unsure.
He was unsure how his one to one session with the Dark Lord would play out.
“Sirius,” he uttered, with a softness that made Sirius tense, “Come.”
The Dark Lord’s voice, a velvet command, sliced through the oppressive silence.
Sirius stepped forward, his stride deliberate, though his heart pounded fiercely against his ribs. He was not fearful exactly; fear was for the weak, and Sirius was anything but. Yet, even in his defiance, a smart unease gnawed at him.
He was no fool.
The Dark Lord was a storm contained, his favour as fleeting as a shadow.
As Sirius approached, he beheld the presence of two black hounds lying at the Lord's feet.
Their eyes glowed with an unnatural, fiery light, red in colour. Growls rumbled through the air, deep and foreboding; these were not mere dogs; they were large, spectral guardians. Their dark fur shimmering with an ethereal sheen, muscles rippling with latent power. They seemed to embody the very essence of darkness, so very alike their Master, exuding an aura of something otherworldly.
Sirius did not falter.
He would not show weakness, not in front of these creatures.
Not in front of his Lord.
The Dark Lord, sensing the tension, reached down to stroke the fur of one hound. His touch was unnervingly gentle; it calmed the beast, its growl fading into a low, contented rumble.
The sight was unsettling, the tender gesture at odds with the palpable threat looming around the room.
“Be calm – I will not see you punished tonight,” the Lord’s voice was a smooth whisper, strangely gentle…
“My Lord?” Sirius's voice was steady, though his eyes held a questioning light.
“No, I find myself rather… pleased,” he admitted with eyes that glinted with a cold amusement.
“Alastor Moody was a pest - I am glad to see he has met his end, despite my deliberate order against it,” The Lord declared. The smile that curved his lips held no warmth, only a cruel satisfaction that made Sirius’s pulse quicken.
“But, no matter, I have other means of getting what I want,” his words coiled through the air like a serpent, tightening around Sirius, “Don’t I, Sirius?”
For a moment, Sirius considered his Lord.
The Dark Lord had his hair down.
He leaned back, into his chair, fingers playing absently with the fur of his hound. There was a strange, unsettling content in his eyes…
“Of course, My Lord, whatever you want.” Sirius's tone was firm, masking the turmoil beneath.
“No, my… concern is not with Alastor Moody’s death.” The Dark Lord paused, lifting his goblet of wine to his lips with a casual elegance that belied the tension crackling through the room, “My concern lies with you.”
The space seemed to hold its breath, the hound's eyes glinting in the dim light as it stared directly at Sirius, the Lord’s hand still resting on its silken fur.
“You delivered his death in… dare I say it,” he smiled; unpleasant, Sirius thought, “A rather swift way - boring.”
The word 'boring' fell from his lips like a lead weight, however, it was the short huff of laughter that followed which truly perturbed Sirius.
“Are you boring, Sirius?”
Sirius’s mind raced, searching for the right words.
He was not easily cowed, but even he knew the danger of a wrong answer.
“I must confess: I expected more from the notorious Head Black.”
The Dark Lord’s presence was a smothering cloak as he patronized. Every fibre of Sirius's being screamed caution, yet he stood firm, resolute, as the Head Black should.
“I fancy the bold of this world - the interesting.”
The Dark Lord’s gaze grew sharper.
He appeared to be staring at Sirius and yet, it did not seem as if he was looking at him at all.
In a tone that was laced with ice, the Dark Lord threatened, “Do not become boring to me, Sirius. You will find little else as unpleasant as myself considering you so.”
┈┈┈ ⋞ 〈 ⏣ 〉 ⋟ ┈┈┈
Far from the Dark Lord’s sharp gaze, a room was engulfed in booming voices, each one clashing with the next in a cacophony of controversy.
Hadrian dropped his head into his hands, already tired of the relentless arguing that had split the Order into two factions.
“You’ll get us killed!” Weasley cried, his surprisingly unpregnant wife attempting to calm him. His head snapped toward her in a flash of madness, eyes bulging with frustration, “He would send us back out there! Alastor’s not even cold in his grave, and he wants us to proceed with this… this madness!”
A round of frenzied shouts echoed after him, some in fervent agreement, others in vehement dissent.
It was that constant discord that had always kept Hadrian at arm's length from the rest of the Order.
The arguments—the endless dissension.
When another mission inevitably went astray, Hadrian often tried to convince himself that he didn’t know where it all went wrong.
But deep down, he knew the truth.
There were too many voices, too many conflicting opinions, and Hadrian had continually found that the most ludicrous of them were often taken into consideration.
The high death rate associated with the nonconformist group wasn’t due to a lack of skill or talent. On the contrary, the Order had many fine duelists and strategists.
But the Order also had many who were deluded by the sermons of a man long dead —one who wove tall tales of love, friendship, and loyalty.
A man who had been donned in violet upon his cessation; a phoenix born in his name soon after.
Gideon retorted sharply, his voice a lance through the noise, “If we don’t act now, we’ll never get another chance to get them out, the Solstice is our best opportunity!”
“And what about us?” Weasley shouted, his eyes flashing with determination, “What about the people here, in this room? How do you know for certain that they’re even at the Vale, Gideon?”
Edgar Bones’ voice added to the fray, strangely calm, “He has a point - you know we’re usually taken to the camps, what makes you think it's any different this time?”
Hadrian’s head remained cradled in his hands, his mind a storm of frustration that throbbed with the familiar cadence of their argument.
It was a ceaseless loop of fear and bravado, caution and recklessness.
He lifted his gaze, taking in the scene with a deep, weary sigh. The faces around him were drawn tight with desperation, but all he felt was a dull, relentless fatigue.
Without Moody to restore order, the discussions had devolved into chaos. The old Auror’s gruff authority had been a balm for the group’s frayed nerves, a steadying hand in their darkest moments.
Now, his absence was a gaping wound, and the Order was bleeding from it.
He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to drown out the clamour. The constant arguing gnawed at him: The Vale, the Solstice, the supposed hostages—they were not new debates, but echoes of a struggle that seemed to have no end.
“Just look at what’s going on out there!” Gideon’s voice pierced through Hadrian’s thoughts, “Why else would he open up the Vale, if not to lure us out?”
“So you do see! You know this is a trap and you still want to walk straight into it?” Weasley shot back, his voice cracking with emotion, “How many more do we have to sacrifice for the sake of a slim chance? For people who may not even be where you say they are?”
“Moody said so himself, he wasn’t going to leave anyone behind—“
“Alastor is dead.”
The arguing seized momentarily, as an overwhelming silence took over the room. Hadrian panned his eyes to Marlene, who had muted the arguments with one fatal blow.
She looked feral, Hadrian noted, wild in the eyes.
“If we’re going to argue about anything, let’s argue about that,” she spat, “Your plan-” Marlene jabbed a finger across the table at Gideon, “-is what got Alastor killed in the first place!”
“Now, Marlene, that’s not fair…” Weasley’s wife - Molly - whispered, shock echoing through her tone.
“Isn’t it?” Marlene brawled.
“I think we’re veering off topic here—” Mundungus Fletcher, a lone figure seated at the end of the table, offered, with a rub to his forehead.
“Oh, do you?” she mocked, “Well excuse-fucking-me!”
Gideon’s gaze locked onto Hadrian’s. “And you? What do you think about all of this? Since you and Moody were best fucking chums!” his tone was mocking, but Hadrian could see the desperation beneath it.
Hadrian, very intentionally, did not reply.
“I think we all need to just… calm down,” Molly suggested, as she rubbed her husband's arm and sent a pointed look at her brother.
“No, I don’t think we need to calm down,” Gideon argued, “I think we need to gear up!”
“You’re being reckless!” Marlene snapped back, “Salazan-Upon-Vale is the most protected place in Britain, I’d hazard a guess at it being more of a security nightmare than fucking Gringotts, and that place is hundreds of years old! And you’re suggesting we somehow bypass the wards and risk our lives for what; a guess?”
Gideon’s face twisted with frustration, “A guess is better than doing nothing. We can’t just sit here - we owe it to them to at least try.”
“Do you hear yourself?!” Marlene shot back, her voice trembling with anger, as she pointed to her ear, “Even if by some miracle, and we will need a fucking miracle to pull this off, we get past the wards, it would take us hours to search that place - it’s a fucking castle! And something tells me that a simple point-me charm won’t solve that little problem!” she snarled, “Moody may have agreed to this plan for reasons I do not and will not understand, but I won't!”
Gideon’s eyes narrowed, his anger bubbling over until it was written on his face like something repulsive, “You’re just scared, Marlene: scared and weak.”
Marlene’s face flushed with fury, “How dare you?” she seethed, “I’m being realistic! You think that I don’t care? You think that I don’t want to get our friends back? Of course I do! But I’m not willing to throw away lives based on a hunch from a man who’s desperate to avenge his dead brother!”
“Maybe you should keep your cowardice to yourself then,” Gideon sneered, leaning forward, his hands splayed on the table as he got in her face, “You’re the one who’ll get us all killed with your pathetic hesitation. Moody should have muzzled you before he died, maybe then I wouldn’t have to listen to your useless opinions. If you can’t handle the reality of what we’re up against, shut your mouth and stay out of the way.”
“Say that again,” Hadrian interjected, his voice low and dangerous, cutting through the escalating argument.
Gideon turned to face Hadrian, and Hadrian watched as his bull breathing slowed and a flicker of uncertainty entered his eyes.
“Hadrian, don’t—“ Marlene broke in, placing a hand on his arm.
“You heard her,” Gideon said, a smirk plastered on his face as the challenging look in his eye returned.
Hadrian wanted to punch his fucking-
“By Merlin, stop this!”
“Gideon!”
“This is not helping anything!”
Hadrian heard all at once.
“This isn’t a dictatorship,” Edgar warned Gideon, his voice firm, “We’re losing more and more people as the days go on, we need to stick together and stop all of this bloody arguing.”
“I agree tenfold!” Gideon exclaimed, his eyes blazing with fervour, “The plan hasn’t changed - Moody was in agreement with me; we’re not leaving them. So, if you lot want to be cowards then fine! But I’m not, I am not going to sit here twiddling my thumbs, cowering in fear,” he stated, “They killed our friends, our families,” Gideon added, staring directly at Marlene, “I won’t let them take anyone else, not if I can help it.”
The room fell silent, an oppressive wave washing over them, holding the weight of Gideon’s words. Marlene’s eyes were locked on him, Hadrian could see the storm of emotions swirling in them, threatening to be released.
She opened her mouth to retort, but no words came out.
The tension was palpable, a taut string ready to snap.
And as Hadrian sat there, the anger boiling inside of him turning his vision red, a cold sense of dread gnawed at the edges of his mind.
A dark cloud loomed over Gideon’s plan, in the familiar shape of a skull and a snake: a harbinger of something rotten.
Deep down, Hadrian knew something was going to go terribly wrong.
┈┈┈ ⋞ 〈 ⏣ 〉 ⋟ ┈┈┈
He wasn’t going to think about it.
Hadrian had left headquarters as soon as he could, the weight of the brawl pressing down on him like a shroud.
The cold twilight air bit at his skin, but he welcomed the sting - it soothed the boiling anger inside of him, stopping him from turning around and tearing at Gideon’s skin with his teeth.
Hadrian didn’t think he would befit blood dripping from his mouth.
He sat perched in the trees surrounding the Vale, a dark figure hidden among the branches.
Hadrian took a deep breath: he could finally breathe.
The leaves rustled softly around him, the wind whispering riddles he couldn’t quite catch. He focused his gaze on the ancient stone walls, that were bathed in the sparkling light of the dawning sun.
The castle was a fortress, more impenetrable than he had ever allowed himself to acknowledge.
Hadrian’s eyes traced the perimeters, noting every guard draped in dark robes and golden masks.
Before, he had merely glanced, too consumed by the enchanting sight of red to truly notice how secure the castle was.
He could no longer only glance, he had a job to do.
Hadrian watched the rhythmic patrols, the shadows that moved with an eerie precision before he sighed.
Marlene was right, he thought, this place is a security nightmare.
He tried not to think of the Order, because thinking of their combination of voices brought back that anger. An anger that he wanted to wield like a wand, to use to hurt Gideon for dividing them. An anger that raged for the arguments to stop, one that made him want to scream ‘This is a ridiculous idea’, that he was going to get them - Marlene - killed.
It was an anger that made Hadrian want to grab the decaying remains of Alastor Moody and shout; “Look! Look what’s happening because you couldn’t leave them! You just had to play saviour!”
He tried not to think about the Order because if he thought about them, he’d think about him - about the last time that they had spoken.
Why are you really doing this? Hadrian had asked because he hadn’t understood, and Moody had looked at him with that look Hadrian hated, even in his death.
…and Moody had answered, Would you leave Marlene? Trap and all?
The answer had been no - trap and all, Hadrian knew that he would shatter the red wards of the Vale and get himself killed before he turned his back on her.
And Moody had nodded, a terrible thing, and Hadrian had, sadly, understood.
“I don’t do these things because I agree with them. I do it because I know they will. They’ll bicker, they’ll fight, but in the end, that sentimentality will prevail. So, I plan as best as I can, I take these risks because I understand that the grief of losing a comrade in battle is never as strong as the guilt of losing one because they did nothing.”
Moody had said, and Hadrian had understood.
“They’ll go anyway,” he’d acknowledged, the first time they had spoken about it, and Hadrian believed him because he too had gone anyway, despite Moody’s orders.
Hadrian had gone, because he couldn’t bear knowing that Marlene was out there, without his eyes keeping her safe.
So, he couldn’t think of the Order, or Moody, because then Hadrian had to think of the absurd plan that was fast approaching. He’d have to think of the ugly truth that Moody had known intimately; they would go, Marlene would go, which meant that Hadrian would go, by default - no matter how laughable he thought the plan was, no matter how much he fought against it.
But not thinking of the Order meant thinking of red; of a fleeting moment, a brush of skin, and then being somewhere else entirely.
Had it been a glimpse into the future?
All Hadrian knew for sure was that the image that had been conjured, as his hand had met the Dark Lord’s arm, had left him reeling and perplexed.
Just as it had the first time…
Hadrian shook his head, forcing himself to refocus.
He wasn’t going to think about it.
…and he definitely wasn’t going to think about that: about the first.
Because then he wouldn’t be able to stop the memories of them, of blood and pleas and a jumbled mess of recollections that didn’t feel real, even if the scars that they had left still bled from time to time.
No, he wasn’t going to think about it.
He couldn’t afford to be distracted, not now.
The Vale was heavily guarded, the Solstice making it even more so. He had to find a way in, so that he could be as close to Marlene as possible, so that if things went astray, which they most likely would, he could get her out - without depending on the nonsensical plans Gideon had for them.
The thought of Marlene brought a fresh wave of determination.
The wind picked up, and the rustling of leaves grew louder. Hadrian pulled his cloak tighter around him, blending into the shadows. He would stay here all night if he had to, gathering every piece of information, every possible advantage.
Hadrian exhaled slowly, his breath misting in the cold air.
He would keep her safe.
He would find a way.
He would.
┈┈┈ ⋞ 〈 ⏣ 〉 ⋟ ┈┈┈
As dawn's first light bled over the horizon, casting a spectral glow upon the Vale, the Dark Lord strode onto the highest terrace on the walls of his castle.
The double doors behind him had swung open with a whisper, allowing him to emerge like a shadow into the morning's embrace. The air was sharp and cold, an invigorating bite that kissed his skin, turning it a soft red.
He paused, as his eyes drank in the expanse of his dominion, a tapestry of dark forests and mist-laden fields stretching endlessly before him. The land, cloaked in twilight’s silvery sheen, seemed to breathe under his gaze, humming with latent magic.
He swelled with anticipation; soon, the quiet would give way to the orchestrated chaos of the Winter’s Solstice.
A low growl echoed through the silence.
At his feet, his hounds, as black as the night, flanked him. They were statued guardians at his side, yet their eyes, glowing with an unnatural glare, were fixed on the distant forest. He reached down, his fingers threading through their thick, dark fur, a touch both possessive and almost tender.
“Settle, Anessa,” he murmured to the larger of the two, his voice a soft caress against the silence. Strangely, the hounds remained vigilant, their gazes locked onto the forest as if sensing something beyond the glimmering wards.
A flicker of curiosity passed through him…
A knock sounded from behind him, before the sound of a door being pushed open broke through the silence of the rising sun. The Dark Lord had felt his presence ripple through the wards, and so his company was of no surprise to him. Instead, he found himself somewhat glad of his arrival, “You were missed at the meeting.”
“Please accept my sincerest apologies and know that I would have preferred any alternative to trailing that fucker to the borders.”
The Dark Lord, very pointedly, did not smile.
“Rodolphus,” he stated, instead, fondness creeping through his tone, as he turned away from the vast forestry to face his most loyal.
“My Lord,” Rodolphus greeted, his voice a soft murmur that carried the weight of his devotion. With a reverence that bespoke decades of faith, Rodolphus tenderly pressed his hand over his heart and bowed his head — a homage that was singular to him, one that Rodolphus Lestrange had claimed as his own when he had pledged his loyalty, his very beating heart, to the Dark Lord.
Rodolphus sauntered toward the Dark Lord as he nodded his head, a gesture of permission, “I hope my absence was not too dreadful,” he smirked, taking up the space next to the Lord with familiarity.
“Your presence is always preferable, Rodolphus.”
“I hear our wayward Black has once again found himself in a bout of trouble,” he huffed, “Bella has not stopped screaming about it. I think, by the end of the week, even the 3rd Ranks will know of it.”
“Bellatrix has always been… ardent.”
“You transferred him to The Bloodlands?” Rodolphus laughed, in disbelief, at first, until the Lord nodded and his laughter turned into a cackle, “Not that it’s not deserved, I was surprised to hear that he’d killed Mad-Eye.”
The Dark Lord hummed, his eyes panning the length of the forest surrounding Salazan, “Curious, isn’t it? That he kills the Secret Keeper, against my order, the only man who could identify a traitor.”
“You mean—“
“It is just a thought, Rodolphus. The Head Black will learn from his mistakes while fulfilling his duty to The Bloodlands; whatever those mistakes may be,” The Lord assured, turning to him with hard eyes, “Tell me, what news do you bring?”
Rodolphus looked thoughtful, for a moment, before he addressed his Lord, “His portkey was to Austria - illegal, of course, but I was still able to trace the magic. I’d say he was around a day's walk from the peak of the Alps.”
“…bold,” the Dark Lord mused.
“Exactly my thoughts,” Rodolphus agreed, “He’s the third one this side of the year...”
“Yes.”
“On your command, My Lord, I will burn his stronghold to the ground—“
“No,” the Dark Lord silenced, “This must be governed with a delicate hand. For now, allow them to come, this boldness of his may grow if he does not have his fallacies of control.”
“Of course, My Lord,” Rodolphus agreed.
“And what of the Order?” the Dark Lord mocked, “How do they fair under their new charge?”
“They are set to fall directly into your palm,” Rodolphus laughed, “Prewett ruins them, as you predicted. He is wasted with the need for vengeance and Mad-Eye’s death has only exacerbated it.”
“And, their plan?”
Rodolphus sighed, “Prewett plans to use multiple entries to the Vale to… confuse us,” he laughed, “He proposes that using a decoy group will allow more time for the others to search for their little friends,” Rodolphus explained, amused, before he paused, a furrow forming between his brows, “However….”
The Dark Lord lifted his brow an inch.
“The defect mentioned another…” he eyed Rodolphus, who seemed to be considering his words, carefully.
“Speak freely, Rodolphus,” he instructed.
"An opposition to Prewett, he says, one who plans his own excursions — a spy of some kind."
“A spy?”
Rodolphus nodded, “Apparently, Mad-Eye had confided in him, often, and had sent him out on ‘secret missions’-” he airquoted, “that the defect had no knowledge on. The defect says he is fleeting and rarely sees him unless he has something to report.”
Rodolphus withdraws his wand and summons a file, it flies into his outstretched hand, “Naturally, I dug up as much as I could.”
“Naturally,” the Dark Lord repeated, pleased.
“Hadrian Evans,” Rodolphus announces.
The Dark Lord examined the file with interest, it rested on the stone balustrade as Rodolphus flipped through the little amount of information stored inside the folder, “Fleeting is definitely one way to describe him.”
“According to the defect, Evans became affiliated with the Order around 6 months ago. He had shown up at one of their refuge camps with one Marlene McKinnon, after the execution of her family. He’d supposedly helped her escape the attack and has since developed a rather aggressive protectiveness toward her.”
He sighed, “I checked all official records and there’s no trace of him - no wand registration, no magical maturity records, no one under his name has attended Hogwarts or been enlisted to any of the orphanages. I thought to check the records from before the Segregation but the defect said he couldn’t be older than 22, so I don’t believe there would be any record of him there, either.”
Rodolphus stepped toward him as he reached into the hidden recess of his robes to draw out a folded picture, which was marked with bold, black numbers: 1985, “Here, he brought this to our meeting—“
The Dark Lord, his fingers long and pale, took the aged photograph with care, minding its frayed edges, and unfolded it to reveal a moving shot of two figures.
They shifted against a backdrop of dense forestry.
The first, a young woman with dirty blonde hair streaked with unruly purple highlights, had eyes that sparkled with mischief. Her laughter seemed almost audible as she wrapped her arms tightly around the young man beside her.
He, in turn, looked down at her with a fondness that bled through the image.
The Dark Lord's gaze shifted to the young man.
Slender in an almost unhealthy way, he had an aura of quiet strength about him. His ebony hair tumbled in loose curls atop of his striking face, marred only by a faint scar above his left brow.
But it was his eyes that intrigued the Dark Lord —brilliantly, Avada-green, they seemed to shimmer through the photograph.
The Dark Lord’s mind drifted to their brief duel, that night, in Diagon Alley.
He recalled the ferocity in those green eyes, the unwavering resolve, the desperation, as they’d clashed. How those eyes had burned with such defiance; it was a rare thing, to face such unyielding determination.
It was sinful.
It had left quite the impression.
As the boy in the picture looked up, his green eyes meeting the Dark Lord's through the image, it was as if the young man could see him.
Those eyes were not just familiar; they were hauntingly so.
He whispered to the photograph, his voice faint, as a puzzle piece softly clicked into place. Those - green, green - eyes were not unfamiliar; they had existed in his memories before their duel, before he had placed his sights on that captured moment in the stolen photograph, "I know you..."
…and something, deep in the forest, shifted.
The Dark Lord's gaze lifted from the picture, his eyes narrowing as they scanned the treeline. The forest, thick with ancient oaks and tangled underbrush, stood still and silent, hued with red, from the formidable wards hemming it.
Yet, he felt a presence, a subtle disturbance that set his senses on edge.
He strained his eyes, looking for any sign of movement, any shadow that might betray the presence of an intruder.
It was too early for them.
The hounds at his side stirred, their heads turning toward the same direction. They too sensed it; the faintest of ripples in the air.
But, nothing.
Not a stir, not a flicker of movement.
The woodland kept its secrets well.
Drawing back, the Dark Lord folded the picture carefully and tucked it away, “Keep an eye on him,” he instructed, his voice low.
Rodolphus, with inquisitive eyes - the Lord noticed - bowed his head, his hand over his heart once more, “As you wish, My Lord,” he agreed before he walked back towards the castle, understanding a dismissal when he heard one, to leave his Lord’s chambers.
As the doors to his sitting room clicked shut, the Dark Lord turned away from the terrace - from the early light that cast long shadows which danced across the stone floor. The air inside his castle was warm, humming with the palpable presence of elder magic.
He moved with a deliberate grace, his robes trailing behind him.
The Lord crossed the sitting room to a sideboard where a crystal decanter of deep, crimson wine awaited. Pouring himself a glass, he watched as the liquid swirled, catching the dim light and reflecting shades of blood. The scent of the wine, rich and heady, filled the air as he lifted the glass to his lips, savoring the first sip.
His next steps took him to a cabinet, ornately carved and imbued with defensive spells. With a soft hiss, the locks disengaged, and the doors swung open. Inside, among scrolls and relics, among a plain diary and a golden ring, lay an envelope, unassuming in its simplicity. He reached for it, his fingers brushing the edges with familiarity.
With the glass in one hand and the envelope in the other, he walked to a heavy, leather-bound chair near a mahogany table. Setting the glass down, he took his seat, the leather creaking softly under his weight.
Deliberately slow, he opened the envelope and withdrew a second photograph.
He leaned back as he took another sip of wine, the warmth spreading through him as he contemplated the image in front of him.
There was a young man staring back at him.
The Dark Lord's gaze lingered on him: he traced the contours of his face, each detail another question, each shadow a piece of the greater whole.
“I know you…” The Dark Lord murmured softly, before he pulled out the photograph Rodolphus had given him, from the inside of his robes, and placed it next to the other.
Matching eyes looked back at him: one set moving, searching the Lord’s face, it seemed. The other unmoving, hued in black and white but the Lord knew - he knew what colour they would be if the old photograph hadn’t been monochrome.
He took another sip of wine as he turned over the black and white photograph of a male no older than the young man in the photo next to it.
…and the Dark Lord’s eyes gleamed as he traced the numbers in calligraphic script, at the top of the snapshot.
March 1950
┈┈┈ ⋞ 〈 ⏣ 〉 ⋟ ┈┈┈
One should not be too straightforward. Go and see the forest. The straight trees are cut down, the crooked ones are left standing.