CHAPTER FIVE
Chapter Five
Law 6page 44
COURT ATTENTION AT ALL COST
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The grand ballroom of Salazan-Upon-Vale had been transformed into a scene of opulent splendour for the Winter Solstice.
With its vaulted ceilings and arched stained-glass windows, the room was lavishly decorated, gleaming under the glow of gilded chandeliers. The marble floor, polished to a mirror-like sheen, reflected the flickering glow of hundreds of candles ensconced in the enchanted hanging lights.
Lanterns, charmed to float around the space, cast a warm shine that caressed the faces of the guests. These lanterns, made of ornate glass and silver filigree, held small, sparkling flames that danced in the shape of tiny fae, with dainty wings and twinkling smiles.
Men and women, the elite of the Dark Lord's court, were dressed in the finest of silks and brocades, their garments adorned with detailed needlework and precious gems. Tailored suits with high collars and cloaks fastened with jewelled brooches glinted in the soft light, while resplendent gowns of deep crimson and emerald featured necklines and sleeves that dripped with mermaid pearls and diamonds. Hair was styled in elaborate updos, adorned with jewel-encrusted hairpieces that sparkled with each click of a heel.
Some bore the crest of the Dark Lord, a symbol of their allegiance, embroidered into their clothing.
House elves, dressed in spotless uniforms, scurried silently around the room, carrying silver trays laden with an array of exquisite canapés: tiny pastries filled with spiced meats and cheeses, adorned with caviar and gold leaf, miniature tarts topped with cream and fruits from far continents.
The elves moved with a practiced silence, their eyes downcast, ensuring they remained obscured among the grandeur of the evening.
The air was thick with the heady scent of exotic perfumes and the rich aroma of spiced wine and roasted meats. Tables laden with lavish feasts lined the hall, offering an array of delicacies, from golden-roasted pheasants and honey-glazed hams, to platters of jewelled fruits and pastries dusted with sugar.
The scent was intoxicating, a blend of sweet and savoury.
A runic marked Yule log burned red and brilliant in a monumental hearth, its flames casting a warm, golden glow over the assembly. Elven musicians played softly in the corner, their instruments emitting melodies that wove through the air, striking and bewitchingly beautiful.
A soft hum of conversation filled the room, punctuated by the occasional burst of modest laughter or the clinking of crystal flutes.
Everywhere one looked, there was a display of luxury, of power, of purity.
And as one so well versed in such things, Sirius could pick out the pretenders without having to narrow his eyes.
It was all in the details, and their attempts at finery fell short of perfection.
He noticed the flaws in their tailored suits - the uneven stitching, the fabric that lacked the sheen of true acromantula silk. Their cloaks, though adorned with jewels, were fastened haphazardly, lacking the precise symmetry that marked the garments of the Pure.
He noticed the lack of refined cadence typical of those born into old wizarding families. Their words were hesitant, their accents betraying origins far removed from the ancestral estates of the Blacks.
Even the way they held their flutes of champagne revealed a lack of familiarity with the customs of high society: gripping too tightly, or swirling the liquid with an awkwardness that spoke of inexperience.
Sirius observed them with disdain.
To him, they were nothing more than a cheap copy. They would never, could never, be like him - their rot ran marrow deep, in their inferior blood.
He strode down the grand entry stairwell with a regal grace, silently judging every half-blooded guest…
"Presenting Head Sirius Black, of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black, accompanied by one Regulus Black, the Second Scion!"
…as he chaperoned his younger, highfalutin brother, who looked pinched, as if he’d smelt something foul.
“By the Gods,” Regulus muttered under his breath, his voice tinged with contempt, "Vermin, all of them. No daughter of the 28 would ever dare wear such a whorish dress."
Sirius, walking beside him, couldn't help but stifle a small chuckle. He raised an eyebrow, amusement glinting in his eyes. "Regulus," he interjected softly, "Mind your words, you might be overheard."
Regulus's gaze remained fixed on the crowd, his features set in a cruel mask of arrogance, "I hope I am overheard," he replied coolly, undeterred, "If they realise they are unwelcome, perhaps they will think wisely the next time they are cordially invited to attend such a grandiose event, and will be able to see the invitation for what it is - a mere formality.”
The young Black huffed, “It grieves me to have to breathe the same air as them.”
“Do not whine, it is unbecoming.”
“You would know all about what is unbecoming, wouldn’t you, big brother?” Regulus snarked, a smirk rising on his flawless face.
“Watch it,” Sirius warned, with a lifted brow and hard eyes, as he began to remember why he didn’t wish to bring Regulus with him.
His brother was an arsehole: a spare-born, insolent prat.
He thrice cursed his mother for insisting he bring him along.
“How are The Camps?” Regulus mocked, as he took a flute of champagne from a tray with his thumb and index finger, “I hear they are riveting this time of year,” he chuckled, taking a small sip of his drink.
“The Bloodlands are the same all year round - drab and full of drugged up muddy’s.”
Regulus’ eyebrows pinched as he turned to face his brother, “Drugged up?”
“I don’t think this is an appropriate setting to be talking about such things…” Sirius stated, his eyes scanning the room for recognisable faces, whilst ensuring their conversation remained private.
“You are the one who brought it up!” Regulus complained with a huff, “So?”
Sirius sighed, knowing he had to give at least a brief explanation, “There are certain... substances being used that keeps them… placated.”
Regulus' expression shifted to one of mild interest, “What kind of substances? Goblin made? I’ve heard-”
Sirius shook his head, with hard eyes, “It’s not made by us. Now, drop it. We’re here to make an impression, not discuss the grim details of that Gods-damned place.”
Regulus looked momentarily displeased but nodded, turning his attention back to the glittering ballroom, “Very well,” he muttered, taking another sip of his champagne, “I think I see our cousins.”
The brothers made their way through the throng of elegantly dressed guests, their presence parting the crowd like a regal tide.
Their cousins, two instead of the usual trio, stood side by side near a grand Fir tree, that was adorned with floating candles and crystal globes, the contrast between them stark.
Bellatrix, with her dark, wild curls and piercing eyes, shone with a fierce, almost unhinged, vigour. She wore a fitted gown of deep black, velvet and chiffon, embroidered with silver thread that caught the light like the face of a blade would. Her lips, painted a blood-red, curved into a roguish smile as she noticed her cousins approaching.
Andromeda, on the other hand, was the quintessence of hushed beauty. Her soft, brunette hair was styled into a loose French Chignon, adorned with jewelled hairpins, shaped like tiny flowers. She wore a flowing gown of pale blue silk that glistened like water under the candlelight, her gentle features making her look almost doll-like in comparison to her sister.
“Madame Lestrange, Madame Pyrites,” Sirius greeted, bowing slightly. He took Bellatrix's hand, brushing his lips lightly against it, then repeated the gesture with Andromeda, “You both look radiant this evening.”
“Cousins,” Regulus added, his tone formal yet touched with a familial warmth. He mirrored Sirius’s actions, kissing each cousin's hand politely.
Bellatrix’s eyes flashed as she stepped forward to kiss both men on the cheek, “Sirius, Regulus, always a pleasure to see you both.”
Andromeda smiled softly, her demeanour much calmer than her sister’s, “It’s good to see you - it’s been far too long since we were all together like this.”
Sirius hummed, his gaze shifting between the two women, “Family gatherings seem to grow rarer every year.”
“I wonder why that is,” Bellatrix taunted as she tapped her nail against her glass.
“Bellatrix - please, not tonight,” Andromeda whispered. Sirius very carefully did not roll his eyes, as he observed Regulus glance around the room with a critical eye, “I must say, the turnout is... interesting,” his brother commented.
Bellatrix’s smile widened, a glint of amusement entering her eyes, “Oh, yes, there are all kinds of rabble playing dress up this evening.”
Sirius watched as Andromeda’s smile faltered slightly, “Well, it is the Solstice - is Yuletide not a time for celebration and… unity?”
“Unity,” Bellatrix echoed, her tone dripping with irony, “My, my, how sweet.”
Sirius watched the exchange, with a thoughtful expression. Andromeda’s lips had twisted into a shallow smile at her sisters picking - Sirius quickly changed the direction of the conversation, “On the topic of celebration, where is Dora, Andy?” Sirius questioned.
“With Mother,” Andromeda answered, tightly, “She’s too curious for her own good - all she would do is cause trouble.”
“She takes after her Aunt,” Bella gleamed, smugly.
Andromeda nodded, a small smile on her face, “Ah, you must excuse me, I should find my husband, before he drowns himself in his cups,” she stated, before she quickly clutched Bella’s hand and kissed Sirius’ cheek, “Sister, Head Black.”
“Have you given your offerings to the Yule log yet?” Bella inquired, preventing any questions from being asked about her sisters marriage - for what an awful topic that was - as he watched Andromeda float away.
He took a sip of his champagne as his eyes locked onto a familiar crown of platinum; his youngest cousin and her pretentious blonde husband, “Not yet—”
“We’ve brought a bottle of centaur mead,” Regulus interrupted, his voice brimmed with vanity.
Bellatrix, standing with a glass of rich, red wine held delicately between her fingers, arched a sharply carved eyebrow, “Centaur mead, how quaint.”
“And what about you, Bella?” Sirius asked, a smirk playing on his lips, “What have you offered?”
Bellatrix's eyes gleamed with trouble as she took a measured sip of her wine, “I offered a Moonstone and Opal-encrusted necklace - very expensive, but the occasion calls for it.”
Sirius raised an eyebrow, “Moonstone and Opal, you say? Quite a generous offering, cousin.”
“It wasn’t mine, of course,” Bellatrix added nonchalantly, swirling the wine in her glass, “Consider it a… gift from the in-laws.”
Sirius’s curiosity was piqued, “And what does Rodolphus think of you offering up this… gift?”
Bellatrix's lips curled into a wicked smile, “He’s the one who stole it from her jewellery box!”
Sirius laughed, his voice mingling with the ambient music and chatter, “Of course he was,” he said, in disbelief, “Where is your husband, anyhow?”
Bellatrix's eyes darkened slightly, a flicker of seriousness crossing her face, “With the Dark Lord,” she replied.
Regulus, always eager for information, especially about him, leaned in, “And where is the Dark Lord? Should he not be here by now?”
Bellatrix shook her head, her smile fading, as the weight of annoyance began to push on her shoulders, “I don’t know. Rodolphus was tight-lipped about it. He only warned me to stay vigilant tonight.”
Sirius raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued, “Stay vigilant? For what?”
“There has been talk… that the open invitations were for a specific audience. I don’t know much,” she admitted, causing a flare of satisfaction to rise within his chest, “But the Dark Lord always has a motive and perhaps that is why we have yet to see him.”
Regulus scoffed lightly, “Or, perhaps he’s just trying to keep us all on edge. It’s typical of him to make grand entrances.”
Bellatrix's eyes flashed with irritation, “And what would you know of the Dark Lord’s plans, Regulus?”
Regulus's eyes narrowed, “I only asked because-”
“Because you’ve slept with him once and now think you’re privy to his every thought?” Bellatrix snapped, her voice low but fierce, “Don’t flatter yourself. The Dark Lord’s mind is far beyond your understanding.”
Sirius interjected, placing a calming hand on Bellatrix’s arm, “Enough, both of you.”
Regulus huffed, looking away, while Bellatrix took a deep breath, to regain her composure. She grabbed Sirius’ hand after a moment, and pulled him close to look him in the eyes, “You have the pocket watch?”
“Always,” Sirius whispered into her hair, as the sound of glass shattering ricocheted through the air.
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He stood at the edge of the wards, his breath caught in his throat as he gazed upon deep, glowing red.
The potency of them pulsed softly with a power that hummed in the cool evening air. He had studied them endlessly from high up in the trees, but now, standing so close, he could feel the true majesty and weight of the wards that surrounded the Vale.
A shudder ran through him - a sensation both thrilling and unsettling.
With a steadying breath, Hadrian lifted his gaze to the castle beyond. Night had fallen over the Vale, and within the castle walls the Winter Solstice celebrations were in full swing. Its spires reached towards the stars, casting long shadows across the forests that surrounded it, making the woodlands seem denser, despite the bareness of the wilted trees.
Hours prior, Marlene had departed with the Order, without a word to him.
And as Alastor Moody had once spoken aloud - a fact so terribly true - Hadrian Evans had indeed followed.
He took a deep breath, as he withdrew his knife from his belt and clutched it in his hand. Without the familiar weight of his wand, uncertainty gnawed at him.
This was not wise.
He had no plan, no wand, and he didn’t know where in the castle Marlene might be.
This could very well get him killed.
Summoning his courage, Hadrian took the first step forward.
The wards reacted subtly, shifting as if acknowledging his presence, before the magical barrier rippled around him, the shimmering energy brushing against his skin like ghostly fingers.
As the wards paused, turning unsettling still, Hadrian braced himself for pain. However, instead, in its place, he felt an odd pleasure - a benevolent pull that seemed to resonate deep within his core. With every stride, the sensation intensified, spreading through his body in waves. It was as if the wards were embracing him; the pull on his chest growing stronger, insistent, compelling him forward with an unyielding force.
Finally, with a deep breath, Hadrian crossed the threshold.
The air on the other side felt different - charged with a tangible energy, or perhaps that was simply his imagination.
He paused, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips, and threw his head back, allowing the ecstasy to wash over him completely: the sky above was a canvas of evening hues, the first stars beginning to shimmer in the gathering darkness.
He stood there for a moment, savoring the intoxicating power that surged through him.
Hadrian's breath came in slow, measured gasps as he revelled in the sensation, his mind momentarily free of doubt. The pull on his chest, though still present, had softened to a soothing, rhythmic pulse, that beat in time with his heart.
He took a moment to steady himself, drawing in the crisp night air.
The landscape around him was bathed in the silver glare of the rising moon, casting long, eerie shadows that seemed to twist and writhe in the periphery of his vision. The trees stood as silent wardens behind him, their gnarled branches reaching out like skeletal fingers. The cold night air carried a faint whisper, one that sang the syllables of a name, one etched into his mind like something foul.
Harrrry…
With a newfound determination, Hadrian pressed forward, his breath visible in the crisp air, with quiet but purposeful steps on the frost-smothered ground.
The outer walls of the Vale soon came into view, towering and seemingly larger than he had originally assumed. He approached them with apprehension: the walls were insurmountable, their height daunting as he craned his neck to see the top of them.
Hadrian took a deep breath and stared at his knife. The blade caught the moonlight with an ominous shine as he turned it in his hand, over and over—
He impaled it through the brickwork and watched as the stone cracked.
He began his ascent, using the knife to carve footholds in the rough stones. The climb was arduous, his muscles strained with the effort, but he pressed on, spurred by the need to locate Marlene. As he clambered slowly, the wind began to pick up. Hadrian grasped his knife until his knuckles turned white, trying to fight the blistering cold that rushed through him as he ascended higher.
He cried out, suddenly, as his foot slipped on a loose stone, sending him plummeting downward.
In a desperate bid to stop his fall, he reached out and grabbed the wall, only to have his hand sliced open by a jagged brick. Pain shot through him, sharp and immediate, as he clung desperately to the wall. Blood dripped onto his face from where his hand was grasping onto the stone above him, the drops warm and crimson red.
Gritting his teeth, Hadrian gripped his knife tighter, the blade his only anchor. The wind howled around him, harsh and unyielding, tugging at his clothes, tousling his hair and threatening his balance. He whimpered, the sound lost to the night, as he chanced a look down to where a drop of his blood had fallen to the frost.
He took a deep breath, forcing himself to focus, and resumed his climb with a renewed growl.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he spotted a balcony to climb towards. The secluded perch offered a glimmer of light amidst the daunting expanse of dark stone.
With one last effort, Hadrian propelled himself upwards, reaching the balcony and pulling himself over the ledge.
He crouched there for a moment as he caught his breath and surveyed his surroundings.
“Fuck, not again,” he groaned, examing the thick, searing slice across his palm. Carefully, he tore a strip from his shirt and wrapped it tightly around his bleeding hand. The fabric soaked up the blood poorly, but Hadrian deemed it enough - he could endure it.
Hadrian approached the balcony door with hesitance, his heart still pounding in his chest. He reached out, his hand trembling in pain, and pushed the door open with a soft creak.
Slipping inside, Hadrian found himself in a dimly lit corridor.
The air was thick with the scent of old wood and candle wax, the silence almost palpable. He moved cautiously, every sense alert, with light steps, close to the shadows. The dim flicker of torches cast eerie patterns on the stone walls, each one seemed to shift in the corner of his eye.
Hadrian’s heart pounded in his chest, an unsteady rhythm that echoed around the quiet halls. His eyes scanned every corner, every nook, vigilantly, for signs of movement. The castle’s oppressive atmosphere weighed heavily on him, he could feel the old magic embedded in the stones, a strange pulse that thrummed beneath his feet. He wandered through the labyrinthine corridors, the architecture growing grander and more imposing with every turn. Ornate tapestries and antique suits of armor stood as silent witnesses to his intrusion, along with the castle itself, which seemed to watch his every move as if it were aware of his trespassing.
Meandering round a corner, Hadrian came upon a set of double doors.
They were large, crafted from dark, polished wood and adorned with intricate carvings of snakes, that seemed to writhe in the dim light, their emerald stone eyes glinting ominously.
He paused, checking around him for any traps or guards.
The corridor was empty.
Don’t do it, Hadrian thought to himself.
“Don’t do it, Hadrian,” he whispered aloud, as he reached out and pushed the doors open.
As they creaked on their old hinges, he felt an oppressive wave of magic wash over him. It pressed against his chest, making it difficult to breathe, but he forced himself to step through.
All was silent on the other side of the doors.
Hadrian stood still for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the dim light. A corridor stretched out before him, lined with old portraits whose eyes seemed to follow his every move. The same oppressive magic lingered in the air, heavy and suffocating. He moved cautiously, each step measured and faint.
The silence was deafening; broken only by the occasional creak of the floorboards beneath his feet.
As he continued down the quiet corridor, voices, faint and indistinct, began to echo in his mind, whispering in a sibilant tongue he couldn't quite understand.
A strange feeling of hands clutching at his chest overcame him as he reached a door on the left side of the passage. It was a pull, strong and almost irresistible. Taking a deep breath, Hadrian pushed it open.
Beyond the entry lay a drawing room, its opulence a stark contrast to the oppressive corridor behind him. Rich tapestries adorned the walls, and plush furniture was arranged tastefully around the room. A grand chandelier hung from the ceiling, its crystals sparkling under the influence of the dim light. There was a sense of history that steeped into the fine furnishings and intricate decorations of the room; it felt alive, Hadrian could almost envision the space breathing.
At the far end of the room, a set of balcony doors stood open, the sheer curtains encasing them billowed gently in the breeze. The moonlight spilled through, casting a silver path across the floor, that illuminated the dark mahogany of the wooden boards.
Hadrian stepped inside, the voices in his head growing louder, making his head throb.
As he moved around the space, his footsteps reverberating quietly, his gaze fell upon a cabinet embellished with glass doors. It stood on its lonesome, an unassuming piece of furniture that nonetheless drew his attention.
He approached the cabinet cautiously, his eyes narrowing as he peered through the glass.
The first thing he caught a glimpse of was a mass of scrolls, their edges yellowed with age and tied with faded ribbons. Next to them lay a unassuming leather-bound book, its cover was unmarked, but faded, and its spine was decorated with brass lettering: T. M. R.
But what truly captured his attention was a golden ring, lying on a red, velvet cushion.
The ring was modest, a simple gold band, but its surface gleaming softly as if it had been recently polished. There was something about it that tugged at him… at the corners of his mind.
Tilting his head, Hadrian pressed his fingers against the glass near the ring, almost hoping he would be able to feel its shine through the barrier.
He took a deep breath, his mind racing as he considered his next move. The pull in his chest was almost painful now, the voices in his head louder, more insistent, as if urging him to pummel his fist through the glass and take the ring for himself.
With a glance over his shoulder to ensure he was still alone, he reached for the cabinet's handle.
Hadrian hesitated for a moment before he sighed and dropped his hand, “Focus,” he whispered to himself.
He moved towards the balcony, drawn by the cool night air and the familiar kisses of the wind. The curtains brushed against him as he approached, their touch feather-light, as if urging him closer to the stretch of the outside world.
Hadrian wandered out onto the terrace, and rested his hands on the balustrades, feeling the smooth, cool stone beneath his fingertips.
Fluttering his eyes closed, he allowing the chilly night’s breeze to wash over him. He could hear the distant rustling of leaves as a rush of wind danced through the trees beyond the wards.
It was a soothing, familiar symphony, one that grounded him.
Opening his eyes, he traced the contours of the landscape with his gaze. The Vale stretched out before him; its darkened corners and shedding trees, its frosted grounds a stark white against a backdrop of darkened skies.
He leaned forward slightly, peering out across the expansive grounds, as a realization dawned on him: this balcony, with its sweeping views of the grounds and the distant horizon, was the very same one he had gazed upon from the heights of the trees opposite it.
If he looked hard enough, he was sure he would be able to spot the broken branches he had taken with him as he had been dragged to the ground by a tamed hound. He was sure he would be able to spot the blood dyed leaves that surrounded the trunk he had pressed himself against, in efforts to regain his strength.
…and Hadrian was sure, that if he thought hard enough, he could imagine a King of Kings standing in the very spot he himself stood, gazing out across his kingdom, admiring the breathtaking beauty of the vast expanse that belonged entirely to hi-
“Beautiful, isn’t it?”
Hadrian froze.
A billow of robes swept past him, the fabric whispering against his body, almost making him shiver. Beside him, a pair of gloved hands settled gracefully on the balustrade; suede, with dark juniper stitching.
"When the dusk meets the dawn-" they spoke softly, "-only here can you witness the fleeting moment when the darkness gives way to the rising sun."
Hadrian turned, and red met green.
“One of natures many fleeting wonders.”
The Dark Lord placed his gaze on Hadrian.
His red irises traced the length of him, slowly, deliberately, making Hadrian’s limbs tense as a hot bout of anger began to bubble within his stomach, "I know you," he stated, his eyes gleaming under the faint light of the stars, “The rebel who attempted to duel me.”
Hadrian's jaw tightened, his irritation beginning to simmer beneath his skin, "The rebel who did duel you, and got away," he retorted sharply, his voice edged with defiance as his hands curled into fists.
"Ran away, after his wand was taken from him," the Dark Lord continued calmly, unruffled by Hadrian’s rising anger.
Hadrian smirked, spitefully, as he turned away from the scenery to lean his back against the stone balustrade, his hands clutching its edge until his knuckles turned white, "How's the nose?" he spat with snark, recalling the headbutt - the satisfying crack - he had delivered during their clash in Diagon Alley.
A faint taunting smile played at the corners of the Dark Lord's lips. Hadrian watched, fascinated, as the mans eyes traced his facial features, until they landed on his jagged scar, his crooked nose, his cracked lips.
Quickly, Hadrian tucked his bottom lip under his top one, wetting it for good measure.
"It was broken," he replied smoothly, his gaze returning to meet Hadrian’s, “If it is a concern to you.”
Hadrian's eyes narrowed, uncertain whether the Dark Lord referred to his wand or his nose. The ambiguity grated on him, fueling his annoyance, until the edges of his vision turned red.
As Hadrian shifted his weight, the Dark Lord moved with a bewitching grace to turn his back on him and stroll through the double doors, that lead to his drawing room. His robes whispered softly against the stone floor, as he moved without making a sound.
Leave, Hadrian ordered himself, do not follow him.
Through the doors, Hadrian could hear the Lord moving fluidly around the room, along with the clinking of crystal and the sound of liquid being poured. After a moment, his footsteps came to a halt, and an oppressive silence began to fill the short distance between them.
Do not follow him.
Do not-
Hadrian cursed himself as he took a step toward the doors.
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Marlene sprinted down the dark corridor, her breath ragged and her heart pounding like a war drum in her chest. The dim light barely touched the path ahead, shadows twisted and elongated as if trying to grab her. Adrenaline surged through her veins, a wild, desperate force that drove her forward against the tide of terror gnawing at her mind.
Behind her, the Death Eaters pursued her ferociously, their heavy footsteps echoing like the tick of a clock. She could hear the whoosh of spells slicing past her, the air crackled with the power exuding from them. Ducking and weaving, she narrowly avoided a jet of crimson light that scorched the stone wall beside her.
"Stupefy!" she cried, as she flicked her wand back, releasing a bolt of dazzling light that struck one of the Death Eaters, sending him sprawling to the ground with a cry.
But there were too many, a swarm of shadows closing in, and she knew she couldn’t hold them off for long.
Her lungs burned with every frantic breath, as the icy claws of fear threatened to choke her. Time was slipping through her fingers, each second a precious crystal of sand in a rapidly emptying hourglass.
Another spell whizzed past her ear, making her stumble. Desperation clawed at her as she threw herself around a corner and against the cold walls, that thumped with magic, to pant vigorously, her chest heaving. She flung another spell over her shoulder, a wild, frantic effort to buy herself a few moments.
The corridor seemed to stretch endlessly as the echoing of footsteps grew louder - they were gaining on her.
She had to move.
Marlene pushed off the wall, a surge of determination propelling her forward. The corridor twisted and turned: a labyrinthine nightmare. Her legs burned with the strain, but she forced them to keep moving, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps.
As she rounded another corner, she saw it - a set of stone doors, imposing and looming ahead like the open maw of a beast. Her heart thundered in her ears, the sound of her own pulse a relentless reminder that she was still alive, still running, she could still do this.
Marlene glanced over her shoulder, expecting to see the Death Eaters closing in, but the hall behind her was empty.
The heavy footsteps and shouted incantations had ceased, leaving an oppressive silence in their wake. It was as if the shadows had devoured her pursuers whole, erasing them mid chase. Her steps stalled as she approached the doors, a chill creeping up her spine. The air felt heavier so close to their loom, as if they were charged with a kind of malevolent energy that seemed to seep from the handles.
Marlene hesitated, an unnatural feeling gnawing at the edges of her mind.
There was something deeply unsettling about the doors, something that whispered of danger, of something best left undisturbed - it was a voice that sounded familiar, a voice she longed to hear again, if only to ease her turbulent thoughts.
Did he follow, like he said he would?
What would he say, if he knew what I was about to do?
Her hand trembled as she reached out, the rough stone cool under her fingertips, and pushed the heavy stone doors open.
They groaned on their hinges, the sound echoing through the corridor; a mournful wail. Beyond the threshold, a set of stone stairs spiraled downward into darkness, their descent seemingly endless, with no light at its end. The air grew colder, like oppressive hands that wrapped around her throat, as she took her first tentative steps down.
Each step rumbled in the confined space as the flickering torchlight cast long, wavering shadows on the damp walls, creating a ghostly dance of light and dark. She clung to the walls, her hand brushing against the cold, rough stone, as she tried to find her way down the stairwell without making a sound.
At the bottom of the stairs, a vast underground space unfolded before her: rows upon rows of iron-barred cells, thick with the stench of decay and despair.
She had found the dungeons.
Marlene's heart pounded as she shifted through the dimly lit space, her eyes darting from one cell to the next, searching for the familiar features of those she had come to find. Faces of the prisoners, gaunt and hollow, half dead and rotting, stared back at her with a clenching desperation, but she pressed on.
Focus, focus, focus…
As she neared the end of the row, her breath caught in her throat.
Recognition and relief washed over her, but it was quickly tempered by the sight of the heavy chains secured to the wall. She ran to the cell, her footsteps quaking - a drumbeat of urgency - and grasped the cold iron bars to peer inside.
"Everlyn," she whispered, her voice trembling with a mixture of fear and hope, "Everlyn, open your eyes!"
Everlyn's eyes fluttered open and locked onto Marlene’s. Instantly, she began to struggle against her chains, withdrawing as if to shield herself, "Marlene?" she whispered, her voice hoarse and filled with terror, "Wha-?”
Ignoring her whispers, Marlene pulled out her wand, "Alohomora," she incanted, and the cell door creaked open with unexpected ease. She rushed inside, her hands working frantically as she pulled at Everlyn’s restraints.
Everlyn pulled away, her voice urgent, "Marlene, no, you have to help the others. They're injured. They-"
Marlene shook her head fiercely, tears streaming down her face as she continued to struggle with the chains, "I'm not leaving without you."
Everlyn's eyes were desperate, "No, Marlene - Marlene!"
Marlene paused, “Where’s Hannah?” she asked, after a moment, making Everlyn whimper softly, her head dropping as a tear rushed down her cheek, “Everlyn, where’s Hannah? She’s not-”
“They took her, I-” she started as she began to wheeze, “You have to help the others…”
“What’d you mean they took her?”
“You have to get them out,” she insisted, instead of answering, “Elphias, he’s hurt, if he doesn’t get help he’ll die, and Poppy… a-and Mary! Marlene you have to get them out of here!”
Marlene swallowed hard as her mind began to race, “I will, Evelyn, I promise, I’m going to get them out,” she swore, cupping the frantic woman’s face, “I just need to get everyone to the ward lines-”
“No!” Evelyn interrupted, her voice sharp with urgency, “There’s not enough time. They’ll find you if you try to get back through the castle...”
Marlene's brow furrowed, “There’s no other way; my portkey won’t work with wards this strong and apparition is out of the question-”
Evelyn took a deep breath, her eyes darting around, “There is... another way,” she said quietly, “A ritual - it’s dangerous, but it could work.”
“What kind of ritual?” Marlene asked, her voice tinged with apprehension.
“A blood ritual,” Evelyn explained, her tone grave, “It won’t take you with them, but it will send them to a place you can envision, a place you know well… like Headquarters.”
Marlene's eyes widened, “But that’s—”
“Dark magic, yes,” Evelyn interrupted again, “and it will likely weaken you, maybe worse, but it may be the only way.”
Marlene's mind reeled as that awfully familiar voice entered her head once more:
Don’t do this - not when you don’t know what it does.
Don’t do it…
“Tell me what I need to do.”
┈┈┈ ⋞ 〈 ⏣ 〉 ⋟ ┈┈┈
His eyes were closed.
His head, tilted back, was steady on the high backing of his throne-like chair. The goblet, resting by his ajar mouth and held between gloved fingers, painted his lips crimson with wine that ran blood red under such scarce light.
He was a delineation of Ozymandias, a King of Kings, an eternal ruler even in such a simple setting. More than a Man, less than a God, though there was nothing in between that could unerringly describe Him.
Look at my Works, ye Mighty…
And Hadrian looked, and Hadrian faltered, as the tyrant King looked back.
…and despair!
The Dark Lord had opened his eyes to stare at Hadrian from his tense spot on the balcony. His Lordship had a gleam in his eye as he placed his goblet onto the hardwood table before him and leaned back in his chair.
It almost felt like a dare.
A provocation, to see how far Hadrian’s limits were.
A challenge, Hadrian confirmed, as he stared into the Lord’s mirth set eyes.
Hadrian barely managed to restrain himself from impaling his knife into the mans skull, as he accepted the bait and crossed through the threshold.
The double doors slammed closed with a resounding bang behind him; Hadrian, very deliberately, did not flinch.
The mans eyes appeared darker, almost hickory, without the soft glimmer of the stars reflecting in them. He seemed to take up the room, despite being rather slender, albeit tall. Hadrian tried to rip his eyes away from him, to draw himself out of the lure he knew he was falling prey to, but as he gazed upon the Lord of New England, he felt trapped.
“May I offer you a drink?”
“How chivalrous of you, Your Highness.”
Hadrian tried not to smirk at the minute twitch of the Dark Lord’s fingers, “You will find that I am nothing if not a gracious host.”
“No.”
“It was not a request-”
“-and yet my answer’s still no,” Hadrian asserted, with narrowed eyes.
The Dark Lord smiled, a vicious thing with too many teeth: a shark wearing the skin of Adonis, “Such a smart mouth,” he uttered, mutely, more to himself than to Hadrian.
“At least take a seat,” The Lord gestured to the seat to his right, its back facing the door, “Or have you something smart to say about that, too?”
Hadrian’s eyes flicked to the offered seat before they settled on the Dark Lord’s inscrutable face. With a sneer curling his lips, he ignored the indicated chair and instead took the one to the Lord’s left, ensuring that he could keep an eye on the door. The leather creaked under his weight as he settled in, his back rigid.
“How are you liking Salazan-Upon-Vale?” the Lord asked, bending forward slightly to retrieve his glass of wine.
“How am I-” Hadrian breathed out, in disbelief. He began to tap his foot at the veil of deceit his host was trying to pull over his eyes.
He was a criminal of war, a member of the very Order aiming to tear down the dictatorship the tyrant had spent decades building, and yet the man had the gall to speak with him as if they were old friends. Hadrian laughed, shortly, “Well… its dark, awfully drafty, and the company could be much better but I suppose the locations nice, what with it sitting on top of one of the most reputable torture chambers this side of New England.”
Hadrian clocked the minute pull of the mans lips as he took a sip of his wine - he was enjoying this, Hadrian noted, the sick bastard.
“This castle was built over a thousand years ago, before Hogwarts even, by Sacheverell Slytherin, for his unborn son - Salazan. However, when the construction was complete, the babe died unexpectedly, along with its mother,” he explained, in a soft tone that had Hadrian leaning closer in order to hear him. He swirled his wine around his glass, leaving a dark rouge stain in its wake, before he took another drink.
“His story is lost to history, but they say that Sacheverell, blinded by grief, tried to burn the castle to the ground soon after, but somehow, the passing of his love and child had imbued the castle with powerful Death Magic. Assumingly, that magic will forevermore protect the castles walls, and can only be broken by a wiccan born with the gifts of-”
“I’m not here for a lesson in History,” Hadrian interrupted, with a scowl.
“No, you’re here to steal from me.”
Hadrian scoffed, “It’s not stealing if it wasn’t yours to begin with.”
The Dark Lord tilted his head, "Oh, but they are - mine," he asserted, "Every inch of this kingdom, every soul within it; pure, sullied, even you and your smart mouth," he taunted, sucking the residual wine off his bottom lip, "I own it all; your hearts, your spirits, your rebellion, its all mine, and you are a fool if you cannot see that."
“I belong to-”
An explosion ripped through the air.
The entire castle shook with the force of the blast, a deafening roar that seemed to divide the night. The windows rattled, and dust fell from the ceiling in a fine, choking mist.
Hadrian’s ears rang as he stood and spun around, instinct driving him back to the balcony. He leaned over the edge, eyes wide with horror, “Marlene…” he whispered to the smokey air, as dread began to pool in his stomach.
Below, the ballroom was a scene of devastation.
Flames soared high into the night sky, casting monstrous shadows across the courtyard. The fire spread with a terrifying speed, consuming everything in its path. Screams echoed faintly up to where he stood, mingling with the crackle of burning wood and the crash of collapsing brick.
The Dark Lord joined him on the balcony, his expression oddly calm, as if he had been expecting the chaos. His eyes narrowed as he surveyed the scene below, “It seems your friends have decided to join us,” he said, his voice laced with something dark, something that sent a chill down Hadrian’s spine.
“This wasn’t part of the plan,” Hadrian muttered, more to himself than to the Dark Lord, his mind racing as he tried to process the atrocity unfolding before him.
The Dark Lord murmured softly, “Plans seldom survive contact with reality, especially those that are made from fragments of delusions.”
Hadrian’s heart pounded in his chest, the heat from the flames below searing his face even with the distance, “It seems like our time together has come to an end,” the Dark Lord said, his voice low and resonant, echoing through the chaos of night.
His breath hitched as his heart pounded in his chest, despite the destruction below, Hadrian couldn't bring himself to tear his eyes away from the man beside him. “…you’re letting me go?”
The Dark Lord’s lips curved up faintly, Hadrian couldn’t discern their shape, “It would not be the first time.”
Hadrian hesitated.
Every instinct screamed at him to run - Marlene could be down there, I could lose her if I don’t hurry - yet something anchored him to the spot.
Without warning, the Dark Lord stepped closer, the distance between them shrinking to mere inches. Hadrian could feel the heat radiating from his body, mingling with the cool night breeze, as he inched back instinctively. He spluttered quietly when his back touched the stone balustrade and the Dark Lord reached out to take his hand in his own.
His breath caught in his throat as the Dark Lord carefully unwound the hasty bandages from his bloody, injured hand. His fingers brushed against Hadrian's skin with an odd carefulness and with a slow, deliberate motion, the Dark Lord swiped his thumb over the cut on Hadrian's hand. A warm, tingling sensation spread through his palm, all the way to the tips of his fingers, and Hadrian watched with marvel as the wound knit itself together.
“Go,” the Dark Lord whispered, “We shall be seeing each other soon enough, Hadrian Evans.”
He pulled his hand away but the warmth lingering on his skin.
Hadrian turned, but as he placed his hands on the edge of the balcony, he halted, to cast a glance over his shoulder. Their eyes met, and in that suspended instant, the world seemed to collapse into a tight, shimmering thread that wrapped around his middle; pulling him, leading him, chafing rope shaped burns into his midriff. A subtle, ineffable shift passed between them as Hadrian felt a deep, insistent tug in his chest-
It was a profound feeling; the urge to run while his feet remained rooted to the ground.
He gaped at the man, his eyes searching for answers, for any flaws or glimpses of humanity, but the Lord’s face remained an inscrutable mask, his eyes dark and unfathomable as he stared right back.
Focus! Hadrian screamed at himself.
He couldn’t afford to waste any more time.
After a final, conflicted glance at the Dark Lord, Hadrian turned and lifted himself up onto the edge of the balcony. The wind whipped around him, carrying the acrid scent of smoke and the distant cries of the injured.
…and with a deep breath, Hadrian stepped over the edge and allowed himself to fall.
┈┈┈ ⋞ 〈 ⏣ 〉 ⋟ ┈┈┈
Marlene stumbled down the serpentine halls of the castle, her vision blurring as the world around her seemed to tilt and sway. Her steps were unsteady, each one a battle against the weight of exhaustion and the sharp sting of pain. A cold sweat slicked her skin, and every breath she took was a ragged gasp.
The stone walls loomed around her, their rough surfaces a blur as she reached out to steady herself. Her fingers brushed against the cold rock, but it offered little comfort in her disoriented state. The torches flickered, fast and mocking, casting erratic shadows that laughed at her in her warped peripheral vision.
The castle was eerily silent, despite the chaos she knew - somewhere deep within her mind - to be happening someplace within the walls. Her legs buckled, and she crumpled to the floor, the carpets pressing against her cheek. For a brief moment, the contact grounded her, but then the world began to circle uncontrollably.
Her vision darkened at the edges, the flickering torchlight fading into glooms that crept closer with each passing second. She felt as though she were sinking into an abyss, the darkness shrouding her in an embrace that burned her skin. Her eyelids grew heavy, and despite her struggle, she couldn't keep them open.
"Hadrian," she whispered, her voice barely a breath.
The world spun faster, the shadows closed in-
She felt a warm, wet trickle from her nose and reached up instinctively.
Her blurred vision focused just enough to see crimson pooling on the ground beneath her, spreading out in a dark bloom; a red rose of blood. Her hands, trembling and scarlet slicked, seemed foreign to her, the vibrant red stark against her pale skin.
She was going to-
I’m going to die here…
She cried out as she rapidly wiped her nose and tried to stumble to her feet, only to fall back to the floor mechanically, as if she were a mere puppet with cut strings.
Marlene's vision swam, the world a dizzying blur of shadows, flickering light, laughing faces and carousel taunts. She managed to lift her head, her eyes catching the faint, indistinct outline of a figure moving in the distance. Desperation surged through her, and with the last of her strength, she cried out, “Help!”
“Marlene?” The figure called as they halted, then began to run toward her.
“Hey - hey!,” the silhouette sharpened into the familiar form of Hadrian, “I’ve got you. I’m gonna get you out of here,” he promised, his words a fierce thing.
He wiped the blood from her nose with the edge of his torn sleeve, his hand trembling slightly, “But you have to stay with me, Marlene, you hear me? Stay with me!”
Carefully, he scooped her into his arms and cradled her against his chest. Marlene felt a faint spark of relief as she nestled into his warmth, the world around her dissolving into a daze. The steady beat of his heart became the sole sound in her ears; she clung to the rhythm, as she did his dark shirt with her clenched fist, “H—ria-” she tried, before Hadrian shushed her.
“You’re going to be okay,” Hadrian whispered, his breath warm against her ear, “I won’t let anything happen to you, I promise, I’m going to get us out of…”
His words, a soft mantra, were the last thing she heard before the darkness closed in.
┈┈┈ ⋞ 〈 ⏣ 〉 ⋟ ┈┈┈
The Dance of the Veils - the veils envelop the dancer. What they reveal causes excitement. What they conceal heightens interest. The essence of mystery.