CHAPTER SEVEN
Chapter Seven
Law 18page 130
DO NOT BUILD FORTRESSES TO PROTECT YOURSELF - ISOLATION IS DANGEROUS
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She stood at the top of the lavish marble staircase, the opulence of the High Court spreading out before her like an Oliver Cartwright painting. Crystal chandeliers cast a golden glow over the assembly of highborn Counsellors, their attire a kaleidoscope of rich fabrics and lovely gems. Every eye turned toward her as she descended, the soft rustle of her royal purple gown the only sound accompanying her footsteps.
With each step, the murmurs that filled the room grew louder.
They didn’t like her - of course they didn’t.
The High Counsellors, seated in rows of plush velvet chairs, watched her with hawk eyes and sneered lips: it did not see her composure waver, she was assured by the purple shrouding her shoulders.
A rich purple that made a tribute to her family, to their legacy.
The byzantium shade of the Selwyn’s.
Draped over her shoulders was her Counsellor cloak, a flowing cape of deep damson with edges lined with intricate golden stitching. The back of the covering proudly bore her family crest: a magnificent emblem featuring the deep purple of their lineage, intertwined with accents of blazing gold. At its centre was an open-winged owl flanked by delicate jacaranda blooms, representing their intelligence, their beauty and their prosperity.
As she reached the bottom of the staircase, she halted, allowing the weight of her presence to settle over the room. Proceeding to the centre of the council hall, she stepped onto the raised platform, placed her parchements onto the stand, and faced the assembly. With her back straight and chin lifted, the delicate light was able to illuminate her enchanting features.
Her pale skin was a stark contrast to the dim hues of her attire. Her dark hair was intricately styled, pinned high on her head and adorned with delicate golden complements. Her eyes, fierce and piercing hazel, were framed by bold brows and enhanced by a touch of glittering gold dust across her high cheekbones. A purple gemstone rested on her forehead, it caught the light as she raised her eyes to look up at the podium where his Lordship sat.
The chamber fell into a hush.
And the faint sound of a wand tapping against stone echoed through the silence.
“My Lord,” she spoke firmly, as she fell into a low curtsey.
The wand paused in the air for a moment before his Lordship resumed his tapping.
“Counsellor Selwyn,” he acknowledged, his voice rich and articulate, “To my knowledge, you bring to the High Court a proposal that pertains to the improvement of England’s national security and border control.”
She rose smoothly from her curtsey, before she clasped her hands in front of her, “Yes, my Lord.”
His Lordship nodded faintly, his wand still tapping on the stone surface in front of him, urging her to proceed: he was a man of very few words, she’d come to learn over her years at court.
Inara inhaled before she cleared her throat and shuffled through the parchments she had laid out on the podium - which had been coloured purple and adorned with an owl for her time on the stand.
Turning to the assembly, she raised her chin, allowing the tapping sound of wand meeting stone to fade, "Esteemed Counsellors of the High Court," she began, her voice resonant and loud, as she rolled her practised speech across her tongue.
"We have built a nation that stands as a beacon of order and progress; a magical community that stands independently, but strong, amidst a continent under the rulings of a Fool. Our stability as a sovereign state stands as a testament to our unity and commitment to our values. Here, in our prosperous New England, traditions are upheld, laws are respected, and our people prosper under the guidance and wisdom of our Lord."
Inara's gaze was steady, "It is because of the great ardour of our Lord, and our collective dedication, that we have achieved such remarkable success.”
She drew a breath, allowing her pause to resonate, before she continued with a solemn tone, “But our great nation currently stands at a critical juncture.”
Shouts began to echo from the chairs encircling her but a singular, silently raised hand paused them - Inara nodded her thanks to the Dark Lord, “The Regime’s movements on the continent are a cause for national concern.”
“Statistical attestation from early this year has indicated a significant influx of foreigners in England. These individuals, with no regard for our customs and the necessity of secrecy, have been using magic openly beyond the wards of our communities."
"As a result, we have had to obliviate muggles at a rate that matches the days before the Segregation.” A murmur of concern rippled through the court, but Inara pressed on, “This not only strains our resources but also jeopardizes the very fabric of our society's structure.”
Inara shuffled the papers on the stand, before she took a deep breath to prepare herself. She looked out over the gathered High Counsellors, their expectant faces bathed in the flickering candlelight.
"It is our duty to safeguard our nation and our people," she declared, her voice firm and resonant. She paused, letting the weight of her words settle in the room, "And so, given these circumstances, I propose the installation of a Ward around England’s borders - one that disallows entry to anyone without explicit permission from only the High Court. This ward would serve as our first line of defence against illegal entry, ensuring that only those who respect our laws can pass through, into our country, and would keep the Regime’s war away from our nation."
The silence that followed was swiftly broken by a drone of discontent.
Counsellor Malfoy, his expression carefully composed yet clearly disdainful, rose to his feet, "Counsellor Selwyn, while undoubtedly well-intentioned, we must consider the political implications of your proposal. A ward of this nature could be perceived as an act of isolationism, a statement that we are retreating from the global stage. Such a move could damage our reputation and influence among other allied magical governments."
Inara turned to Malfoy, her voice calm but resolute, "Counsellor Malfoy, this is not about isolationism - it is about control and safety,” she met his gaze steadily, "A ward demonstrates our resolve to protect what we hold dear. It is a statement that we value our laws and the safety of our people above all else. I believe this is a proactive measure that will be seen as an indication of our strength as an autonomous community."
A ripple of disagreement moved through some members of the court, but before Inara could react, Lestrange the Younger leapt to his feet, his demeanour less restrained and far more hostile than that of Counsellor Malfoy, "Little-Miss-Selwyn here is proposing that we lock ourselves away and hope the world sees it as resilience! Laughable! You’re suggesting we admit defeat and hide from that bastard on the continent,” he shouted, causing a wave of consensus to wash over the court.
Lestrange’s eyes narrowed, as he sat back in his seat, and Inara took a deep breath to steady her rising frustration, "Your proposal is an insult to our Lord: to his power and authority. It implies that he is not influential enough to maintain our nation’s security without taking such drastic measures."
His words hung heavily in the air, a direct challenge to her stance. The chamber fell silent again, the explosive exchange leaving behind a charged atmosphere. The High Counsellors exchanged glances, the sharp division in opinions evident, as many chanced a look at the Dark Lord, who hadn’t moved his eyes from the entry doors of the courtroom.
His wand tapped, still, an even sound:
Tap…
Tap…
Tap…
With a raised brow, untroubled by the silence choking the room, Counsellor Malfoy leaned forward, his eyes narrowing with scepticism, "And how exactly is it you propose to build and sustain a ward of such magnitude, Counsellor Selwyn?" he asked, his tone deceptively mild, "The power required for such an endeavour would be considerable."
Inara took a deep breath, "I suggest the utilization of the Bloodlands," she stated, holding her head high.
There was a moment of stunned silence, followed by an eruption of laughter and incredulous murmurs.
Lestrange practically leapt out of his seat for a second time, his face twisted in revulsion, “The Bloodlands?” he cackled, "They can barely keep the stones of their small wards functioning. We have to replace them constantly. And you expect them to sustain a ward around the entire country? This is beyond naive; it's insulting."
Inara’s eyebrows drew together as she ceased the shuffle through her documents, that outlined her proposal, and met Lestrange’s furious gaze: we have to replace them constantly.
Counsellor Malfoy’s voice cut through her thoughts, icy and dismissive, "Counsellor Selwyn, surely you must realize the impracticality of your suggestion. The inhabitants of the Bloodlands lack the necessary power and sophistication for a ward of such nature. Depending on them would be folly."
She almost rolled her eyes, "I am more than aware of the limitations and challenges posed by the Bloodlands, Counsellor Malfoy. However, with appropriate rewards and strict supervision, we can harness their efforts. This isn't about relying on their current capabilities but about pushing them to achieve more.”
Lestrange’s sneer deepened, "And what are you going to offer them, Selwyn? A few shiny trinkets and they’ll prance around like the mudblood vermin they are? Maybe some extra rations for their filthy little families? What a moving charity you propose - they’re not even fit to scrub our boots, let alone protect our borders."
A ripple of cruel laughter followed, and Inara clenched her fists under her cloak, forcing herself to remain composed, "This is not about charity!” she tried to silence, “It’s about leveraging what resources we have. The Bloodlands may not be ideal, but with the right incentives, they can be made to contribute."
Malfoy shook his head, "Your idealism is commendable, Counsellor Selwyn, but we require practical and steadfast solutions. These wards are not merely to deter lowly muggles but to, as you clearly phrased, serve as our primary defence against foreign witches and wizards - some of substantial magical prowess. Relying on the Bloodlands for such a critical task is impractical."
A murmur of agreement rippled through the courtroom, the disdain for the Bloodlands - or, rather, what resides there - detectable in every sneer and whisper. Inara scanned the faces around her, noting the derisive smiles and contemptuous glances. Her heart pounded with anger, but she stood firm, her back straight and chin high.
The Dark Lord, seated at the head of the chamber, raised a hand for silence.
He sat in the highest chair, on a dais, his wand tapping rhythmically against the counter before him, a metronome of authority that he hadn’t ceased since he’d taken his seat above them. His dark green robe, stitched with intricate silver patterns, draped elegantly over his form - it caught the faint light and shimmered like newly born stars. Around his neck hung a large locket, emblazoned with a notable S.
It was an ugly thing, Inara thought.
And yet, she had never, in her life, yearned to see something up close so much.
In the hushed chamber, his presence was hard to ignore: he was a figure of grace, one unmoved by their squabbles, yet his verdict hung over them all like a sword of judgment. His eyes, however, remained focused on the double entry doors, as if he was seeing beyond them - which he probably was, she hypothesised.
He seemed | dare she say it? even think it? | distracted.
The room fell into an eerie stillness, the only sound breaking through the hush being his bone-white wand tapping against marble, "We shall have a decision," he intoned, his voice cold, sending a shudder down Inara’s spine, "All in favour of Counsellor Selwyn's proposal?"
A tense moment stretched on, each second feeling like an epoch. Inara held her breath, her pulse pounding in her ears. Slowly, wands began to rise. She counted them in her head, noting each one with a flicker of hope.
Only 5 wands were raised.
Inara nodded at Camille, her only visible ally, who managed a weak, gauche smile in return, as she raised her wand higher.
"And all against?" the Dark Lord continued.
The response was swift and overwhelming.
The remaining wands shot up: a sea of opposition. Inara felt the crushing weight of defeat settle over her like a physical burden, it weighed her down as she clutched the sides of the stand. The room seemed to close in, the walls narrowing as the Counsellors collective disdain pressed against her.
"The decision is apparent," the Dark Lord declared, his tone final. "Counsellor Selwyn's proposal is rejected by the final vote and by your Lord’s verdict."
Inara’s shoulders tensed, her mind reeling with fury. She could see the satisfaction on the faces of the High Counsellors, their prejudice and certainty in their superiority over even her, a high-born, glaringly obvious. Her vision blurred slightly, tears from the sheer intensity of her anger.
She was a high-born, but undoubtedly a woman - she had no place among them.
She blinked rapidly, forcing herself to remain composed.
The courtroom buzzed with the low hum of smug whispers and satisfied murmurs. Inara felt a profound sense of isolation, the weight of her failure pressing down on her, as her family's owl, on the front of the stand, disappeared.
Under her breath, she cursed, "Fuck."
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He woke suddenly.
And everything came flooding back—
A sky of stars hued green from the glow of a symbol, that was carved into the night with a gleeful morsmordre.
Screams of terror that rippled through a clearing set alight with the fires of defeat.
A beheaded body of a man that had once smiled so kindly his way - Bones.
Edgar Bones.
Remember, Har-
A gloved hand snaked around his throat.
A serpentine tongue; Look at me.
Look at me.
And he had looked, and for a moment it had felt familiar |familiar like hickory eyes, like a child’s song: ~~Dear Love, in shadows deep, I wander far, By day they take, by night I shall scar~~ | until a spasming pain had shot through his neck and turned his vision bla-
Hadrian gasped, as he instinctively reached for his throbbing neck. He hissed as his palm met the crook, where it burned most, “Best not to touch it yet - it’ll take days to heal yet, lad.”
His head snapped to the right as a gruff voice shattered the silence.
Before him stood an age-old figure, a man jagged at the edges, and hardened by wrinkles. His face, etched with the lines of countless hardships, was framed by a wild, untamed beard, silvered with age. His long, scruffy hair fell in tangled waves that wrapped around his neck, and was adorned with a few haphazard plaits, that looked as if they hadn’t been redone in many a year. His face bore scars, ones that carved pathways across his weathered skin, framing a pair of piercing sky blue eyes that held an unsettling familiarity.
“Who-” Hadrian began, his voice wavering like a fragile whisper.
“Here, you’ll be wanting this,” the man interrupted, thrusting a worn tub into his hands.
Hadrian unscrewed the lid, revealing a yellow, viscous cream that exuded the rancid stench of dry rot and stagnant water, making him recoil.
“Smells like shit, but it does the job,” the man said with a gravelly chuckle, his voice a blend of earth and iron.
Hadrian replaced the lid with a deep breath, “Who are you? Where are we?”
The man's laughter rumbled low, like distant thunder. “Ah! Welcome to the Bloodlands, kid. I hope you enjoy your long, long stay.”
“The Bloodlands?” Hadrian echoed, his tone faltering as he looked around.
He was in a decrepit bedroom with two plain, rickety beds. The walls, made of rotting, splintering wood, seemed to close in on him as his heart began to race. An old cupboard stood forlornly against one wall, a broken mirror leant beside it, reflecting the fragmented, distorted image of his dropping features. The room was bathed in a flickering, eerie glow from the candles lined on the floor, their wax dripping slowly onto the creaking floorboards like mournful tears.
“The one and only,” the man huffed. “You’ve been out for a few days. You’ll need to eat,” he added, rising from his seat on the bed opposite Hadrian’s.
“A few days?” Hadrian fretted, a surge of panic rising within him. “I- Wait, I didn’t come here alone, did I?”
The man grunted.
“Where are the others? Surely they’re here too-”
“Rule Number One, and the most important one, if you hope to survive here: you’re only out for yourself. None of this ‘but he’s my friend’ bullshit, got it? That’ll only buy you a one-way ticket to getting yourself killed.”
Hadrian reeled back, as a wave of anger washed over him. With accusing eyes, he leaned forward and snarled; “If that’s your most important rule, why am I here?”
The man laughed, a harsh, obnoxious thing that echoed off the decaying walls, “You think I did this to help you, lad?” He laughed again, louder this time, “Listen closely: the only reason you’re here instead of out there sucking off Shackles and his boys for a sip of Atro is because my last lackey got cocky - got himself killed. Now I’m a lad down, and I need a new one. You following?” He leaned in close, his breath hot and scented like cheap ale, “So, because I played hero and took you before those DA bastards could, you’ve gotta repay me - and repay me you will.”
The man rose and strode toward the door, his steps echoing on the creaking floorboards. With a swift motion, he opened it and leaned out, his voice bellowing down the corridor, “Zeno! Get your ass up here!”
Turning back to Hadrian, he spoke with a rough, controlling tone, “Zeno will scrub you up. You sleep here. Clothes are in the cupboard; you get one set, so keep your shit clean, or I’ll toss it out and you can walk ‘round in the stark. Dinner’s at seven, every day. Eat or don’t, I don’t care - just don’t whine to me about it.”
He began to leave, but paused at the threshold to tap the doorframe with a snarky smile that twisted his weathered face, “Oh, and I won’t make you say thank you - you already look like you’re gonna sock me.”
The door creaked as it closed, leaving Hadrian in the dim, flickering candlelight. The room, heavy with the scent of wax and erosion, seemed to hold its breath. Hadrian glanced at the old cupboard, its surface worn due to years of neglect.
His mind raced;
What had happened to the others?
Had anyone else been killed whilst he’d been unconscious?
Had Marlene reached the safe house?
Did she hate him…
A moment later, the door squeaked open again, revealing a young man framed by the doorway.
Slender and tall, he moved with the effortless grace of a dancer. His dirty blonde hair was gathered into a messy bun atop of his head, and strange earrings fashioned from scrap metal dangled from his ears, catching and refracting the flickering candlelight. He wore a set of drab clothes - brown and worn, stained and aged - with an oddly colourful neckerchief, which was streaked with stripes of blue and purple. He chewed obnoxiously on something - perhaps gum - his jaws working methodically.
A crooked yet dazzling smile illuminated his face as he sauntered into the room, nearly sitting on Hadrian, who swiftly shifted aside.
“Sorry ‘bout him!” he laughed, his voice a melodious contrast to the roughness of the space. “Old Abe’s got a few creaks in his neck - if you know what I mean.”
“I’m Zeno, pleasure to meet ya!” Zeno extended a hand toward Hadrian, his grip firm and warm.
“Er…I’m Hadrian.”
“Wotcher, Harry! Looks like we’re gonna be roommates!”
“It’s Hadr-”
“Here, you’ll be needing these,” Zeno interjected, springing up and striding to the decrepit wardrobe. As he opened it, a cloud of dust billowed out, and the wardrobe groaned like a dying beast. Zeno tossed two brown garments at Hadrian; they were drab and scratchy to the touch, “Those are some fine rune scars you have there, where’d you get ‘em?”
Hadrian realized he was nude beneath the hole-ridden blanket covering him. Hastily, he grabbed the brown top and pulled it over his head to hide his scarred chest. The long sleeves were uncomfortable and abrasive, but it was better than nothing.
“Sorry, Abe’s always saying that I’m too nosy for my own good!” Zeno said with a theatrical laugh as he smacked his forehead, before bouncing back onto Hadrian’s bed, “Blimey! Your head must be infested with Wrackspurts, you look awfully confused. Nasty things, they are - they float in through your ears and make your brain go fuzzy,” he explains, frowning solemnly.
“I-” Hadrian begins, shaking his head as if to clear it, “That man—”
“Abe,” Zeno interjects.
“Erm, yeah… Abe… said that we’re in the Bloodlands?”
Zeno nodded, blowing a bubble with his gum. It popped with a sharp crack, and he deftly licked his lips to retrieve it back into his mouth, “I just - I thought the Bloodlands were camps?”
“Oh! Right, yeah… no.” Zeno fiddled with his fingers, his expression shifting. “I mean, it used to be a camp, back at the beginning of The Segregation. Back then, though, there weren’t as many of us - just prisoners of war and the likes. But as our numbers grew, this place… evolved, I suppose. And now it’s this.”
“And what is… this?”
“Well, right now, you’re in The Dead Bird - finest pub in the Bloodlands. Don’t let Abe hear you say otherwise!”
Zeno snatched the tub of cream from Hadrian’s hands and unscrewed the lid, “Here, always better to have someone else do it. You’ll get it all over yourself otherwise, trust me,” he said, diverting the topic of conversation.
He begins to apply the cream to Hadrian’s neck. The pain is immediate and intense, causing Hadrian to flinch away with a hiss. Zeno apologizes softly, with a strained smile, then continues, his touch more gentle.
“There, all done!” he declares, screwing the lid back on with a satisfied grin “Why don’t you go take a look? Better to face it now than to get a fright later on,” His laughter follows, but it was awkward and ill-fitting of his buoyant nature.
Hadrian stands, pulling the blanket covering his modesty with him, and walks over to the cracked mirror. He awkwardly maneuvers his body to catch sight of the wound on his neck and as he turns, and the light hits just right, a mark comes into view - one that looks like it had been seared into his skin with a poker.
The letters:
S
U
L
L
I
E
D
snaked down his neck, from his jawline to his collarbone, each one a vivid, angry red. They stood out starkly, like embers burning against pale, unblemished flesh. The branding was raw and bold, its edges inflamed and pulsing with heat.
Hadrian's jaw clenched as he stared at his reflection.
In the fractured glass, the letters appeared fragmented, yet each shard reflected the same brutal truth: the mark was not just a physical brand but a statement of degradation, a visual proclamation of his dirty status - a Mudblood.
The scar was a jagged, living thing, its texture rough and raised, as if his skin itself rebelled against the indignity of the mark. The word seemed to vibrate with a life of its own, simmering with a magic that felt so very familiar.
His fingers brushed the raised, searing letters, feeling their roughness, and a hot flare of anger surged through him.
He had branded him himself, Hadrian knew it like he knew pain - intimately and absolutely.
Zeno closed in on him from behind, a shy smile playing at the corners of his lips. "Looks like we're twins..." he whispered, gently pulling down the brightly coloured cloth covering his neck. Hadrian, through the fractured mirror, spotted the mark on Zeno's skin - so very similar to his own, but faded and less sore, a scar softened by time. He turned to face Zeno, who let out a soft sigh.
"Looks like it," Hadrian murmured, with a nod.
Zeno's smile faltered for a moment before a mischievous glint returned to his eyes, "You should change; dinner will be ready soon - Rat Stew tonight!" he announces with a playful lilt, "But don't take too long. Abe doesn't tolerate dawdling. He once smacked me over the head for oversleeping, the bastard! It was a clean hit, too. I had a headache for days!"
Hadrian nodded with a soft smile, the heaviness lifting slightly under Zeno’s light-heartedness. Zeno steps back, “I’ll meet you downstairs.”
With a jaunty salute, Zeno turned and headed towards the door, his steps light and buoyant. Before he crossed the threshold, however, he turned to face Hadrian with a lopsided grin, “Oh, and, I know dinner sounds gross - and also looks and smells gross - but it’s actually quite good! You’ll see,” he added with a laugh. Hadrian nodded with a small smile, making Zeno close the door and bound down the corridor, his footsteps echoing around their shared room as he did.
Hadrian sighed as he returned his gaze to his bed, where the trousers to match his brown top were strewn across the mattress. He grabs them and moves to pull them on.
As he dressed, the mark etched into his neck caught his eye repeatedly in the mirror.
He forced himself to look away, to compartmentalise.
He straightened his shoulders, as he finished buttoning up the too-large trousers, and took a deep breath, before he headed for the door. Beyond the cracked, wooden entryway, lay a small corridor without any additional doors. At the end of it, a set of steep stairs loomed; Hadrian could see light coming from the bottom of them.
Hadrian descended the creaking stairs, trying to focus on which steps held a rasp and which ones he could land on without making a sound. As he emerged into the dimly lit pub, the scene that met his eyes was one of weariness.
The Dead Bird lived up to its name, Hadrian thought, with worn wooden tables and chairs scattered randomly around the room, their surfaces battered by years of use. The air was thick with the scent of stale beer, sweat, and a faint, underlying aroma of something unidentifiable but unpleasant. Flickering candles were set on the floors, tables and some aligned the bar itself, they danced along the splintered walls, creating an eerie, haunted atmosphere.
The patrons of the pub were few and far between; their faces were gaunt and sagged, their backs were hunched like they wore a weighted garment, and their eyes were hollowed by hardship - they looked close to death. They huddled in small groups or sat alone, nursing mugs of something dark and steaming.
In the centre of it all, Hadrian spotted Zeno perched on a bar stool, his tall, slender frame hunched over a bowl. He was spooning what looked like slop into his mouth with a surprising enthusiasm, a crooked smile playing on his lips as he ate.
Hadrian thought the sight was oddly comforting.
Behind the bar, Abe loomed like a gargoyle, his grizzled features twisted into a scowl, as he spat into glasses and rubbed them with a stained rag. He glowered at Zeno, who ate away, obliviously.
Hadrian made his way toward them with a sigh.
As he approached the bar, Abe's scrutinizing glare shifted to him. Hadrian felt the heat of his piercing eyes drilling into him but forced himself to ignore it as he slid onto the stool beside Zeno, who in turn glanced up and gave him a welcoming nod.
"Made it, huh?" Zeno said, his voice muffled by the mouthful of stew. He swallowed audibly before he pushed a second bowl towards Hadrian. Hadrian peered into the bowl: the content was a thick, greyish-brown mixture dotted with unidentifiable chunks. The smell of it hit him suddenly, causing his stomach to churn and his nose to turn up.
Zeno laughed as he gestured to the bowl with his spoon, "I know, I know,” he laughed “But, trust me, it’s actually not bad once you get past the... initial shock."
Abe grunted from behind the bar, his eyes still fixed on Hadrian, “Go on, eat up, lad - can’t be wasting it. Food’s scarce around here, and I don’t take kindly to picky eaters.”
Hadrian nodded, before turning his attention back to the stew.
The first taste was a shock to his senses - earthy, gamey, with a texture that left much to be desired. But as Zeno had promised, it grew on him with each bite, the stews warmth spreading through him and easing the knot of hunger in his belly.
“You’ll take him to The Exchange tomorrow, Zeno, you hear me?” Abe grumbled, as he picked up another glass to clean.
“Yeah, yeah, I hear you,” Zeno replied with an eye roll, his mouth full, before he pushed his empty bowl away from him. Hadrian frowned, confused, “The Exchange?”
Abe huffed, throwing his towel over his shoulder, as he leaned closer to Hadrian, placing his weight on the bar top, “You’ll be repaying me in stone, boy, and you can’t give me any stones without a Scribe now, can you?”
Hadrian looked to Zeno for answers, his brows furrowed, “Here-” he spoke quietly, as he reached into a pocket on the inside of his shirt. It was a pocket that had been added after its fabrication, it being colourful and checkered in comparison to the drab brown that was draped over him. From his secret pocket, Zeno procured an oddly lavish item, that looked similar to a calligraphy pen.
It had a highly ornate design, featuring intricate patterns that appeared to be engraved into its body. The pen-like instrument was primarily gold, with detailed black accents that highlighted its elaborate adornments. The tip was sharp and pointed, and seemed to be made of metal, which gave it a luxurious and antique appearance.
Zeno handed it to Hadrian with a quick look around him.
It felt strangely similar to a wand, was the first thing Hadrian thought upon holding its weight between his fingers.
“That-” Zeno started, pointing a finger at the object in Hadrian’s hands, “Is a Scribe. It’s what we use to make wardstones for the outsiders.”
“It’s… beautiful,” Hadrian commented as he fiddled with it.
Zeno huffed, his shoulders sagging, “It’s cursed, Harry,” he said, and Hadrian had to stop himself from correcting him. As he looked over Zeno’s hunched form, Hadrian could see the exhaustion pulling him to the ground. Under the dim light, he looked old and weary, akin to the other patrons who flinched at the sight of Zeno’s Scribe, “You’ll mourn the life you had before you knew what that was.”
He shot up out of his chair as he took the Scribe from between Hadrian’s fingers. Hadrian watched as Zeno looked toward Abe, who had taken to staring Zeno in the eyes, with a terribly serious look on his face.
Hadrian didn’t think it suited Zeno’s features.
“You boys better be off to bed,” Abe said, with no emotion lacing his tongue.
Zeno shook his head and turned away, retreating up the creaky stairs toward their shared bedroom. The slam of the door reverberated through the dinky pub, the force of it quivering the walls and sending dust drifting from the ceiling. For a fleeting moment, Hadrian feared the roof might collapse and bury them beneath its weight.
He figured that was simply wishful thinking on his part when it didn’t: after all, he’d learnt the hard way that the sturdiest of strongholds are usually the ones that look the weakest.
Hadrian's eyes fixated on Abe's weathered hands as they methodically wiped down the bar's scarred surface. A heavy sigh escaped him, “What did he mean when he said it’s cursed?” he asked.
Abe paused, the rag still in his grasp, and turned to face Hadrian, “D’you know what Scribes are made of, lad?” Hadrian shook his head, “Goblin Metal.”
The words landed heavily upon Hadrian's ears, sending a freezing shiver down his spine. He withdrew from Abe quickly, with spooked eyes that seemed far away, and retreated up the worn stairs toward his and Zeno’s shared room. Each creak of the stairs seemed to echo the weight of his thoughts, amplifying the anxiety that shook within him, making his hands tremble.
Entering their room, Hadrian found Zeno cocooned beneath his sheets, his back turned so that he was facing the wall. Shadows danced around the room, cast by the flickering candlelight, that barely illuminated the small space, and by the new moon that hung heavy in the sky beyond the cracked window, above Hadrian’s bed.
Hadrian hesitated in the doorway, uncertain whether Zeno was asleep or lost in thoughts deeper than the silence that stretched between them. He stood in quiet vigil for a moment, waiting for a sign, a breath, any acknowledgement.
When none came, he closed the door softly behind him, the latch slipping into place with a soft click.
Hadrian moved slowly and quietly as he peeled off his shirt, preparing himself for bed. The room seemed to hold its breath, the stillness broken only by the faint crackle of the dying candles.
Then, barely audible, Zeno's voice whispered from the darkness, "I'm sorry about your friends."
The words hung in the air, a fragile offering of remorse that caught Hadrian off guard. He froze in place, the fabric of his shirt clenched in his hands, unsure how to respond. But before he could gather his thoughts, Zeno spoke again, his voice barely louder than a sigh, "I'm sorry about you."
Hadrian felt the weight of those words settle around him like a heavy shroud. He set the shirt aside and turned to look at Zeno, but he hadn’t moved an inch. Hadrian stared at his back for a beat before he sighed and climbed into bed.
Outside the window, the world slept under a blanket of stars, their distant glow painting the room in soft, ghostly hues. He stared into the night, thoughts drifting like wisps of smoke carried on the breeze. The moonlight bathed his face, casting cracked patterns upon his skin that mirrored the sharpness of his emotions. The faint rustle of wind tapping against the fragile glass panes did nothing to soothe him into a state of restfulness, instead, it kept his mind awake and vigilant.
Hadrian lay awake until the early hours of the morning, in the dimness of their shared room, unable to find rest.
Zeno’s rhythmic breathing filled the space, a soothing contrast to the frenzy swirling within Hadrian’s mind.
Goblin Metal.
Hadrian was intimately aware of the properties of Goblin Metal.
“It absorbs that which makes it stronger,” they had told him, and he had felt the burn of it against the skin on his forehead, as they had tried to steal the magic they believed was protecting his mind - amongst other things. Strong magic, they had complained, as they had dug the blade deeper, and he had screamed on the stone table they had him restrained to, cuts littering his head, a sacred name of a Riddled Man dancing on his bloodied lips.
He would never tell—
He traced the contours of Zeno’s form with his gaze, observing the rise and fall of his limbs beneath the thin sheet, and wondered what it was Goblin Metal could take from Zeno, that could make it stronger…
Turning away from his sleeping roommate, Hadrian looked back toward the window.
A restlessness rumbled beneath his skin, it was a feeling that made him twitch and scratch at his limbs that he yearned to move.
With a final glance toward his roommate, Hadrian silently pulled his shirt back on, the fabric whispering against his skin as he dressed. He then moved with deliberate caution to the window above his bed, its fragile frame trembling slightly as he eased it open. The cool night air greeted him as he climbed out onto the roof, feeling the rough texture of the tiles beneath his hands and knees.
From his elevated vantage point, crouched on the roof of The Dead Bird, the Bloodlands sprawled before him, shrouded in the muted hues of predawn. It was a stark contrast to the camp he had imagined - a sprawling expanse that resembled more a forsaken town.
The buildings, made of cracked wood and spare metal, clustered together in a chaotic jumble, their crumbling facades bearing the scars of neglect and hardship, and of the poor labour that went into building such deficient structures. Each one seemed to lean upon its neighbour for support, creating a maze of narrow alleys and shadowed passages.
Down below, in these alleys, figures moved with an eerie lethargy, their movements slow and deliberate as if they were weighed down. Some gathered around small, flickering fires, their faces illuminated by the dancing flames that cast long, distorted shadows against the muddy ground beneath their bare feet. Whilst others wandered aimlessly, their footsteps echoing in the silence that hung heavy in the air.
Amidst the dilapidated structures, makeshift tents dotted the landscape, their ragged fabrics fluttering in the faint breeze like tattered flags of surrender. Hadrian could see the huddled figures hiding beneath the cloth. His face fell as he witnessed small, malnourished children feasting on the rawness of a rat, whilst their kin beside them rocked back and forth with distant expressions on their faces.
In the distance, a small marketplace could also be seen, its stalls aimlessly arranged and adorned with scant offerings - a handful of scavenged goods and meagre supplies that looked to be made from scraps of metal. A few solitary people haggled there, he could see. He looked away with a wince, however, as he placed one of them as a young girl: one who did not fight as a much larger figure bent her over the stall, whilst another began fumbling with his trousers.
Farther ahead, a solitary building loomed taller than the rest, its weathered facade marked by a symbol - a set of shackles painted in stark red against the crumbling wall.
The crimson of the paint gnawed at his mind, its presence invoking such damned subconscious comparisons.
That red was not the hue that haunted his thoughts.
It was not the hue of a Man turned God, who would consume the world merely to prove that he could.
Hadrian gazed beyond the decaying town that enveloped him, searching for a glimpse of the world beyond… a glimpse of him. He expected to see the true shade of red marking the boundaries of his captivity, to sense the weight of the barriers constructed by him, bounding him to that bereft place…but there was nothing.
The Bloodlands lay unwarded.
There was only emptiness.
A desolate expanse of dying, barren lands that stretched towards the distant horizon.
There was nothing.
Nothing but an insufferable silence that allowed his thoughts to stray.
High above the ground, overlooking the devastation wrought by a Man-Eater, his eyes fluttered, and his mind began to wander… until he could hear the rustle of distant trees, the chirp of birds… feel the heat of the Yule sun, the jagged edges of the bark that he clung to, the enveloping magic of towering wards hued in red… envision the vast forestry surrounding a castle that felt like—
Nothing.
There was nothing.
Nothing but him and the shackles around his wrists, placed there by the King of Kings, who sat upon a throne of bones hundreds of miles away.
┈┈┈ ⋞ 〈 ⏣ 〉 ⋟ ┈┈┈
He strode through the familiar corridors of a castle, that was not his own, his presence a shadow that seeped into every stone and crevice. The air here was tainted, infused with another’s magic, that pulsed through the walls like a malignant heartbeat.
It was a disgusting thing, that almost painted the walls black with decay.
His magic was decay - was rot and foul.
His loathing for this place simmered in his gut, beneath his indifferent facade, even after all these years.
Unlike in his own stronghold, the people here merely paused as he passed, their bows shallow, their eyes curious. The lack of proper reverence gnawed at him, yet his face remained impassive, a mask of cold detachment that revealed nothing of the hatred roiling within.
His cloak billowed behind him, a dark spectre against the flickering torchlight, casting eerie patterns on the walls. Each step echoed with a promise: their knees would bend, every head would lower - his dominion of his revolting palace would be absolute.
He swept through a set of heavy oak doors, their groan a lamentation of ancient wood. Beyond lay a grand dining room, where the light of an opulent feast flickered against the richly adorned table. The room hummed with the low murmur of conversation and the soft oscillations of violin strings, a stark contrast to the chilling silence that engulfed the celebration upon his entrance.
The table, a marvel of excess, was laden with sumptuous dishes and crystal goblets overflowing with white wine. Guests, draped in fine silks and velvets, their garments rich with embroidery and exotic jewels, sat in placid reverence. They were men and women of privilege: their wealth and status evident in their polished attire and the sumptuous food before them. Their glances darted nervously toward the door, acknowledging his arrival with curiosity.
But his gaze, unyielding and gleaming red, sought only one figure.
At the head of the table, ensconced in a chair of gilded splendour, sat a figure of striking beauty: a young man, barely out of adolescence, he seemed. His beauty was an uncomfortable thing - glaringly obvious and impossible to pass over. His youth and polish seemed to illuminate the room, casting a halo of charm around him.
Surrounding this radiant figure was a motley assortment of boys and girls, their clothing so sparse it was barely more than a whisper against their skin - they scuttled around the table, their eyes downcast.
The man, with a smirk high and obnoxious on his face, plucked a grape from the hand of a young attendant; a boy, just on the cusp of adulthood, his cheeks still plump with a baby's fat. The grape passed his lips with a sensual sigh, and without pause, he leaned forward to claim the boy’s lips in an open-mouthed kiss.
The babe struggled, as much as he could without receiving a firm hand.
It drew a hearty laugh out of the young Master - a Master that was undeniably perfect: blonde and flawless, his beauty almost luminescent, a pretty painting of something that once was.
The Dorian Grey, he would connote, if it was not such an awfully muggle thing to consider.
Nonetheless, if he had been a lesser man, perhaps he would have fallen for the guise.
But he was neither lesser, nor was he a man.
Thus, the Dark Lord witnessed the rot - the hidden, black decay that marred this portrait of perfection, that tarnished his castle and imbued its walls with magic that was inhaled like spores of mould.
Their eyes met and just as he noticed the rot beneath the man's skin, the Lord saw the challenge that flashed across his eyes. The young Master’s mouth curved into a nasty grin, that did not wrinkle his skin, before he raised his hands and gestured for the Lord to come closer, “Ah! The man of the hour! I was wondering when you would be darkening my doorstep again!” The man’s voice rippled through the air, dripping with false warmth.
The Dark Lord strode forward, his silent fizzle of rage parting the room’s atmosphere like a blade. One of his servants rushed to pull out a chair for him, but with a flick of his wrist, the Dark Lord dismissed the gesture. As the servant retreated with a bowed head and trembling hands, he caught sight of the scarring across the girl's wrists - chains, he recognised; knew intimately.
He settled into the chair opposite the man with an ease that belied the tension crackling in the room.
He did not - could never - intimidate him.
“How do you like the new addition to my collection?” the man continued, a smirk playing on his lips.
The Dark Lord’s gaze flicked to the side to watch the boy clad in rags, the same boy who had fed his master a grape. Not attuned - not yet - to the workings of the slave, the boy lifted his eyes from the floor to meet the Dark Lord’s.
Green met red.
And it was so very wrong.
Those green eyes bore into him, but they were not hardened by war, nor were they rimmed with a defiance that turned the hue an Avada-green.
For a moment, the world shrank to the space between those false eyes and the Dark Lord’s own. Memories flickered, unbidden and unwelcome, of another pair of green eyes—
How’s the nose?
How chivalrous of you, Your Highness.
You’re letting me go…
The Master’s smirk widened, and he leaned forward, his voice a whisper, “Do you like him?” he asked, almost taunting. “He’s quite pretty, isn’t he?”
The Dark Lord’s face remained impassive, but inside, a storm raged.
The boy’s eyes held a silent scream, they pleaded with the Dark Lord, colouring his eyes a light green that was unfamiliar. He forced himself to blink, and to meet his eyes instead, “Gellert.”
“What brings you here, your Lordship?”
…it was a mocking formality, one that made Gellert’s lips turn up, exposing a small expanse of shiny white teeth.
The Dark Lord held his gaze as he flicked his fingers, and a barely noticeable privacy ward formed around the two heads of the table. He took his time drumming his fingers across the table, whilst he withdrew his wand to fill the golden goblet in front of him with red wine from his country. Taking a sip, to wet his lips, staining them bloody and bitten, the Lord spoke, low and harsh, “You are quite the topic of conversation among my Counsellors.”
“Truly?” he smiled, raising his glass to his lips. “I cannot say the same. My courts are busy with communications with America; they remain annoyingly stubborn.”
The Lord did not appease him with a response. Instead, he raised the goblet to his lips again and took a hearty sip, “I've had to deploy a new unit of Obliviators because people from your domain have been illegally entering my country, blatantly disregarding my laws, and then scurrying back to their homelands like rats once the damage is done.”
Gellert laughed, as he swirled the wine around his wine glass, “You must accept my sincerest apologies, I cannot control every soul that walks my lands - especially those with minds of their own.”
“I cannot say the same. My people do not breathe without my say-so, let alone travel into an adversary's country,” the Lord replied snarkily, “However, I can understand how that might be different for you. With your council overseeing things while you focus on… other pursuits, it's understandable that a few of your rabble could slip through the cracks of your strong rule.”
Gellert’s smile tightened and the Lord felt a surge of pleasure at seeing a wrinkle form at the corner of his mouth, “My council is effective and they enforce my rule with the same fervour that I myself would, and do,” he said, “A few immigrants is hardly a reason to cause a dispute between us, old friend.”
The Lord smiled shallowly, “To my knowledge, international travellers are required - by your rule - to hold a travel permit, and by my own those permits are required to be approved and stamped by an authorised member of my Ministry before entry into the country. I also recall that you cracked down on the Wiccan involved in the construction of illegal portkeys in 1976, and implemented a law regarding their usage thereafter. So, either these immigrants are breaking your own laws by travelling illegally, or they are entering my country with an approved permit - which I assure you, they are not. Forgive me, but it has me questioning the effectiveness of your council if illegal portkeys are being used to enter my country despite your ban.”
“Speak plainly,” Gellert complained, with a sip of his wine and an eye roll.
“By your own accounts, your council guides by your rule and implements your laws as vigorously as you yourself do. If your council’s delegation is as strong as you say it is, it makes me question how no less than 3 illegal portkeys have been tracked inside my borders and traced back to your stronghold since the onset of Winter.”
“So, what? You’re accusing me of sending mages to your country to ruffle a few Muggle’s feathers, only for them to be obliviated not hours later? Do tell, what could I possibly gain from that?”
“I didn’t say anything about you sending Wicca to my country - I simply mean to convey my concerns about the construction of illegal portkeys on your lands - you came up with that one on your own.”
Gellert’s expression turned dark, and the Lord found himself almost smiling in his face, before he continued, “It seems - old friend - that either your rule is not as strong as you imagine it is, or you are purposefully bringing your war to my doorstep.”
He met Gellert’s gaze with eyes that ran red with irritation, “We had an agreement: you stay off my territory, and I stay away from yours. Yet, you send your dogs to my lands to disrupt my rule anyway.”
“I do no such thing-”
“Spare me your acts. I am no fool, Gellert, and yet you take me for one. Those men you send are no assassins, they are common folk and their footsteps sound loud in my country, even if they scurry in the Muggle regions of it,” the Dark Lord murmured, with a sharp tongue, “Let me be clear - if I have not been before - I care not for your grand crusade, nor the war you wage against our lessers. I care for my nation, my people, and the balance I maintain.”
“Balance,” the other man said with a snort, “You speak as if Muggles are a force of nature to be mindful of, not pests to be exterminated - fucking vermin,” he spat as he slammed his wine glass on the table. The remaining liquor swirled up and out of his glass, spilling onto the tablecloth. Gellert sighed, gesturing toward the spillage with disdain, before he leaned forward, his head resting in his hands, and smiled, “I’d say you should be grateful, really. My people have given your Obliviators something to do! It must be awfully quiet for them - employment is important, after all.”
The Dark Lord internally sneered at the others gauging, before he took a short, barely noticeable, breath to steady his rising temper, “Your provocations are dull, Gellert. You seem to forget that our separation was mutually beneficial and agreed to for a reason: our paths, while parallel in purpose, diverge in execution - you know this, and yet you are continuously forcing my hand.”
Gellert sighed, languid and almost bored, “Agreements, deals, treaties… They’re all so dreadfully tedious, aren’t they? Progress demands flexibility, and if I have to force your hand to get it, I will do so without qualm,” he leaned back in his chair as he finished, an insufferable smirk playing on his lips.
“I remember your conquest, your Lordship,” Gellert whispered, awe colouring his voice. “I remember the blood, the ruthlessness, the moment when every one of those Pure bastards knelt before you and called you their Saviour.”
He paused, letting the weight of his words settle, “And yet, here you are now, playing the careful diplomat. Once, you wielded power with a strength that shook the very foundations of our world. Now, you quibble with me over boundaries.”
Gellert’s expression grew more contemplative, almost prophetic, “I saw you then, in your glory, and I saw the future stretched out before us: the King of Kings, a Lord among Men, A Clash of Snakes. I Saw you and all you would be, and yet, now all I see is a shadow of what you once were - the King that once was, is no longer.”
He smiled wistfully, focusing back on the Lord with an almost pitying look, “It’s fascinating how the future is shaped by the choices we make - or, rather, fail to make.”
Gellert’s gaze shifted to the boy standing by his side, “Truly just beautiful, isn’t he?” he said, his voice dropping to a soft murmur.
The Lord did not reply, his gaze instead shifted to the boy who was standing quietly beside his Master, a tear running down his cheek, outside of the privacy ward. Gellert pulled the boy closer, his grip firm around his wrist, until he was sprawled across his lap. He looked at the boy, then back at the Lord, a glint in his heterochromatic eyes that spoke of something Beyond, “Sometimes Fate enjoys the cruellest of jokes,” Gellert whispered.
But the Dark Lord could not take his eyes off the wrongness of the small boy's eyes. Eyes that pleaded with him from across the table, a please, please, that did not reach his ears. Eyes that cried such fragile, crystal tears—
Look at me. He had ordered a man forged in fire.
…and he had stared upon eyes that would never cry delicately, had traced a mouth that would never plead with him: I belong to- no one, he would have spat, with a hounds maw, sharp with too many teeth.
—that rolled down a babes face, so very unlike the Man-Beast caged by his own hand, hundreds of miles away.
┈┈┈ ⋞ 〈 ⏣ 〉 ⋟ ┈┈┈
If one knows where to look,
They will find a room of Mystery.
In a hidden chamber, hundred rows deep,
Shelves of orbs lay in silent sleep.
Down the aisle marked Nine and Seven,
Rests an orb, its light long forgotten.
But beware, Curious Eye,
for when it starts to glow anew,
A crack will form—
as a Whisperer's face comes into view.
Listen closely or you might miss it,
As a long hidden prophecy is revealed to you…
“Hear this: The King that once was, is no longer.”
┈┈┈ ⋞ 〈 ⏣ 〉 ⋟ ┈┈┈
Remember that the solitary mortal is certainly luxurious, probably superstitious, and possibly mad.