CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER TEN
Law 12page 89
USE SELECTIVE HONESTY AND GENEROSITY TO DISARM YOUR VICTIM
┈┈┈ ⋞ 〈 ⏣ 〉 ⋟ ┈┈┈
The room breathed shadows, and the Dark Lord inhaled them as if they were his due.
Darkness spread like spilt ink across the wooden floors, it pooled in the corners and crept along the walls, where the flickering green firelight painted fractured shapes - distorted, restless, never quite still.
He was unmoving at the centre of it all, an axis of the dark, a figure carved from shadow and bone, where the flames played along the pallor of his skin like murmurs.
Around him, his attendants scurried; robed in deep green, their faces hidden behind sheer veils. Their terror hummed in the air - a low, thrumming pulse that danced along the edge of his richer senses.
They dared not raise their eyes to meet his, as if even the thought of such a thing might bring ruin upon them.
It might have, for what would they see in eyes as cold as his own, if not their own ruin?
The women moved with precision as piece by piece they clothed him, their hands skimming over the affluent, silken folds of his robes whilst they raised them to his shoulders. They were robes of deep black, lined with a green so resounding it seemed to absorb the light. Silver thread traced along the hems: it caught the firelight with a gleam that resembled moonlit water.
They were heavy on his back, but the Dark Lord did not pay mind to the weight of them. It did not burden him - it was a hindrance that was as natural as the dark that sealed the corners of the room, as familiar as the serpents that moved through the flames of the grand fireplace.
The jewellery came next, and the Lord watched without seeing as his attendants’ hands trembled before him.
First was a ring thick with emeralds, it slid over his pale finger with ease. Second was a ring adorned with a serpent, that coiled around the silver of the band.
Then came the pendant, a sizeable thing made of fresh gold that donned the sigil of the Dark Mark. He didn’t bow his head in order for the woman to place it around his neck, instead, her allowed her struggle, as he did most early mornings - she had since gotten used to it.
And lastly, the crown.
It settled upon his brow like a coil of winter’s frost.
Fashioned from silver so fine it seemed spun from spider silk, it traced a thin, gleaming line around his forehead, curving just above his gaze. From its edges, thorn-like spires rose: each one caught the firelight for a moment and glinted like a blade between his fingers.
The attendants bowed low, as the crown settled upon his head, their faces hidden by their veils. He paid them no mind as he waved his hand, to order their leave.
As the door to his quarters clicked shut, he closed his eyes and released a short breath. It was early, the world beyond his walls had yet to wake, but he had been up for hours.
He was not tired - but somehow he was exhausted.
When he opened his eyes again, he caught the glint of his reflection in the mirror above the fireplace: he saw a figure wreathed in shadows, a face sharp, ageless, and so pale that it seemed to glow against the darkness.
He could see something else too...
His robes, the handsome folds of black and green, spilt like darkness come to life, each line and sharp cut flowing as though it had a will of its own.
In the corners of his reflection...
He stood as a creature outside of time, one no longer bound by the frailties of flesh, but something far more ancient, more terrible.
A shadow in the shape of a gaunt boy.
One with hickory stained eyes that bled from their irises.
One with tangled black hair that clung to his pale, blue-washed face.
It was the face of a boy long dead.
He turned sharply.
His eyes narrowed into the depths of the room, searching for the terribly familiar face of a boy that he—
But there was nothing there - only darkness, deep and undisturbed.
It was a child’s laugh that echoed in his ears - it mocked him.
He faced the mirror again and traced the thread of tension that had coiled in his jaw with eyes that had deepened with shadows. Another sharp, slow breath exited his lips, as his fingers twitched into a fist.
He did not have long left.
He was exhausted.
Stiffly, he moved to the seat by the fire - an old, high-backed chair, almost a throne in its shape and bearing - and settled into it. With a mere thought, and the flick of his fingers, a bottle of wine drifted from a nearby counter, uncorking itself in the air. A crystal glass followed, suspended for a moment until it settled gently into his waiting grip.
The wine poured itself, for of course it did.
It cascaded into the glass as a deep crimson stream, catching the fire’s glow and casting delicate shadows across his fingers, before the bottle placed itself onto the accent table in front of him. He took a sip, letting the taste roll over his tongue before he leaned back and turned his attention to the hearth of the fire.
His gaze lingered on the flames as they crackled and whispered, the green flames casting jagged reflections in his eyes.
Impulsively, he began to drum his fingers on the armrest.
All was quiet, if only for a moment, until he raised his hand and curled his fingers as if to seize something from the air.
Quietly, a cabinet opened and a thin, silver chain drifted across the room, like a moth drawn to a flame. It descended softly into his open hand, the silver links pooling in his palm, before he let it drop between his fingers, and dangle before his eyes.
The ring linked through the chain caught the glint of the crackling, green flames like something wild - something familiar.
It was a simple-looking thing, almost unassuming, but there was a weight to it, a shine, that made his brow furrow. Its surface was smooth but old, worn by time and the heat of desperate hands.
It was a necklace that belonged to a boy…
He studied it with a detached curiosity, as though turning over an insect under glass.
…a boy that was caged in the depths of the Bloodlands.
The ring felt warm in his hand, almost unsettlingly so, as if it clung to the heat of another's life, even now.
Slowly, a thought crept at the edges of his mind, sharp as a blade: a curiosity, nothing more.
He held it up to the fire, turning it so the green light bled through the silver, revealing faint carvings on its inner surface that seemed to burn as the light hit it: gjithmonë
There was something in the shadow of his peripheral…
A shadow in the shape of a gaunt boy.
One with hickory stained eyes that bled from their irises.
One with tangled black hair that clung to his pale, blue-washed face.
It was the face of a boy long dead - but older than the one from before.
A boy now man, whose eyes were fixated on the ring - on the singular word etched into its surface.
Those eyes turned to face him and - it’s not real, they’re not real - from his lips fell a second, single word…
Rememb-
—a knock sounded through the chamber.
With a fluid motion, he wound the chain around his fingers, the ring disappearing into the curve of his palm, hidden from view.
He raised his other hand and flicked his wrist, as he willed his breaths to calm.
The sharp cadence of Rodolphus’ steps, confident, cutting, was the first sound to echo through the room.
The second was a set of clumsy, uneven footsteps - of cheap, leather brogues.
It was a familiar sound, one that almost made his eyes roll.
He did not immediately acknowledge their presence, instead, he let the weight of his attention settle on the flicker of green flames. But he felt it - the tightness in the air; Rodolphus’s simmering rage.
“My Lord, he showed at the Wards, demanding an audience,” Rodolphus announced, his voice brittle.
A dull thud, a grunt of pain, and the faintest tremor of satisfaction radiating from his most trusted: the Dark Lord turned his head, and settled his gaze on the crumpled figure on the floor.
He drank in the scene with a bored kind of detachment. The man on the floor lay gasping and clutching his side as Rodolphus delivered another kick to his ribs, one to his legs, another to his face.
A rather muggle thing to do, he thought.
“Rodolphus,” the Dark Lord murmured, a nasty smile biting at his lips, “That will do, I think.”
The command halted Rodolphus instantly.
The Dark Lord imagined, if it hadn’t been him sitting before him, Rodolphus would have seethed, would have bared his teeth, tightened his fists, growled and barked with resentment, for if there was anything that Lestrange loathed more than Mudbloods, it was grovelling rats like Mundungus Fletcher.
Instead, because it was him, Rodolphus took a single step backwards and bowed his head.
He let the moment linger before he allowed a poisoned smile to stretch across his face - it was a thin, cold thing, but the words that sounded from his lips were sweet like honey, “Come now, Mundungus,” he asserted, “Take a seat.”
Relief washed over Mundungus’s ruddy face, and like a dog, he crawled closer to the Lord’s scraps, stumbling to his feet and clutching his side. He made his way to the offered chair with a pained, eager shuffle, and collapsed into it with limbs that folded awkwardly.
The Dark Lord noted the glance Mundungus cast at Rodolphus, wary, as if expecting another blow, and felt a flicker of amusement.
False security - there was no sharper weapon.
With a smooth gesture, he summoned a goblet from the shadows and filled it with wine. It hovered toward him, before it slipped into Mundungus’s trembling grip. The man clutched it greedily, like a starved animal, his fingers curling around it as if it were his salvation.
“Drink,” the Dark Lord murmured, his voice a silken thread, “After all, you did bring us our victory, didn’t you?”
Mundungus drank deeply, the tremor in his hands steadying as the wine pooled warmth through his limbs. He dared a nervous smile toward the Lord, the red wine staining his lips, and adjusted his fraying collar in a feeble bid for dignity.
“To our success,” he continued, raising his glass in a mock toast.
“Aye, my Lord,” Mundungus stammered, his voice raw with nerves, “Glad to be of service, y’know. It was nothin’, really - just doin’ what needed doin’.”
The Dark Lord held the man's gaze with a weight that settled thickly into the silence. He found himself leaning back as he observed Mundungus shifting uneasily in his chair, the tremor in his hands was barely concealed as he clutched his goblet of wine. With concealed amusement, the Lord began to drum his fingers on the armrest of his seat.
“Modesty does not become you, Mundungus,” he said, after a moment, “After all, you saw what so many others did not. You sensed the shift in the tides and acted accordingly: a rare gift to behold - foresight.”
The grin that broke across Mundungus’s face was a sight that was both amusing and pitiful.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and puffed up with a ludicrous sense of pride, eager to play the part of the clever opportunist:
“Ah, they were fools, the lot of ‘em,” he scoffed, his bravado spilling over with each word, “Couldn’t see the wood for the trees, y’know? Too busy preachin’ about fightin’ for what’s right and good and fair,” Mundungus snickered, a sound akin to brittle leaves cracking underfoot, “But in the end, all that talk didn’t count for much, did it? You came for ‘em, and they crumbled like a house o’ cards.”
The Dark Lord’s lips curled into a shallow smile whilst he hailed Mundungus’ empty goblet to fill anew with dark, crimson wine, “Surely not all were so foolish,” the Lord murmured, as he leaned closer with feigned interest.
“You’d be surprised! But I s’pose there were a few like me, who knew when to cut their losses. Knew when the game was up. Rest of ‘em though… idiots really. Stayed loyal right to the bitter end, even when it was clear they didn’t stand a chance.”
“And those… like you… they-”
“-not so much like me!” Mundungus interrupted, “They ran, they did, with their tails between their legs. No, only I came to you, my Lord.”
Irritation cut through his gaze, his fingers tightened on the armrest, before calm slid back over him, flawless, “Yes - only you.”
Mundungus’ goblet filled itself once more.
The silence that settled around them was thick, it pressed down on the short space between them, oppressive like gas, as he studied Mundungus, unblinking and dangerously static.
His lips curled, a glint of something cold and razor-thin flickering in his eyes, “Though I must admit, I do find myself… curious,” he murmured, his voice soft but edged, as though tasting the words, “Do they fare better, those who ran? Surely, there are few places left that will offer traitors of the state any safety.”
His words slithered out, low, velvet-draped steel.
The man shrugged, loose and careless, a casual ignorance that made the edges of his nails sink deeper into the chair, “Ah, most of ‘em would’ve gone South,” Mundungus spluttered, his eyes bright with the hue of wine, “You didn’t hear it from me, but you can get a portkey to France for fifty galleons in Dartmoor.”
“…Dartmoor,” the Dark Lord echoed.
A sharp chuckle left his lips as he leaned forward and lifted the decanter of wine from the table between them. He poured a second helping of wine for himself, his hand clutching the glass with claws, before he raised the half-full, crystal goblet for a fast, deliberate gulp. In the corners of the room, where the light from the early morning and flicker of the fire barely reached, a trace of frost had begun to gather, creeping outward like muted fingers.
He felt as Rodolphus shifted - a step forward, a hand ghosting toward his wand, the motion barely more than a breath.
His measured gaze snapped to him: it stayed his General instantly.
Mundungus continued to beam and nod eagerly, oblivious to the ice creeping into the room. He swallowed another mouthful of wine, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing the remnants of his indulgence across his stubbled chin.
The Dark Lord watched.
“Illegal, and completely unreliable,” Mundungus continued, “But after Longbottom lost his legs, word was a small group was gonna take him outta the country. No doubt they’ve gone there—if I heard about it, no doubt old Moody did, the bastard.”
The laughter that erupted from Mundungus was a choked sound, that tumbled from his lips as a slur, sloshing like the wine in his goblet as he leaned back in the chair, “Then there’s Weasley and his spawns,” He scoffed, “Ran off with the girl, he did - Marlene. Doesn’t surprise me, of course! No doubt Evans had somethin’ to do with it. You wanna find them, you gotta get him—”
There was something in the shadow of his peripheral…
A man, a boy, a teen - they stood surrounding the drunken fool.
He didn’t look at them, not directly, but he knew the contours of their faces intimately.
Ask, they say, all together, for they are one, in the end.
Ask…
“Evans?”
The name fell from his lips like something secret, something dirty, something that he wished to wash his hands of, his mouth, his tongue.
…something dangerous, like an ember catching fire. Something sharp, something much more than curiosity, something familiar.
Mundungus blinked, “Hadrian Evans. That one-” he puffed, a sound of exasperation escaping him, “Always running off somewhere. I only ever caught the back of ‘im, slippery fucker.”
His grip on the necklace tucked between his fingers tightened. The cool metal pressed incisions into his palm as the name echoed in his mind.
Was it his voice that whispered the syllables so quietly - or was it theirs?
“You’d think he had better things to do than fightin’ a one-sided war!” Mundungus went on, “Some days he’d just vanish, and when he came back, never said where he’d been.” He spat, a bitter edge creeping into his voice, “The others, they’d fret about him - some thought he was up to somethin’. But I think he just didn’t care enough to stick ‘round, unless his girl was involved. Had that look, y’know? Like he’d rather be anywhere else than stuck there.”
The Dark Lord tilted his head as he clutched the metal in his palm, “You do not seem… fond of him.”
“That’s the nice way o’ putting it!” he snorted, “Showed up out of nowhere, all serious and reserved - took a page right out of Moody’s book!”
Laughter spilt from him again.
“Constant vigilance,” Mundugus mimicked, his voice dripping with mockery, “Bah! If he’s so vigilant, how come he’s worm food now? Good riddance, I’d say. The world’s better off without that paranoid bastard!”
The Dark Lord’s eye twitched.
“Quite… and… Hadrian, you say he ‘showed up out of nowhere’?” he probed, softly, even as the metal lodged between his fingers began to draw droplets of blood from his palm.
Mundungus burped, waving a hand dismissively, “Gideon reckons he’s from some backwater, but no one knows for sure. Could be anywhere, really. He showed up outta the blue, got involved with the girl, and by all accounts, he came to the Order with her when her family got-” He gestured with his hand a throat being slit, “Yeah, follows her around like a dog. I reckon he fancies himself her protector or somethin’. Pathetic, innit?”
He hums, as he settles further into his seat.
“But I gotta give it to ‘im,” Mundungus slurred, “Been in more scrapes than I can count, but every time he comes out the other side whole. Lucky, I s’pose.”
“Well most of the time,” he continued, as he took another gulp of wine, “but Marlene would always patch him back up. Heard her mutterin’ to herself the once, ‘bout a wolf attack, or something? No one had seen him for hours, then he comes back and bleeds all over the floorboards!”
He paused, the metal in his palm growing suddenly cold, “Wolves?” he questioned, quietly.
Mundungus rolled his eyes, dismissing him with a wave of his hand, “If you believe it! I sure don’t! When’s the last time you saw a wolf that ‘ain’t magic? Got more chance of runnin’ into a unicorn, you ‘av!” He shifted in his chair, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth, smearing the remnants of wine in a careless display.
A grin split Mundungus’s lips, as he tilted his empty goblet toward the Dark Lord, “Another round, my Lord? Can’t let a fine vintage like this go to waste, eh?”
The fire snapped softly in the silence that followed, its warmth a mockery of the icy chill that crept along the walls. The Dark Lord’s gaze settled on him, steady, unblinking, heavy. By the doors to his chamber, Rodolphus shifted, his stance tightening, but he was stilled once more when the Dark Lord’s head inclined by a fraction.
A slow smile curved on his pale lips, razor-sharp in its beauty, “Of course,” came the reply, that was coiled with something that glimmered like frost.
With a subtle flick of his fingers, the goblet in Mundungus’s hand brimmed, as the wine twisted upward in a velvet arc. Mundungus chuckled before he raised the goblet with a clumsy flourish and allowed the wine to spill down his throat.
“You’ve got a knack for hospitality, my Lord,” Mundungus slurred, grinning through his words, each one more careless than the last, “Could get used to this! Not every day a bloke like me gets a taste of the good life, eh?”
The Dark Lord settled back into his chair, his fingers gliding over the ring concealed within his palm. The metal stirred beneath his touch as he caressed the silver: a soft warmth that felt like a whisper, like the softness of breath against skin.
“I’m glad you are enjoying yourself,” he murmured.
Mundungus drank again, before he dropped the goblet onto the table between them, it toppled onto its side with a dull thud, “Y’know, my Lord,” he began, his voice pitched too high, “I’ve been thinkin’. What with all I’ve done for you - riskin’ my neck, n’all - maybe it’s time I was, well… compensated.”
The word hung in the room like an unwelcome guest.
Mundungus faltered as he licked his lips, but pressed on despite the clouds that fled his mouth - it was the cold, the Lord’s cold, that froze the words that escaped his lips, turning them to mist - eager to fill the silence, “Not much, mind you. Just a token, y’know. For loyalty. I’ve done right by you, haven’t I?”
The Dark Lord tilted his head and allowed the silence, the cold, to stretch on.
“Compensation,” he echoed: the word tasted like ash.
Mundungus nodded too quickly, though he tried to mask it with a smile, “Aye - just somethin’ small. For all the trouble, y’see.”
A flicker of a smile ghosted the Dark Lord’s lips, colder now, like the frost that stretched across the ceiling. He leaned forward, the air between them thick as the winter that touched the lands beyond his fortress.
“I believe,” he said at last, his voice velvet stretched thin, “I have something that might suffice.”
The Dark Lord rose.
His robes, dark as the deep hours of night, whispered against the floor, trailing shadows that stretched to follow him. He crossed the chamber toward an ornate chest, its surface polished to a soft shine, untouched by time. For a moment, he stilled and ran his fingers across the wood, sensing the quiet hum of magic within at his fingertips. Then, with a deliberate grace, he lifted the lid.
It opened with a soft creak, like the breath of the chest itself.
From it, he drew a locket.
Silver and sinuous, the chain caught the firelight like a thread of captured stars. At its centre, an emerald glimmered, the hue of shadowed woods in a dream. It hung from his fingers, swinging gently, casting ripples of light that danced on the stone walls.
It was a jewel void of warmth, its core long turned to ice by the life it had consumed.
…and it only felt colder next to the necklace in his palm that seemed to pulse with life, as if it knew what lay trapped inside the locket.
He took care in not allowing them to touch - it felt wrong somehow.
He turned at last to witness Mundungus in all his pitiful need and hunger for riches. He had moved to lean forwards, almost hanging off of his chair, his filthy hands gripping the armrests, in an attempt to see what he had withdrawn from the chest. He strained to see, but the Dark Lord offered no indulgence, only the weight of silence that grew heavier with each heartbeat, every footstep.
Mundungus’s breath hitched as his eyes locked onto the locket. His lips parted in a murmur, rough and breathless, “Blimey, my Lord… that’s… that’s somethin’ special, that is.”
“Consider this your reward, Mundungus,” he said, as he extended the locket toward the man before him, “You have my thanks.”
Mundungus took the locket with unsteady hands, his rough touch fumbling over the intricate silver. He turned it, his fingers tracing the engravings that lay on the back. He did not notice the chill that ran through the jewel, nor the serpentine whispers that heightened as he drew it around his neck.
His greed smothered his caution.
He staggered to his feet, swaying like a puppet on loosened strings, his drunken eagerness rendering him graceless. The locket caught the firelight as it swayed against his chest, it hued the metal green and there they were again - beside the fool, looking toward him with a look that read like betrayal, like anger, like-
The Dark Lord pulled his eyes away.
He was running out of time.
Bowing low, too low, Mundungus caught himself against the table. A breathless laugh spilled out of him, hollow and thin.
“Thank you, my Lord,” he slurred, merry on wine, “Truly… this means a lot.”
He looked toward Rodolphus, who had taken to glaring at the man, before he dropped into another pathetic bow, “Right, then. I’ll be off. The boys will hear how good you’ve been to me.”
He turned, steps uneven yet hurried, the locket swinging against his chest, and headed for the door - it closed softly behind him as he left, leaving the room to its stillness, the fire’s murmurs the only sound.
Clutching the necklace between his fingers - and there it was again, that heartbeat-like pulse of warmth - the Dark Lord moved toward the balcony doors, his robes whispering past Rodolphus.
His hand brushed against the handle, and with a gentle push, he let the brittle air of the early morning spill into the room. Darkness still clung to the edges of the sky, the black horizon barely softening to grey, as the world held its breath in the final moments before dawn. He stepped out onto the balcony, letting the chill settle over him.
Below him, the forest stretched into the distance, a tangled sea of black trees, their outlines barely visible against the dim sky. The branches whispered to the wind, rustling with the faint, brittle voice of leaves that had yet to fall. He raised his hand, letting the silver chain slide through his fingers, and dangle over the edge of the balcony. The ring at its end swung gently, catching the thin starlight as it turned.
Gjithmonë, it read.
Albanian - he knew the language intimately.
“Dartmoor,” he murmured into the dark, to break apart from his thoughts. The word drifted into the trees below, vanishing into the tangled mass of shadows and distant, secret paths.
Behind him, Rodolphus appeared in the doorway, his silhouette framed against the faint glow of the dying fire. He was careful, deferential as always, it was one of the many things the Dark Lord liked about Rodolphus, “Yes…” Rodolphus ventured, his voice uncertain.
The Dark Lord turned sharply, his eyes flashing, as the wind stilled, “Speak,” he commanded.
Rodolphus bowed his head, before he stepped forward and extended a sheaf of parchments toward him, “It took longer than I’d hoped, but I’ve found something,” he said, his voice low, “I followed a trail through back alleys, broken deals, the usual filth… and you were right, of course. The Portkeys are being manufactured in bulk, passed through channels even I had trouble tracking - channels that have crossed the shores, into England. Whoever’s behind this has power, connections.”
The Dark Lord’s gaze swept over the documents, tracing each faded signature with a calculating eye. His lips curled slightly, the hint of a smile flickering across his face - gone almost before it appeared. “Andrei Dmitriev,” he read aloud, savouring the name, as he clutched the necklace still in his hand.
“His signatures’ on every one. No face, no history… I’ve never heard of him,” Rodolphus admitted, his voice tinged with frustration, “Whoever he is, he knows how to hide.” He paused, drawing a breath before he reached into his coat. From within its folds, he withdrew an envelope and offered it to the Dark Lord, “But, there was this-”
He unfolded the envelope, revealing a photograph inside. A woman’s face stared back, her features blurred by time and shadow. He ran a finger along the edge of the image, feeling its worn texture: it was unmoving.
“Irina Mikhailova. A squib - by all accounts,” Rodolphus continued, “It was a name mentioned in almost every… conversation I’ve had with those in connection, as of yet.”
“Russian?”
“It would seem so.”
“And her role in this?”
“I cannot say for sure.” The words fell from Rodolphus’s lips like stones into a deep well.
The Dark Lord turned toward the horizon, where darkness still reigned, its edges smudged with the promise of dawn.
He let the ring turn between his fingers, as the silver chain coiled like a serpent around his pale knuckles. His gaze swept the forest below - a boundless, black expanse that stretched endlessly, its trees rising like jagged silhouettes against the dim sky.
But the forest yielded nothing.
No answers, no movement - the silence pressed back.
It was not just a child’s laughter that echoed in his ears, mocking him.
Once it had been one, now there are more than many - Seven.
The chain tightened in his grip, its weight biting into his fingers.
Rodolphus cleared his throat, as if reluctant to speak again, “He was picked up - when he got there.”
He stilled.
Rodolphus stepped closer as his voice dropped to a near whisper, “Dumbledore - the brother - found him, took him to the westernmost parts of the Bloodlands. He owns that filthy tavern, the Dead Bird. Seems he’s taken a certain liking to the boy.”
The Dark Lord’s jaw tightened as his teeth ground against one another, “And… any other… contacts?” he asked, voice smooth as silk, yet holding the weight of a storm gathering at its edges.
“He’s bunking with the Loon; the traitor, not the other,” Rodolphus answered quickly.
The Dark Lord nodded, slowly.
The faintest glow of dawn began to split the sky, turning the black of night into a deeper blue, though morning remained a distant promise. The forest seemed to listen, the leaves murmuring in the wind’s uncertain breath.
“When was the last time you encountered a non-magical wolf, Rodolphus?” The question slipped from his lips, a curious thing.
Rodolphus hesitated, “I can’t say I’ve ever seen one… my Lord.”
The Dark Lord’s lips curved, “…a hound, however…”
He did not wait for a response, “You have done well - stay home, if only for a few days. You have been gone long.” His tone shifted, a trace of something softer threading through the chill, “I wish to see you at Court again.”
Rodolphus bowed deeply, as he placed a hand over his heart, “Of course, thank you, my Lord.” Rodolphus voiced, “Ad Potentia, In Puritate, my Lord - always.”
With a final nod of his head - Rodolphus had always been able to tell where he was not wanted, it was another thing the Lord liked about him - Rodolphus retreated into the room. The door closed with a muted click behind him as he left, leaving the Dark Lord alone in the lingering dark, where the night still held dominion over the waking world.
A thin smile stretched across his face, like a crack through marble. He lifted the necklace higher, the ring catching the last traces of starlight. “Always…” he echoed softly, the words slipping into the darkness like a promise -
Gjithmonë, it read.
Albanian - he knew the language intimately.
He wondered if the boy did, if he knew what word lay upon the ring once wrapped around his neck.
It was a promise, as much as it was a mystery, as much as it was an answer.
┈┈┈ ⋞ 〈 ⏣ 〉 ⋟ ┈┈┈
The orb of light floated in the darkness just beyond his window.
It flickered slightly, turning a deep shade of blue before it flared once more.
It was a familiar sight.
For many nights now, the orb had tormented him - hovering just out of reach. Beyond windows, down dark alleyways, at the bottom of stairwells, it had lingered, giving him the offputting feeling of being watched. And for many nights, Hadrian had ignored it, had willed himself to look away, to feign ignorance as if, somehow, that may stop the haunting.
It hadn’t.
And it was beginning to grate on him.
With a huff, he glanced over at Zeno, who was asleep on the narrow bed opposite him, and watched the slow rise and fall of his chest. The faint light of the orb spilt through the window and danced along Zeno’s face, it hued his pale skin a soft blue, highlighted the soft curve of his jaw, the stillness of his brow.
Hadrian envied him.
He wished he could fall into a soft slumber like Zeno could.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept through the night, undisturbed.
Sighing, Hadrian kicked the thin blanket off his legs and crawled carefully toward the window above his bed. Careful not to disturb Zeno, he cracked the window open slowly, allowing the cool night breeze to filter into their shared room, before he slipped through it - with one last glance over his shoulder at his sleeping friend.
The air outside was sharp and still, laced with a faint tang of iron and blood that clung to the barren lands he was entrapped in. He manoeuvred down the side of The Bird with precision - scaling buildings was familiar to him, it did not trouble him to do so - and dropped onto the dirt path with a soft grunt. Suddenly cold, Hadrian cupped his hands to his mouth and exhaled into them; the warmth of his breath curled briefly in the chill before it vanished.
He narrowed his eyes, surveying his surroundings, before he caught sight of the light.
It bobbed gently ahead of him, opposite a boarded-up building that he’d seen very few enter during his time in the Bloodlands. It flared, its soft light illuminating the faded graffiti on the wooden planks blocking the windows, before it disappeared and reappeared in an alley just off the main path to the town centre.
Hadrian hesitated, looking around him for any signs of movement, before his curiosity took hold and he began to follow.
The alleyways twisted and turned, narrowing with every step he took. The familiar scent of rot and decay that clung to the soil grew weaker, leaving behind only an eerie stillness that was heavy and unnatural.
No wind stirred the tattered pennants that hung limply from forgotten beams - if one looked close enough, they would find banners donned with the Dark Mark, the mark of the Outsiders, banners once set alight during the years of strong rebellion. There were no cries of lost Bloodlanders, who were lost in their delusions and weighed down with the weight of Atroculofen. It was a silence so complete that it rang in Hadrian’s ears, filling the void with its own presence.
Even the buildings seemed alive, their warped wooden frames leaning inward as if they were straining to watch him.
He turned a sharp corner, expecting to see the light again, but was instead met with nothing - only darkness that was thick and absolute.
He stopped, his breath catching in his throat, and let out a slow, shuddering sigh.
Falling against the wooden wall of one of the overhanging buildings, Hadrian closed his eyes for a moment, and let the weight of the darkness press against him. The wood was damp against his skin - his thin, tatty rags for clothing did nothing to soothe the cold of it.
He could hear his pulse hammering in his ears.
He had thought…
Only he could - would - send such magic to taunt him.
…he had thought…
He gasped as, behind him, a voice broke the silence:
"Curious little things, aren’t they?"
Hadrian spun sharply, his pulse quickening at the sound of the voice.
Stood in the narrow alley was a woman.
A fragment of moonlight, she resembled, with hair that cascaded down her back in soft waves and loose plaits, a pearl white. Frost kissed, pale and luminous, there was a glow to her that reflected off the rotting wood surrounding them - the alleyway no longer felt entrapping, nor endless in height and length, for she stood as a beacon of light that made Hadrian’s eyes crinkle. Untouched, she looked, by the ruin of the Bloodlands: there lay no bags under her eyes, no wrinkles on her brow. Hadrian would have thought she didn’t belong to the crumbling town, a place that sunk further into decay with each passing day - if not for the tattered rags that clung to her, worn in a way that felt both wistful and sorrowful.
She tilted her head, a dreamy smile curling at the edges of her lips, as Hadrian met her eyes.
They were a blue so deep they almost looked violet - a shade endless like twilight.
Her voice was gentle when she spoke again, as though she were caught between a sigh and a song, "They glide through the night, dancing on the edges of dreams... whispering where they go."
She smiled as she stepped closer, her bare feet making no sound on the dirt below, "They’re restless, always wandering, always searching," she whispered, before her tone shifted and a brief flicker of solemnity crossed her features, "But they never stay.”
Hadrian hesitated, "They?" he asked, cautiously, his gaze flickering back to where the glowing orb had once been.
"The wisps," she said with a nod, "Some call them that. Others believe they’re lost souls, drifting through the dark, searching for the Hereafter. But what is a name, really?" She laughed softly, the sound akin to leaves stirred by a soft breeze, “Wisps, Willows, Souls… Hadrian, Harry.”
She drifted closer, her feet seeming to glide over the mud beneath her. The soft glow that clung to her skin made the shadows bend and shift, and for a moment, it felt as though the world had folded inward, leaving only the two of them.
She paused just inches away, her near-violet eyes locking onto Hadrian's, "You know me.”
“I-“ Hadrian started, but he had nothing to say.
For he did know her - almost.
His breath caught as he remembered; it had been brief and fleeting, like a dream slipping through his fingers.
But it had been her.
The same pale glow, the same starlit hair, the same eyes, but younger.
He lingers by the lake's edge…
…sigil of snakes.
There, he gazes upon beauty….
…starlight hair… it cascades down her back akin to water.
Eyes a blue so deep it nearly blurs into violet…
“What are you doing?”
“Listening,”
She stands before him, as real as the smoggy air he could barely breathe in, older, with eyes that have deepened with knowledge.
His lips parted, but no words came out.
Her face contorted with a knowing smile as she leaned in, close enough that he could feel the coolness of her breath against his skin, "Not quite," she whispered, "Not yet."
Eyes glinting with amusement, she pulled back, and the moment broke, like a wave receding from the shore - the weight of the world returned.
"You should always follow the wisps," she said, her voice dancing on the air, "They lead you to your fate…take you to what you need to find - not always what you wish to.”
The woman stepped to his side, her eyes drifting to where the wisp had disappeared, "And they don’t lead just anyone," she mused, “They tell me so.”
“Tell you?” Hadrian asked.
“Those whose voices carry on the winds, they whisper: yours is something only they know. And they never tell all at once. But they’ve told me enough to whisper for them, for those who cannot hear,” she states, as a matter of fact, “You must follow the wisps.”
She stepped closer as Hadrian hesitated. The faintest breeze stirred between them, and she tilted her head - she listened, “If you do not trust in me,” she murmured, her voice lilting, “then trust in the winds… yes, not yet.”
He wanted to ask what she meant, who she was, why it was her face he saw when he touched Zeno, but her hand came to rest gently over his eyes quicker than the questions could tumble from his lips, “Not yet,” she repeated. The words slipped from her tongue like a lullaby, before her breath brushed against his ear, and she whispered again, “But sooner than you think.”
His heart stilled for the barest of moments, but when he blinked and his eyes fluttered open, she was gone.
The air was heavy with silence, the world around him draped in a suffocating darkness that was familiar now. He released a shaky breath that trembled on the edge of a laugh.
“I’m losing my mind,” he muttered to himself.
Hadrian turned to leave, his steps heavy, but a flicker of light caught the corner of his eye.
He froze, the stillness of the alley pressing in on him, before he slowly looked over his shoulder.
…it pulsed gently, like a heartbeat, casting soft ripples of silver-blue light across the worn walls around him.
It beckoned.
…Harry…
His hand outstretched as his feet began to move…
┈┈┈ ⋞ 〈 ⏣ 〉 ⋟ ┈┈┈
He moved through the night like a shadow born from Winter’s womb: one darker than the long hours of dusk that had swallowed the sky.
The wind howled in lonely tones, carrying the taste of frost on its breath, and the bite of a coming storm on its maw.
His cloak, black as the void that stretched between the stars, trailed behind him, whispering across the snow-laden ground. His steps remained measured and precise, his boots crunched against the frozen ground as the sky above shifted: the low grumble of thunder was crawling toward him, for at his back, on the horizon, dark clouds had begun to churn - the first sign of the approaching blitz.
Ahead, a lake shimmered, a vast and frozen mirror that stretched across the barren grounds surrounding the Vale.
The surface lay undisturbed; a sheet of black beneath the stars. Naked trees bowed around it, their branches twisted and skeletal, slain by the swords of Winter. The air that stretched across the expanse of land was heavy, thick with a presence that felt like anticipation - like waiting for something to break.
He paused at the edge of the water, eyes tracing the smooth, glassy expanse before him.
The pressure had been building for days.
They would not hold for much longer.
He could feel their deterioration.
He had held them steady for too long.
His hands moved with slow, deliberate care as he unfastened the clasp of his cloak and let it fall to the snow without a sound. Then came his gloves, fingers slipped free from the elkskin, pale hands exposed to the biting cold. After were his robes, heavy and dark, formerly buried beneath his cloak; they were stripped away with the same precise care he applied to all things.
Pale, bare skin met the winter air in a display that was metaphysically beautiful.
As he stepped forward, a single raindrop fell - a small, cold needle against his skin. The storm was closer, its voice was unfolding in the near distance. The wind began to pick up, stirring the surface of the water as his feet sunk into the icy depths of the lake before him.
The cold was vicious: it sliced through him like shards of glass, but it was a pain he welcomed.
It was real.
Deeper he waded, until the water had crept up his waist, his chest, his neck.
His muscles tightened against the frigid depths, but he kept going, until the lake seemed to hold him suspended between the Earth and the Sky.
He exhaled slowly, a deep moan slipping from his lips, as he tilted his head back, and exposed his face to the storm that had gathered overhead. The air seemed to tremble as the low rumble of thunder dawned closer, and the sky pulsed with flashes of lightning.
Then came the rain, in all its fury: soft at first, a singular drop, then relentless, torrential.
It splashed across his skin, his face, like cold fingers that reached down from the heavens.
And as the storm took hold, so did they.
They came swiftly, like a plague.
…clawing at him, invisible hands tearing into his mind with feral hunger, making the shields around his mind shatter.
Multiplied, overlapped, layered, growing louder, more insistent - voices, they curled around him like black smoke.
He could feel them, as if they had form, as if they held weight - fingers of the shadows of Before, dragging across his throat, squeezing, nails biting into his flesh. His face contorted as they raked at his skin, pulling, tearing, suffocating…
You can not keep doing this—
You gave it away!
The talloned voices dug deep, they scraped at the insides of his skull, pulling open old wounds, carving fresh ones. They surrounded him, pressed against him, writhed like smoke given shape, strangling the breath from his lungs.
He released another moan, this one longer, drawn from his chest, a sound that trembled and broke beneath the weight of the shadows that reached for him from the shore. The sound echoed across the clearing, carried by the chaos that had swallowed the night.
—you allow it; you allow your own failure…
-kill him!
A cold hand gripped his shoulder, sharp nails dug into his flesh.
His head snapped to the right, and they were next to him now, staring at him with their cracked, hollow eyes, mouths open in mocking laughter. They were close—too close—crowding him, suffocating him - their breaths, their voices, it was his voice, wasn’t it?
His jaw clenched as he ground his teeth together, but he didn’t fight.
Not yet - not yet.
—do you think you can outrun us…
The rain continued to hammer down in unrelenting sheets, each drop merging with the next to form a solid wall of water. The brutal downpour whipped the lake into a violent churn, where currents twisted like watery hands grasping at his legs, desperate to drag him under, until a sudden swell crashed over his mouth.
—we’re as much a part of you as you yourself…
He engulfed instinctively, but only swallowed the icy lake - the liquid burned his throat and filled his lungs with a muted hysteria. His vision blurred as he sank beneath the surface, the roar of the storm muffled in the deep. With a hard kick, he broke free from the aqueous hands holding him and burst above the waterline with an audible, ragged breath, his chest heaving as he gulped down air.
—you will die, we will die, and no one will remember us…
—Remember!
Lightning split the sky in a violent flash, illuminating his face for a heartbeat, casting him and the ghostly faces of the voices in sharp relief - each of them looked impossibly young, with wide hickory eyes that stared back at him like echoes from the before.
They speak the Riddled name of a Gaunt boy: A Dead boy, a Murdered boy.
They remember him, of course, for they once whispered to that boy, when he still wore the name.
Before he was murdered by a King, sat on a throne dyed crimson.
—what is it, that we feel, even now… you are-
The rain pelted against his skin in a relentless barrage, sharp and callous, while more water from the lake splashed over his body. In that brief, blinding moment, the voices surged, louder and harsher, clawing at the edges of his mind, threatening to tear it apart.
Then, through the cacophony, came something… else.
A small voice, frail almost, broke through the chaos— faint at first, lost among the storm.
…scared…
The voice did not tear at him.
It did not dig nor demand.
It was a child’s fear that was carried on the wind, trembling like a leaf amidst the storm.
He lifted his head, his breath caught in his throat, the voices momentarily stunned into silence.
The wind howled, followed by a lightning flash, so close now it turned his vision white.
His stormy surroundings vanished in that instant, swallowed by the light - and then, in the afterglow, a face.
A small, tear-streaked face.
The storm beat against the night with a savage hunger, wind and rain lashing the world beyond the thin, rattling window. Thunder growled low in the belly of the sky, circling closer, as the edges of the horizon burned with jagged flashes of light. The room shivered in the weak glow of a single candle, shadows licked at the walls, it was dark - the type of dark that invited the storm.
And in the centre of it all, he sat with his legs folded beneath him, eyes closed, head tiltedslightly - he listened.
The storm pulsed through him like a second heartbeat, a force that made his skin hum, his breath come quicker.
He didn’t know what it was, the word wizard had not yet been whispered to him, he remained, as it were, a freak.
Not for much longer, but not just yet.
Across from him, a little boy lay curled on his bed, trembling beneath a worn blanket, his small chest rising and falling with shallow, ragged breaths. His plush black toy, one stolen with his own hands, was clutched tightly in his arms, its fur darkened by the boy’s sweat and tears. He sobbed softly, muffled by the toy’s soft fur, his voice barely audible over the storm that took hold outside.
Black hair clung wetly to the boy’s forehead.
His wide eyes - a vivid, unnerving green - shone with terror as another flash of lightning cracked the darkness. The child’s lips quivered, and he flung himself from his bed, his feet stumbling on the cold wooden floor as he ran toward him. His hands shook as he clutched at the back of the older boy’s shirt and squirmed to place himself behind him.
"I’m scared! I don’t like it, make it stop-" He tried, but his words were swallowed by the roar of the wind outside.
He didn’t move.
He remained still, his eyes shut tight, his breathing deep and measured, almost as if he didn’t hear the boy at all.
The storm was louder, stronger now, beating against the window.
He could feel it - like something under his skin, fueling his heart, pumping his blood, strengthening his limbs. It held an electricitythat made the hairs on his arms stand, his fingers twitch, his mind dizzy. This thing, this strange power that thrummed through the lightning, setting the sky on fire, it ran through his veins.
That, at the very least, he knew for sure.
There was another desperate tug at his shirt.
“Tom...please”
His eyes snapped open.
They gleamed under the light of the moon, hickory brown, deep like molten rock, reflecting the flash of lightning outside.
He moved suddenly; his hand darted back to seize the boy by the wrist before he tugged him forward with a force that made the boy whine in shock. He hauled him onto his lap, his grip firm, though not brutal. The little boy struggled, wept, squirmed in his hold, as he kicked weakly and tried to twist free.
"Be still." He commanded, his voice low, quiet almost.
His grip tightened around the boy’s waist, to force him still.
The boy whimpered, his hands clawing at the elder’s chest, trying to push him away, “Let me go, I don’t like it!” he cried, his voice high and panicked, tears spilling from his wide eyes - a child’s fear, “Please, let me go!”
But he didn’t release him.
Instead, he grabbed the boy’s chin, his fingers digging into his soft skin, and turned his tear-streaked face toward the window.
"Look," he commanded once more, his lips hovering near the boy’s ear, “Witness it.”
The little boy’s sobs grew louder, his face scrunched tight as tears spilt freely, his small frame shaking in his grasp. But the older boy's grip only grew steadier: one hand clutched the boy’s chin, the other anchored him in an embrace that was at once steadfast and yet strangely comforting.
“Look,” he repeated, his voice quieter now, softening like the edge of a blade turned flat.
The boy's eyes fluttered open, tentative as moth wings, their surfaces wet with tears. Beyond the cracked window, the storm had ignited: lightning tore through the heavens in jagged silver veins, whilst thunder roared in its wake, a raw, feral sound that shook the broken bones of the ratty Orphanage just off Vauxhall Road.
He felt as the boy stiffened against him, trembling like a bird in a gale, but he dared not loosen his grip.
With shallow breaths and trembling hands, the boy stared, wide-eyed, at the chaos beyond the paned glass, and soon, his shaking began to settle, replaced by a placid stillness.
The plush dog tumbled from his grip and fell to the floor unnoticed.
His grip softened, his fingers loosening but never letting go, as the boy’s shivering began to ebb. His lips, cold yet soft as dusk, brushed the boy’s tear-streaked cheek - a fleeting, tender gesture, like the whisper of the wind against the glass. He held him still, close to his chest, where the thunder seemed to echo through both of their bodies.
“There,” he murmured, his voice a thread of warmth amidst the cold, his breath grazing the boy’s skin, “Let it in.”
The boy’s breath hitched, his wide eyes alight with something raw.
Lightning carved the sky again, and in its wild flash, the green of his eyes caught fire.
The elders eyes narrowed as the candle on the bedside table wavered, then surged unnaturally, rising tall and bright to cast shadows that spun wild and alive across the walls.
The little boy melted slowly into his hold then, as if all of his energy was lost, whilst his small hands clutched at his arms, which were still wrapped around his midriff. His breaths came out steadier now, the sharp edges of his sobs dulling, though his heart still beat a frantic rhythm beneath the fragile cage of his ribs.
He watched his descent from hysteria, his fingers brushing the boy’s chin, his touch no longer firm but lingering, before he let him go.
“You feel it…”
With a deliberate wave of his hand, the candle extinguished and its final breath curled upward in a thin wisp of smoke, leaving the room swathed in shadow.
“We’re alike - you and I.”
The boy looked up at him - tear tracks glistened faintly on his cheeks, but his face had softened, succumbing to the quiet. And in the flickering light of the storm beyond the window, the boy's eyes burned:
…there was lightning in his eyes - what a wild thing.
Green eyes - they were green.
A very particular shade, one that could not, would not, be replicated.
Green like Jade, like something precious, like something to be hidden, protected.
Green like Envy, like something poisonous, like possession, like something sharp and deadly creeping through his veins, setting his soul alight.
Green like the Snake, the colour of his past, his present, his—
Green like a blanket of foliage, on a Winter’s Eve, where a boy hides within the trees to look upon red.
His chest tightened as something overwhelming swept through him, a force - a power - so vivid and consuming he felt his heart drop.
(Power was a remarkable thing: it did not come from storms and wands alone, nor he himself uniquely. There was power in the things he considered powerless - he would learn this too late.)
In silence they remained, the older boy’s arms wrapped around the younger, steady as stone against the backdrop of chaos, as if he alone could hold back the storm… could stop it from consuming the hobbled walls that surrounded them.
He couldn’t, of course…
…at least, not yet.
He emerged from the water with a heavy gasp.
His breath came shallow and unsteady, each rise and fall of his chest a strange rhythm, unfamiliar, as if it belonged to someone else.
The rain, relentless as it was, fell gentler, its touch soft as fingertips, as the droplets traced the ridges of his spine.
There was a ringing in his ears, high-pitched, constant; it made his head spin as he grappled to keep himself afloat.
The world was eerily still, save for the quiet drip of water as it slid from his body back into the lake.
His limbs were sluggish and weighted, the ache in his muscles unfamiliar - unwelcome.
He snarled whilst he clawed his way to the shore, the mud and stone scraping against his fingers as he pulled himself free of the lake’s hold.
Once on solid ground, he wavered, his hands braced in the wet earth, his head bowed.
The rain pooled on his back, sliding down his neck in cold rivulets, but he could hardly feel it. His mind was awash with flashes - fractured images that surfaced unbidden, like jagged pieces of a broken mirror.
“Let me go, I don’t like it!”
"I’m scared!”
“...please”
He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his palms deeper into the mud, as though the earth could ground him, steady him against the onslaught. But the flashes came again, staccato and relentless:
…there was lightning in his eyes - what a wild thing.
“Tom...please”
“We’re alike - you and I.”
“Tom…”
Tom…
He lifted his head slowly, as a crack of lightning split the sky in two.
With a flick of his wrist, his wand - bone, pale, phoenix core, a brother - soared into his hand. Following closely behind, the fabric of his robes lifted from the shore and spiralled toward him in ribbons of dark silk. They wrapped around his body as he lifted himself from the ground and began to stalk toward the looming depths of the forest.
…ahead, faint and flickering, an orb of light hovered - suspended between the trees like a trembling star.
It beckoned.
…Tom…
┈┈┈ ⋞ 〈 ⏣ 〉 ⋟ ┈┈┈
The essence of deception is distraction. Distracting the people you want to deceive gives you the time and space to do something they wont notice.