Leave One Wolf Alive, And the Sheeps Are Never Safe
Whoever is kissed by Death can never be killed.
That is the Death Eater motto. A reminder that all lives lost for the Clan are not in vain, not swept away with the wind to end up as another mere number. No, the deaths are carried with them.
It is, however, a poor consolation to a little girl of only five years to her name as they cremate her mother on her birthday.
Yet it is all that Elara Vespera Black gets as thousands mourn their losses from the Police Force’s strike. That and a gentle kiss on the crown of her head as Aunt Cissa takes her hand and guides her to light her mother’s coffin on fire.
“The traitor’s daughter,” little Elara hears as her Uncle tucks her by his side as if his lean, muscular frame could shield her from the glares that mourners shoot at her.
It doesn’t.
She still hears the sneers, the quiet loathing that lingers in their stares. The blame so easily shifted because she is right here in front of them, and the perpetrators are too far to reach. It helps that she has his face too. Mame had told her so. And just like Mama always said, Elara keeps her chin tilted up despite everything.
It is her right and her duty as the Black Heiress.
“Sirius Black’s daughter,” someone points at her. They say it as if it is a sin, a fault they can never make peace with.
It's the first time she hears his name.
In fact, it is the day Elara buries her mother when she learns of her father’s name for the first time.
Before, he had always been ‘papa.’
A faceless man whose hair she shares and whose laugh came easier to him than most of their family.
Now, he is Sirius Orion Black.
The traitor.
The police force’s dog.
The one who allowed Mama's death, and almost Elara's if Lord Voldemort, their Boss, didn't order her hidden away in his own personal chambers at the start of the attack.
You know, Mama had tried to teach Elara many things. Grace. Loyalty. Love.
It is her death, however, that teaches Elara hate.
There's not much to say about Elara Vespera Black other than that she's bat shit insane, pardon his language.
But, Blaise supposes that it comes with the territory, being a Black and all.
He could commiserate though only slightly as a Zabini, pureblood of the old Wizarding times who, just like Elara, managed to awaken the magic promised in his blood.
There's a reason why they are both in the elite ranks.
He, however, cannot relate in wanting to join the Police force, the very same who almost destroyed their organization 12 years ago.
"I can't believe you're still serious about that," Daphne Greengrass, a fellow pureblood who inherited a passive power and as such, is more so a glorified paper pusher than anything though Blaise would never dare so lest he gets sucker punch.
Elara, their dearest little princess, rolls her eyes as they continue walking in the entrance hall, ignoring the rookie's and lower members' bows.
"And I can't believe that you're still going on about it," she responds though not unkindly. It is rare for the heiress of the Black bloodline to be anything but fierce and kind to the ones who earned her loyalty. Blaise would happily attest to it.
"She's been talking about it since she was like ten, Daph," Blaise remarks flippantly. "There's no way she would give up on it."
"Exactly, thanks, Blaise."
"Anytime," Blaise gives her a crooked grin. "Guess you really miss Daddy dearest, don't you?"
Someone passing by them falters, choking on its sip of tea from what it looks like. Daphne freezes, shooting him a frantic, betrayed glance, but Blaise is undeterred. Someone has to wear the armor once in a while.
Elara's eyes darken. "Totally."
Touchy subject, Blaise knows, yet it does not leash his words for he knows that he is safe from Elara's true wrath.
Another who speaks of this subject, however, wouldn't be so lucky.
"So, did you pass the force's entrance exam at the very least?" Blaise asks.
Elara looks insulted while Daphne rolls her eyes, too used to his antics to waste energy in trying to scold him. Smart girl.
"Of course, I did. I'm Viper. Who do you take me for?"
"For someone who got flat-out drunk the day before her evaluation," is Blaise's amused reply.
"Ha as if you guys weren't any better," Elara retorts, lifting a hand to swat him but faltering at the almost hissing voice from behind them.
"If I recall, you three are still two years behind before you can drink." The three of them freeze, breaths caught inside of their throat as they slowly - as if it will make him disappear - turn their head towards the one who spoke.
They immediately kneel.
There stands Marvalo Gaunt, a well-connected and beloved politician who rose in fame in the last five years or so. He is a tall, handsome man that though nearing his mid-forties, still has this elegant charm to him.
Marvalo Gaunt is someone respected that is running for minister.
But to the three teenagers and the rest of their organization, he is their Boss, their lord. Lord Voldemort.
Elara is, per usual, the first and only to rise before his bidding, a smile lighting her face as she steps closer. "My lord," she almost chirps as a greeting. She sounds younger, lighter. Blaise still doesn't dare to look up.
"Elara," Lord Voldemort greets with a smooth, soft voice. "Rise," he then says, addressing both Daphne and Blaise.
Blaise rises.
"Now, what was that about being 'flat-out' drunk?" Lord Voldemort asks. Blaise would have preferred not to, quite honestly, as he has no way to evade his lord's scarlet eyes as they seem to pierce into his very soul. No one really dares to speak up, and the older man sighs. "Especially you, Elara, when you had your evaluation the very next morning. Or maybe, do you not wish to undertake this mission anymore?"
Elara startles, eyes lowering as her deep chocolate hair, the same shade as Lord Voldemort, melts into ebony. "Of course not, my lord!" she exclaims. "It was a lapse of judgment, please forgive us."
Personally, Blaise wouldn't call it a lapse of judgment per say. More so a celebration that just so happened to violate at least three of Lady Malfoy's rules for the two siblings, but who is Blaise to judge, having joined all too happily.
"I suppose that the death of Alberforth Dumbledore by your team's hands must be worthy of being celebrated."
Elara perks up at the subtle praise. Blaise too. It isn't every day their lord is free with his acknowledgment.
"While Elara goes undercover," Lord Voldemort says, turning towards the Zabini heir, "I expect you and young Draco to make up for her absence. No one should know that Viper isn't active."
"My lord," Blaise acknowledges the order with a bow. He gives a rugged, confident smirk. "It will be as if she never left."
Lord Voldemort nods regally. "See that you do." He starts walking away, hands behind his back and chin tilted up, knowing well his place above them all. He stops. "Elara," he calls, and Elara gives them a little wave with dainty fingers before hurrying after their lord, but one step behind him.
A rookie, half-blood from what it looks like, throws a nasty glance at Elara's back and Daphne, overprotective friend that she is, throws a dart at his feet in warning.
It should be an odd sight, Blaise thinks, to see the daughter of a traitor to be so close to their Lord. But for those in the elite task, for those high enough to see the cracks and darkness that slips in once in a while, it wouldn't surprise them.
Because though Elara Black has traitor's blood, her pureblood loyalty is that much stronger.
And they know well that she will sooner slit her own throat before betraying her family.
"This operation is crucial. It demands willpower. For one to be ruthless." Lord Voldemort tells her as he sits at his desk chair, more so a throne from its allure.
Elara, seated on the armrest, nods. "I know."
"You are the perfect agent for this job," he continues, turning scarlet eyes toward her, scarlet meeting scarlet. Something inside of her preens at his acknowledgment, a warmth that spreads into her chest. "But most find it distasteful to act against one's blood. And the police force is under your father."
But Elara couldn't care less.
"It doesn't matter if it is, I will do whatever you need me to."
His eyes narrow, creasing and flashing. Lord Voldemort has always had a piercing glare, one that left everyone floundering as if their life was bared before his eyes. "I need to know if it is going to be an issue. I do not need you if you falter because you finally met your father."
Elara bares her fangs. "He's not my father."
Lord Voldemort gives a dry chuckle. "Oh, darling girl. He's the one who gave the seed that birthed you. The one who gave you his blood."
"But he didn't make me." Elara stresses out through gritted teeth, a hand clenching at her lord's robes that are silk beneath her fingers. Her father had never really known of her till he decided to sign her death warrant 12 years ago. If anything, he only contributed to Elara's existence and then decided otherwise.
"No," Lord Voldemort is gentle, possessive when his index brushes on her cheekbone before tilting her chin toward him. "I made you. But him?" His gaze lingers on her hair, silky and chocolate and her cupid lips that look like a mirror of his own. On her scarlet eyes. "He gave you this."
Lord Voldemort says it as if it is a gift. They both know it isn't though at the end of the day, it is more so a cursed one. One that Elara would be foolish to not want, but it speaks of her blood and her pain for her to have it.
Fathers, Elara thinks, should not be the ones to give that pain.
Lord Voldemort tuts, as if reading her thoughts.
Or rather, he does.
Another poisoned gift though most would not regard it as one, especially those who do not manage to acquire it, envy and greed heavy in their eyes.
"He might have hurt you deeply, but his loathsome existence made you stronger. Not everyone has the honor, the hatred to awaken a second power. You and I, dear girl, are special. They made us special and it will be their undoing."
Elara sighs, allowing her head to rest on his shoulder. He is warm at her side, a constant that five years old Elara had found most comforting, and thus, has never let go of since.
"I just want him to pay," she confesses like she is still a small child in need of a warmth to call her own.
Pay for the blood he shed, as indirectly and directly as he did.
Pay for Elara's mother's death.
Pay for the sneers and the loathing that blazed into everyone's eyes as news of his promotion within the police force revealed to them all how traitorous the Black heir had become.
It had been a heavy burden for a five years old child to suddenly be so reviled, taken at arm's length as if she too would turn traitor.
To no longer be praised for being a beauty like her mother, but for looking too much like her father in the way she held herself, the ways she smiled, the way she breathed.
It's all his fault, five years old Elara thought rightly so, fists clenched at the news paper in which her father laughed without a care with his wife and daughter's blood on his hands.
It's all his fault as eight years old Elara tries to claw her face off because she was her father's daughter, and everything reminded her of that sin.
"He will pay, do not worry. They will all pay." Lord Voldemort's voice trails off, a threat not so quite hidden in his words, a promise to her that steals a smile as Elara nuzzles closer and he presses cold lips on the top of her head in an almost fatherly affection.
Sometimes, Elara wonders what was Lord Voldemort's trigger to awaken his second power, a stage that only powerful wizarding bloodlines hold the potential for. The source of his hatred, one so deep and scaring your entire soul tears itself apart, trying to protect its core.
For Elara, it had been waking up to her mother's murderer's face every morning.
(It had galled her so,
that at eight, she abandoned her face.
for another and then another
endlessly searching
for something
that didn't hold her father's shadow. )
Harry James Potter knows he is good.
It is an undeniable fact.
Son of the James and Lily Potter, two of the Police's force finest in generation and godson of the current Police Head, he has known all his life that he will continue its legacy.
Which is why he doesn't take it too kindly to being relegated as a rookie as if his past work suddenly means nothing.
"Why do we also have to take the evaluation?" he grumbles, hands crossed as they wait for the applicants to enter.
Hermione pinches the bridge of her nose. "Because it wouldn't be fair otherwise."
"Fair?" Ron exclaims, just as outraged as he is. "We've been helping the force since we were fifteen! Heck, we even have our own desks there, already!"
"Don't act like that, Ronald," Hermione chides. "It is not like we are special or anything-"
"But Hermione, we are special," Harry interrupts, chuckling at Hermione's answering swat.
Though Harry means it.
They are the famed Golden Trio with more missions and victories to their name than most of the normal police force who cannot claim the same.
They had the burden and blessing to awaken powers from their ancestors that saw them more prepared to fight the gang led by the psychopath Voldemort.
As Remus likes to say, or rather deplore in Moony's case, they stopped being civilians the day Voldemort decided to make people pay for the witch hunt their ancestors did.
"Shut it, Potter," Hermione laughs too at his arrogant remark. She then points at the door, her hair barely contained by an elastic band following her move. "Anyway, it's your turn."
"Damn Mione, how'd you know that?" Ron whistles appreciatively. Forget about having an agenda when you have a walking encyclopedia.
Hermione taps her temple. "Magic," she whispers half laughing at Ron's exasperated but amused rolling of the eye.
Harry swallows, nodding.
This is it.
His first step in following his parents' footsteps, officially, that is. He's one step closer at giving them justice.
He steps into the gym. Kingsley is the one in charge, his dark eyes glinting as he nods at Harry, careful to remain neutral.
"Number 7," he says with his grave, soothing voice. "Number 19," he nods to the other candidate.
She's a tall girl, pretty at that, Harry notices.
Number 19 is the kind of girl that blokes will turn around to catch another glimpse of her, with straight chocolate hair and hazel eyes. She has a twinkle to them, a mischievousness that Harry recognizes well, having worn the same look since he was old enough to walk.
Though, Harry would take her more as an analyst by the looks of it. She's soft, delicate and she observes everything, back perfectly straight with hands tucked into her hoodie.
A good fighter would never just tuck their hands away, to have such an unguarded profile.
He nods at her, she inclines her head.
"You two will fight."
Harry throws a weird glance at Kingsley. Wouldn't that be like unfair? Don't get him wrong, he knows well that many women are absolute badass, but just like he dislikes fighting against Hermione, who specializes in investigation and analysis, he doesn't want to hurt the pretty girl that seems more at home in the station and not a field.
"You sure, Kingsley?" he asks.
"What, scared of a little girl, Number 7?" the girl teases, a smirk playing at her pink lips.
"Not really," the Potter heir shrugs, smiling back at her. "I just don't want to" he gives a vague arm gesture towards her, sweeping her entire form. "break any bones by accident."
Her smirk grows meaner.
"That won't be a problem."
"Don't tell me she almost broke your nose," Ron asks with laughing blue eyes.
Harry rolls his eyes. "She did not break my nose."
"That wasn't exactly the question," Hermione remarks with a giggle. She points at the corner of her lips. "You still got blood there, by the way."
"Darn it," Harry aggressively rubs his hand at the spot. He throws an accusing glance at Ron. "And you couldn't tell me that before we walked back to the dorms, mate?"
Ron shakes his head, mirth in his every move and words. "Nah, wanted the rest to take a good look at you before. It isn't every day that you get your arse kicked."
Harry protests hotly at how the redhead phrases it. "I did not get my arse kicked, I just got surprised."
"Oh, really? Do I need to recite the definition of surprised to you, Harry?" Hermione asks, quirking a brow in challenge.
The Potter Heir deflates, sighing. "No need, Hermione. I admit, I got my arse kicked."
"Seven ways to Sunday," Ron pipes in as if trying to be helpful.
"What he says."
The entire Police Force, the Order of the Phoenix department, that is, reunite to celebrate the Golden trio's official acceptance among their ranks.
"To Hermione!" Moony toasts. "Without you, we would be lost like a band of chickens running without their heads. May your blessing keep you safe and let's hope you don't kick me out of my Head of Intelligence position too soon!"
Hermione pinkens at that, lifting her beer as a pleased blush spreads to the tip of her ears.
"To Ron!" Tonks toasts as well. She takes a gulp of beer before continuing. "Our little chess master! May your blessing keep you safe and leads us to victory as it has for the last years!"
Ron laughs, clinking his own bottle of beer against hers.
Sirius Orion Black, Head of the Police Force, stands up, a beer in hand. People quieten as he starts.
"To Harry!" Sirius's smile is proud, endlessly happy in the way Harry rarely sees his godfather to be. His face, lined with stress and grief, lifts itself up into the laughing, exuberant man he was before the great tragedy happened. "Our little Prongs who make us so proud! James and Lily would be proud of you, kid. May your blessing keep you safe, and may you shine the brightest."
"Hear, hear," Kingsley intones. The older man looks amused as he continues, "May you not follow in James's path while chasing a bird."
Harry blushes at his words, throwing a little glare at his mentor. Way to throw him under the bus, huh Kingsley.
"Oh?" Interest lights up Sirius's grey eyes like a dog sniffing out a particularly interesting piece of gossip. "What bird?"
"Cute girl, she applied to be in the OP," Kingsley says casually. "Normal civilian background with martial arts thrown in. She was part of the SD, first."
SD?
The sniper division.
Interesting, Harry wouldn't have pegged her as one, at least not in his first guesses. With the way she punches, one would think she's more used to her fists than a sniping gun, but hey, who is Harry to judge?
"And she's going to get into OP?" Sirius's voice is heavy with disbelief.
Kingsley shrugs. "Might not be usual, but the girl's good." After all, OP deals with the grittier, messier fights, especially against gangs like the Death Eaters or Greysback's. Harry's mentor tilts his chin toward him. "She got him well."
Fred snickers. "So that's why you were covered in blood," he says.
"We thought you ran into a wall while looking at your reflection," George finishes with a chuckle.
Harry throws a piece of bread at them, ignoring Molly's chiding look guiltily. "Laugh it up, you two."
"Oh, we will." Fred nods seriously, a grave look on his face that his twin brother mirrors. "We have to know the name of the girl that sucker punched Harry Potter right in the face."
"She must be amazing," George says, a hand to his chin, posing as a great thinker. "We should celebrate her accomplishment."
"Like you'd do better," Ron joins in, still munching on his chicken. He points at them with a finger.
"Yeah, but people wouldn't care about us," George deflects. "But Prongs, on the other hand, if words on the street got out that he as gotten knocked on his arse -"
"Which is a very pretty ass," Fred interrupts like it is the greatest compliment he can ever give Harry.
"-by a girl, they wouldn't believe it."
Tonks sits up, eyes piercing at Harry, face utterly serious though a smile quickly enough breaks through her act. "Tell me, Harry. What's your favorite part about her?"
Fred tries to answer for him, "Probably her ar-"
"If you say arse, Fred Weasley, I'm making clean our four-floor library during the weekend." Hermione interrupts, looking disapproving yet entertained at the same time.
"Her smile."
Harry does not even have to think about his answer, the word already escaping him like a confession.
Tonks nods, approving as Sirius snorts. "What, not her beauty?"
Harry hums. "That too."
But the dark-haired boy cannot help but remember her smirk, that teasing curve of the lips that promises fire. It had looked fierce, yet so beautiful to the point it stole Harry's breath. It helped that Number 19 then rushed towards him with more speed than Harry had thought her capable of.
The punch was violent, precise but it swept him away like he was but a sand castle faced to the ocean's might.
"Ah, I know that look." Sirius says with a smirk though grief stains its corners. There's a wistfulness in his voice, a longing that he usually wears every Halloween. "James had the exact same one."
Harry scrunches up his nose. "What look?" he asks.
Sirius smiles at him, gentle when his godfather has lost all softness the day his daughter died, as whispers say.
"The one you have on your face. It's a man in love."