Psalms and Brandy
Muggleborn Terrorist Attack on Hungarian Wizarding Minister Count Andrássy and Family Leaves Dozens Dead
BUDAPEST, Hungary - A devastating terrorist attack struck the heart of Hungarian wizarding society early Sunday morning, as a bomb detonated at 7:15 am local time at the grand Sándor Palace, the residence of Minister Count Andrássy and his family. The explosion claimed the lives of twelve servants, three house elves, and tragically, the Minister, his wife, and their five-year-old daughter.
Eyewitnesses reported a deafening blast that shook the palace and shattered windows, sending debris flying in all directions. The force of the explosion tore through the opulent residence, leaving behind a scene of devastation and carnage.
Emergency responders rushed to the scene, battling flames and smoke as they worked tirelessly to rescue survivors and extinguish the inferno that engulfed the palace. Despite their heroic efforts, the death toll continued to rise as the full extent of the destruction became apparent.
The motives behind this heinous act of violence remain unclear, but authorities have confirmed that the attack was carried out by individuals of Muggleborn descent, with use of muggle technology in the attack, sparking fears of escalating tensions within the wizarding community.
In the wake of this tragedy, the wizarding world mourns the loss of Minister Count Andrássy and his family, esteemed members of Hungarian society whose lives were cut short by senseless violence. Count Andrássy was a staunch supporter of muggleborns, and was in the process of reformation on a bill which would increase talks between the wizarding world and the non-magical. As investigations continue and the search for those responsible intensifies, the nation grapples with grief and disbelief at the devastating impact of this cowardly act of terrorism. Talks will begin next week on the election of a new minister.
Sebastian stared at the newspaper article, a small section in the back pages of The Daily Prophet. It had been written by a local paper in Budapest, and shared with papers across Europe.
He flipped back to the front of the paper, staring at the winking witch in the society pages as his mind spun.
A muggleborn terrorist attack in Hungary seemed unconnected. Then again, so did fucking everything. He forced himself to see a connection, Harlow's words ringing in his ears.
Easy target.
First the Romanian Minister of Magic dying of a heart attack in his office, and now the Hungarian minister blown to pieces in some retribution act. The only connection was that ministers were dropping like flies. And none of it explained where Ash was. Perhaps Harlow was playing games with him— sending him on a goose chase while Ash suffers.
Sebastian stood from the couch and kicked the coffee table over, sending books and parchment flying onto the marble. His chest heaved as he sucked down air, and he turned and stalked for the door.
___•___
Sunshine heated the back of his neck as he weaved through passerbys. The city streets were crowded; summer's warmth drawing lords and ladies from their country homes back to the city proper.
It smelled like shit.
Sebastian stalked down the edge of the River Thames, grimacing at the scent wafting from the sewage-filled canal. An off-shooting alleyway had him veering away, away from the markets and shops and deeper into rows of slum-like houses.
It only took half an hour to find the place, the gleaming iron-wrought sign a metaphorical beacon amongst the gutter rats and street urchins.
'Saint Mary's Home for Children'
The orphanage cut an imposing silhouette against the backdrop, its presence marked by the unyielding embrace of an iron fence that encircled the property. The fence was weathered and rusted in some spots with age. Old. This place was old.
Beyond the fence lay a cobblestone courtyard, its surface worn smooth by the countless footsteps of those who had passed through its gates over the years. Tall, gnarled trees lined the perimeter of the courtyard, their branches reaching towards the sky like skeletal fingers.
The architecture of the orphanage itself was a testament to a bygone era, its imposing facade looming over the courtyard like a silent sentinel. The building was constructed of weathered gray stone, its surface marred by the passage of time and the harsh elements of the London weather. Tall, narrow windows punctuated the walls at regular intervals, their panes clouded with grime and age.
Above the main door, a grand archway rose to meet the sky, its intricate carvings depicting scenes of angels and cherubs intertwined with ivy and roses.
A beacon. Except Sebastian knew what happened to children in this place. Knew what worshippers of the muggle God did to sinners.
Sebastian pushed through the iron gate, the loud screech like an alarm— and in response, dozens of eyes began peeking from the high-above windows. A stranger meant adoption, meant leaving this place. A pair of little hands wiped at the inside of one window as he passed underneath, before waving down at Sebastian.
Sebastian raised a hand in return, ignoring the guilt welling inside of him. He wouldn't be taking them with him.
He pushed through the heavy wooden door, his nose immediately assaulted with a floral-shit smell. A small table lined the left wall of the entryway; Potpourri in a bowl next to the guest log. A poor attempt to cover the rotten smell of dirty children, of the Thames outside. Sebastian didn't bother with a name in the guest book, instead he strode past, deeper into the orphanage.
The halls were filled with children, each pretending to be busy while stealing furtive glances at him as he passed. The abundance of orphans made it easy to ask for directions to the Headmistress's office. Some looked nearly seventeen; boys with matted hair and puffed out chests, girls who ducked away from his attention knowing that a man his age wouldn't be looking for a seventeen year old girl for proper reasons. Others were younger, hanging onto the cotton dresses of the older girls, or sucking a dirty thumb.
He pictured Ash, clad in a ragged dress, lining these halls week after week when a visitor came. Blonde hair tangled, hand in hand with Alex. Would she have sneered at any potential adopters? Or would she have hoped at the beginning to be taken from this place? At what point would she have given up?
It knocked the wind from his lungs— every vibrant image of her lodged in his mind.
Three flights of stairs later, Sebastian found himself in front of a dark wooden door, half cracked open. No children lined this hall. No, it seemed devoid of life. He didn't wait to be invited in.
___•___
"Mr. Sallow is it?" A woman's voice sounded from the doorway behind him. He sat in an uncomfortable chair in her office, in front of a large oak desk. The desk was impeccably clean, no file out of place. A Bible sat on the corner, as if tempting any visitor to peruse its pages. He had perused, while waiting. Found certain pages weather-worn, as if the Headmistress had favorite sections. One section was earmarked.
Psalm 69:27– Add them to punishment upon punishment; may they have no acquittal from you.
"Apologies for the wait, one of our children needed a reminder of the Lord's good work."
Sebastian wondered if that reminder included a whip. Sebastian remembered the horror that had gripped him when he had seen the scars on Ash's back— the lines of mutilated flesh that he had memorized. The thought had him tightening his grip on the chair arms.
The headmistress came into view, and Sebastian studied the woman who had tormented his Ash her entire childhood. She had her hair pulled back into a severe bun, strands of gray intermingled with streaks of coal black. Deep lines etched themselves into her weathered face, evidence of years spent frowning, sneering. Her eyes were cold, despite the forced smile on her face as she rounded the desk, book in hand. She was draped in layers of dark, austere clothing, with a silver necklace around her throat— a cross on the end.
Sebastian tempered his rage. He needed answers.
"Were you able to find any files of children under the name Alexander?"
Sebastian studied the way her eyes grated over him, the purse of her lips as she placed the large book on the table and began gently, and far too slowly, turning the heavy and weathered pages.
"There have been many children named Alexander during my duration as Headmistress. However—" she cut him a look, "Considering your age, I assume your lost brother would have been here within the last ten years."
"That is correct." He stared at the pages as she turned. So many names, so many children.
"I have record of an Alexander Cook and an Alexander Evans during that period—"
"May I see it myself?"
Headmistress Beckett tensed, hand tightening imperceptibly on the spine of the book. She gave Sebastian a forced smile, one that looked near pained before begrudgingly handing the record over.
He scanned the page. Alexander Cook, brought to the orphanage in 1871 at two years old. Adopted 1876 at age seven. That didn't line up. He moved his finger down the page. Alexander Evans brought to the orphanage in 1873 at one year of age. Adopted in 1887 at age fifteen.
Sebastian ignored the pang in his heart when Ash's name appeared on the record only ten lines down. He tried to focus on the task at hand but mention of her sent his mind tunneling; Asha Cendrillion, brought to the orphanage in 1877 at three years old. Rehomed in 1890 at age sixteen.
Rehomed but not legally adopted by Professor Fig. Sebastian knew the man was as close to a father figure as Ash had ever had, legal adoption or no. If Fig hadn't died, Sebastian knew with certainty he would've taken her in as his own.
He forced himself to focus. Ash was at the orphanage in 1877. Alexander Evans was there during that time; and adopted when Ash would've been thirteen. It was him.
There was another column, to the right of the adopted dates, containing signatures. Sure enough, Eleazar Fig beside Ash's row. His eyes flickered across the page following Alexander Evans. Who had adopted him? How had this seemingly unimportant, nonmagical boy end up working with Ashwinders—
Everything seemed to freeze when he read the name. Sebastian read it, then read it again. Tension crept up his spine, a tingling that seemed to radiate down each metacarpal, as he tightened his grip on the pages. Threads had been woven years ago, of that Sebastian knew, but he hadn't realized how tangled everything truly was.
"If you are finished, I will gladly take the records back."
The stern voice snapped him from thought. He shut the book, sliding it across the desk. The woman catalogued every micro-reaction, drinking in the downward tilt of his lips.
"You seem dissatisfied. Did you find what you were looking for?" There was a gleam in her eye, one that hinted at a sort of pleasure at his reaction. How a woman of her caliber came to run a home for children, Sebastian didn't know.
"I found exactly what I needed." Sebastian said, rising from his seat. He pulled a coin purse from his leather bag, along with a bottle. "The fee is there. Along with a bottle of brandy, as a token of appreciation."
Sebastian had had a feeling she indulged. A feeling he had confirmed when rifling through every drawer and cabinet in the room. Those thoughts were far from mind now, when every stream of consciousness was solely focused on what he had seen on that page.
She eyed the bottle before letting her gaze travel to the chest of drawers on the far left wall. Sebastian knew the bottom left drawer contained two bottles of whiskey. She looked back at him, her lips pulling into what looked like an attempt at a real smile. It was off-putting, "How thoughtful."
The headmistress didn't offer a glass of brandy to him, though he had expected as much. He wouldn't have accepted anyway. Sebastian didn't have a taste for brandy. Or what he put in it.
She wouldn't be able to taste it, or smell it under the heavy scent of liquor. That was the beauty of belladonna, unremarkable in the magical world, and yet easy to find amongst the shelves of Knockturn Alley for a silver sickle.
Sebastian couldn't take the children with him, but he'd be damned to leave them under that woman's care for a moment longer. It was for Ash. For every scar on her back. For the broken promise of always finding her.
He passed through the now-empty halls, orphans long since given up on the prospect of adoption today. He passed an open doorway, one with a staircase that led further down into the bowels of the place. He swore for a moment he heard an out-of-tune melody sweeping up the stairs. It tore at something in him, to see traces of her everywhere. He wondered if some of these children felt the same aching loss when she had left them— if there was a child in that basement seeking a comfort in a melody she had once brought to life.
Sebastian pushed through the heavy oak door to the courtyard, the smell of excrement barely phasing him as he stalked away from the looming building.
No, his mind was turning over the signature— the lopsided scrawl listed as the adopter of Alexander Evans.
Victor Rookwood.
___•___
Alex
"Were there any complications?" The voice sounded from the Floo, a face peaking from the crackling flames. The end of the sentence wasn't lifted like a question, instead it was acerbic, biting. Alex knew better to respond, instead he stood clenching his jaw as Black's fire filled eyes flickered to the wraith at his side.
The pub was shoddy, dilapidated and questionable enough to have a secondary Floo system in a back room. One that had been paid for handsomely for privacy tonight. Privacy Alex ensured with tightly knit wards around the room and a caterwauling charm at the door. The room was lit only by the fireplace, casting long twisting shadows over the walls and ceiling.
"The mark was nearly missed." Black continued, his voice hissing with each pop of wood in the flames, "Had he been two steps closer to the door, we would be dealing with a heroic recovery and not a funeral."
Another pointed silence followed Black's words, one that stretched until—
"There was a child."
Her voice was low, like frigid ice. Alex fought to keep his gaze locked on the hearth.
"Elaborate." Black's own timber was resonant, each syllable stretched and punctuated.
"A child was not listed in the required casualty list." She responded. Her voice was blank, lacking all the qualities that sounded human. There was a strain however, a clench in her jaw, and twitch of her pinky as she answered.
Silence greeted them once more, and Alex watched as Black's coal colored eyes raked down her figure— as if taking in each minute detail. A log popped and cracked under the flames heat, and then Black was sighing—
"We need a recalibration," Black said, his voice lined with distaste, "The distance is effecting the efficacy of the blood runes. Bring her back home, Alexander. Our pet is in need of a tune up."
___•___
A scream bounced across the stone walls. Alex had grown up with screaming, had heard it at every stage of his life. Overexposure to stimuli leads to a reduced reaction. He didn't so much as flinch.
Another scream, this time choked and gargled.
Alex waited outside the door. Entering without permission was expressly forbidden, even for him, her keeper. He had been her keeper once before, in another lifetime. A lifetime in which she hadn't killed his only family.
Adoption had been a horrid thought at first, one that involved leaving behind a sister of choice though not blood. Horrid, until he had met his uncle, a relative on his deceased mother's side. Horrid, until he had pulled him into the fold—
Gave him a home. A purpose.
Taught him magic.
He was special, his uncle had said. Magic made him special. His uncle had insisted on a private education, one he had received himself. Alex was more than happy to agree, and when his uncle introduced him to the family business—
There was no hesitation in Alex's involvement.
It had been brutal, not contacting her at the orphanage. He had promised after all. But she was muggle, Victor had said. Not special. There were bigger things than a girl left behind.
Imagine Alex's surprise when her face was plastered across The Daily Prophet; survivor of a dragon attack and oldest first-attendee of Hogwarts to date. Then it had been glee. He would convince his uncle to let her join the fray. Alex had taught her to fight after all, she would be useful. Victor was amenable to the idea, after all he already knew the girl's strengths and weaknesses; Alex had spoken of her nonstop when he arrived in his uncles' employ. She would be with him again, she would be special like him.
Until she was on the wrong side of the war— killing soldiers of his uncle's army, his army, with no reprieve. Until she had put his uncle, his blood, in the ground as maggot food.
Then she was the fucking enemy.
When Phineas Black had offered a place in his kingdom, a kingdom that was in fact not in shambles after his pawn Ranrok had died at the hands of her, when he offered power and respect and revenge who was he to say no?
After all, he was the last living Rookwood. He had a title, an army, and a seat at the table. He was special. Important.
He played spy for months. Following her around like a fucking dog as she shopped and ate candies with her buddies. She had almost seen him once or twice. It had been as if she felt him watching her. He had wanted her to catch him— had wanted to end her then, the same way she had ended his uncle.
But Black had had a plan, one that brought her and her little friend into the lion's den of their own volition.
Seeing her face to face five months ago, when he arrived to pick up the pieces of Harlow's fuck-up, Alex had expected the shock. Welcomed it. There was something near religious about the contortion of her face— from fury to surprise. Something gratifying in her recognition.
He hadn't been expecting the adoration to still be found in those green eyes.
She screamed again, a guttural sound. They'd have to repair her vocal cords. Again. He leaned his head back against the stone wall, shutting his eyes.
She had never been a screamer at the orphanage. Not even when Jacob Hawsworth had shoved her face first into the dirt. A weeper sure, but she never gave anyone the satisfaction of seeing her scream in pain. Not even Beckett.
She had been a timid thing in those days. Alex wondered what exactly had snapped in her after he had left to create the monster he'd seen on that field; laughing as she cut men down.
He rubbed a thumb over the back of his palm, tracing the swirls of ink that marked his dark skin. He supposed he wasn't the same either.
The door opened, nothing but silence in the room beyond. Black exited, rubbing dittany along the blood-letting wound on his wrist. The silver ring on his right index finger gleamed in the torch light. Two guards exited behind him, hands on their wands like trigger-happy grunts.
"Bring our pet to her chambers, Alexander," Black said, passing him, "Give her six hours to recover and then off to Bulgaria."
Alex gave a dip of his chin, "Yes, sir."
Black and his flanking patrol passed without a second glance in his direction. Alex turned towards the open doorway, a chill seeping from the dungeon cell.
She was supine atop the rock slab clad in a white gown, manacles and collar chained to the surface. The glinting silver glowed bright red, the runes carved along each piece of metal seeped in blood. She stared up at the ceiling, pupils burning as bright red as the blood along her chains. No emotion showed on her face, no sign that she had been the one screaming only moments ago.
Blank. Empty.
He had a flash in his mind, of the two of them huddled under a blanket, reading and re-reading about Frankenstein's monster chained to a slab—
Alex flicked his wand and the chains holding her to the table vanished. She rose, pivoting to sit on the edge of the slab. Her movement was fluid, cat-like, every motion poised in a way that was unreplicable.
His eyes dropped to the burn marks lining the skin under the silver along her wrists and throat. They had expanded, red cracked skin branching up her forearms and up her neck. He pivoted his gaze to the wall behind her.
"Let's go."
At his command she slid from the table, landing silently on her bare feet. Wordlessly he turned and stalked from the dungeons, passing the anti-apparation wards before latching a hand at her elbow and turning on the spot.
___•___
Her chambers were lavish— fit for an heiress. A bird in a gilded cage.
The walls, painted a soft cream hue, provided a neutral backdrop for the opulent furnishings and lavish décor that adorned the space.
Gold and green embellishments adorned the walls, intricately woven into the fabric of the wallpaper in ornate patterns reminiscent of a bygone era. Delicate scrolls and flourishes intertwined with verdant vines, their golden hues catching the light and casting a warm, inviting glow throughout the room.
The furnishings were regal, each piece a statement of the Black name. A massive four-poster bed dominated the center of the chamber, its intricately carved frame rising towards the vaulted ceiling like a cathedral spire. Rich velvet curtains, the color of deep emerald, hung from the canopy, creating an aura of intimacy and seclusion.
Along the walls, antique tapestries depicted scenes of grandeur and majesty, their rich colors and intricate details adding depth and dimension to the space.
A roaring fireplace, set into a marble hearth lined the far left wall, its dancing flames casting flickering shadows across the room. A gilded mirror hung above, reflecting the room's splendor. Plush rugs, woven from the finest wool and silk, softened the harsh lines of the hardwood floor.
Better than his own chambers.
Alexander stood in the doorway, feeling the wards vibrate at his back. Only he and Black himself had access to her rooms. It had been limited to the two of them after an incident with a guard on duty who thought he'd enjoy a taste of Black's pet. Wards had been constructed and the man had lost his head for the transgression.
The wraith was standing in the middle of the room, staring at nothing. Waiting.
"I will retrieve you in six hours. Sleep."
She crossed the room mechanically, before she crawled on top of the bed and shut her eyes. The manacles and collar still glowed an iridescent red, a color that wouldn't settle for another few hours. He wasn't sure what possessed him, but he crossed the threshold into her room and stepped up the bed's edge. He hovered his wand over her throat, "Vulnera Sanetur." he whispered, watching the faint glow from the spell seep into the damaged tissues in her vocal cords. She didn't stir, though he could've knocked her around the face and per his command she would've stayed silent and still.
He murmured the spell twice more, knowing Black wouldn't want his pet to be mute. He then stepped back from the bed, clenched his jaw, and swished his wand through the air. The sheets around her slipped under her prone form before gently settling on top of her.
He turned, slashing his wand downwards as he passed through the doorway— the candles in the room guttered and went out.