Prologue
A cloaked figure emerged from the darkness.
They shuffled through the night, pinching their obsidian cloak with blanched fingers, the enormous hood shrouding any discernible features from view.
The houses lining the street the stranger walked belonged to muggles and outcasts, squibs and nobodies. It was bordered only by an enormous forest that was bathed in silver moonlight, spindly branches trembling and dancing in the wind.
Somewhere in the distance an owl hooted, and golden autumn leaves scuttled apart in the sudden gale, blowing into neighbouring gardens and unkempt front patios.
The figure turned, observed, and continued onward with obvious hesitation — a shadow cutting effortlessly through the desolate street, cloaked and disguised like a dementor, though shifty and suspicious to an unsuspecting wanderer.
A harborer of malevolence.
When the figure came to a dilapidated shack perched at the very end of the narrow road, they stopped; the movement of a rising sun, slowly and then all at once. They sighed. Drew their cloak in tighter, quashing their doubts. Fear’s gnarled hand found their heart beneath the black layers of cotton, and squeezed mercilessly.
The night was cold, dark, and full of terrors.
Despite it, the stranger could not be afraid. No. There was no place, nor time, to find a home for this fear to reside — not alongside the thrumming ambition, desperation, melancholy wresting for dominance inside . . . her soul was already dampened enough.
She was one of the last true soldiers, marked with death.
Freedom embraced her with open arms. A life of solitude and anonymity. Unfortunately, it was more than would be allowed for the others. They were each confined to a hollow place of nightmares, choppy waters rushing beneath their quenched aspirations.
These others . . . they did not have much ambition, admittedly. Not as much as the lumbering figure. When their master shrivelled and dissipated from their dark cause, her companions fled in puffs of black smoke. Disappeared like the Lord — disappeared and pretended nothing had ever occurred. Lied. Thrived amongst blood-traitors and mudbloods.
Their promises were empty and cheap, and utterly unbelievable.
She scowled beneath her hood and strode toward the door of the forgotten abode; the paint was chipping, the mere state of the house enough to ward off any unwanted visitors. Fortunately, she was not unwanted.
A single knock. Bones against wood. Only one knock was needed, for within a second the floorboards croaked inside.
Shadows danced behind the stained glass half-moon window at the very top of the door. The handle trembled as a hand groped the metal inside, but was not pulled inward.
“It’s me.” the hooded figure mumbled, pressing her face close to the disfigured door.
There was a great stirring inside, a rumble of noise. The door opened a crack, pale light seeping through, accompanied by an awful smell of mildew and rot. “Address yourself.” a sharp voice spoke, teeming with a fading Bulgarian accent — like a glass object dragged against stone.
”Silver.”
She rolled up the sleeve of her robe and showcased an unmoving tattoo, ink pressed to porcelain skin. It was a skull, with a twisted serpent for a tongue.
There was silence.
And then the door slammed, shuddering on broken hinges. Locks and padlocks and chains rattled beyond her perception, metal grinding against metal, and then the door opened to it’s full width, revealing a tattered, vexed looking woman standing behind it.
From head to toe, she dressed in red. Crimson robes, crimson hair, crimson flat-shoes, crimson nails, crimson lashes. Even her eyes were the wretched colour, gushing around dilated black pupils like spilled blood. Her skin, however, was the colour of curdled milk, stark compared to her demanding attire, and it glistened brightly with youth — as if she had not aged a day past twenty.
Which she hadn’t.
The Crimson Witch. Longest living witch known to man, possessing nothing but curses and lost souls to keep her tarnished heart beating for years and years and years to come.
Admittedly, it would not beat much longer in her state. Her cherished souls were now ghosts, her curses near extinct.
The cloaked figure was her only hope.
“Do not stand there,” the Crimson Witch snarled. “Come in.”
The figure rushed inside, cloak billowing out behind her and pooling over the steps. The stench of a collapsing home wavered into her nostrils upon entry, and quickly overwhelmed her senses. It smelt like an amalgamation of dust and rot and blemished surfaces and mould. The thick, grimy air was also ripe with magic, tingling deep in her bones. Every piece of furniture was covered in cobwebs and dust, the unmoving pictures hanging from the walls indiscernible through the heavy layers of grime.
“What happened to the family who lived here?” the cloaked figure inquired, staring at the staircase that had been ripped of carpet, leaving only bare pallets of wood in its wake.
“Death claimed him. It was an old muggle. Likely some disease.”
The Crimson Witch lit a half-melted candle with the tip of her finger. An orange glow rippled across the stirring shadows like waves in a storm, illuminating more dust and more grime clinging to every notable surface.
She turned to the guest, crimson eyes burning brighter than the candle. The depth of colour was unsettling; it was nothing normal, not even for a witch.
“Remove your hood,” the witch demanded. Her voice would have been almost enchanting, if not for the dissolved years lingering behind it. “I want to see if you bring truth.”
“Who else would I be?”
“One of the phoenixes.” she said, albeit nonchalantly, as if she already knew the truth of the matter concerning identity. “If they all aren’t already dead and turned to ashes.”
“Unfortunately not. They won this battle, rest assured.”
The Crimson Witch arched a brow and gestured toward the figure’s flowing cloak, an impatient flick of her bony wrist; the topic of conversation was closed. Talk of defeat was rather difficult to stomach.
The stranger grasped the curvature of her hood and pulled it down over her head in one, sharp movement. Waves of silver hair cascaded over her shoulders, and her pallid cheeks were peppered with freckles, eyes a rich tone of evergreen.
“Yes . . .” The Crimson Witch murmured, scrutinising her guest with those unsettling, bloody eyes. Somewhere, deep inside, her victims writhed and begged for release. “There is no Harner without the silver hair.”
“Do you believe I am who I say I am now?”
The witch hummed, “Yes. Without a doubt, Ayane.”
Without another word, The Crimson Witch strode into the sitting room, unsettling a cobweb strung across the doorframe. Her feet moved effortlessly beneath her as if she were floating atop the broken floorboards, while Ayane hobbled along behind her, something so incredibly mortal in comparison to the never-ageing blood-witch that it was almost laughable.
The sitting room was ancient, undisturbed after so many years of unlawful residence. The previous inhabitant’s unopened letters were strewn across the carpeted floor, and the shelf of dated books was thick with dust, the pages as yellow as the rising sun.
The Crimson Woman did not sit. She floated to the centre of the room and stood, with her hands clasped in front of her.
Ayane sat heavily. A plume of dust rose from the single couch, patterned with floral patches, and suspended up into the air around her. She coughed, waving a hand to disrupt the old cloud from completely invading her lungs, while the witch simply stared . . . and stared.
After a minute of coughing and staring, Ayane grew uncomfortable beneath the weight of the woman’s stare. She cleared her throat, “Before we divulge into this matter of business, I must ask. You chose me — why?”
The red witch unclasped her hands and lifted them halfway to the ceiling in a cogent gesture, “Out of the Lord’s small committee of living followers, I believe you most capable.”
“Me?” Ayane repeated, slightly shocked. Unwilling to shed her facade, she masked her surprise with a lopsided smile. “Well, you would be correct in that belief. The Dark Lord’s followers have scattered like cowards. Disappeared. Only few still stand, including me.”
“Yes, and there is a price. Aurors from the Ministry hunt you everyday, with the intent of lifelong imprisonment,” the Crimson Witch mentioned. She was detecting a certainty of unwavering loyalty in her leal Lord’s follower, seeking any trepidation in the silver-haired witch, as well as the potential of cowardice. Was she truly who she made herself out to be? Or was she another falsifier? “Does that not stir fear in you?”
“No.” Ayane said sharply. “The Aurors will be searching for me the rest of their measly little lives. They cannot catch me.”
“As you say.”
“As is the truth.”
The Crimson Witch’s mouth twitched. Truthfully, she had never encountered a Death Eater so devoted to their Lord’s cause. Not even his right-hand woman, Bellatrix Lestrange. The only competition was herself — the Crimson Witch was renowned for her loyalty to the Dark Lord during the war.
Ayane sank deeper into the fraying sofa and levelled the red witch with a pensive look, “Let’s not dither around. There is business to be discussed.”
“There is.”
The witch turned to the extinguished fireplace and lit the ashen heap of wood with a delicate swerve of hand. Flames roared to life, licking the wood and bathing the gloomy room in temperamental warmth. The Crimson Witch’s face was illuminated by the sickly orange glow, highlighting faint wrinkles encircling her narrow eyes and jagged etches from age around her pursed mouth.
Youth could not always be in favour. Her immortality was certainly dwindling, alongside their lost cause.
“You want me to retrieve something,” Ayane recalled. The ominous words uttered through her fireplace three days ago by the blood-witch had said as much.
“Yes, that is correct.” The Crimson Witch murmured, nodding. She gazed into the fire, her eyes pools of bubbling blood. “It is of most importance. It may help in bringing the Dark Lord back to his former glory.”
“Truly?”
A steady nod. “Before his untimely demise, the Lord himself ordered me to retrieve it. Hide it, he demanded. Bury it somewhere.”
“Why? What is it?” Ayane asked curiously. “What makes it so important?”
“That, I cannot say.”
Ayane folded her hands. “Where is it?”
She had never seen the red witch hesitate before — it was an attribute Ayane had envied for a long time. Yet, here she stood, reluctant to inform the silver-haired loyalist of the truth.
The river of spilled blood gushing over her shoulders and down her back rippled in the cutting breeze that blew in through a large crack in the front window. The pane had been smothered in torn pieces of newspaper, blocking any view of the outside world, and further disguising the red witch’s hideaway.
The silence following the inquiry was an answer in itself. Even the wind howled in dissatisfaction.
“It’s lost, isn’t it?” Ayane queried impatiently.
“Yes.” The Crimson Witch lowered her head, looking for the first time in her long life ashamed. “It is lost.”
“Then our business ends here.”
Ayane made to stand up, but an invisible force shoved her back into the sofa. It felt like a large hammer had been thrust into the pit of her stomach, and she was given no other choice but to yield.
The Crimson Witch dropped her hand. Ayane almost forgot she was incredibly skilled without a wand — so much so she had not used one since the days of Grindelwald. Her hands were deadly, and the power rushing through her crimson veins was a force to be reckoned with.
“You strive to serve our Lord, correct?” the witch demanded, her voice no longer smothered in a coating of sweet jest.
Ayane nodded, but her scowl had not yet dissipated. “I do.”
“Then you must listen to me, and you will serve him.”
“By hunting for lost objects in shadows?” The guest scoffed angrily and shook her head.
The Crimson Witch stepped forward, until she was standing directly in front of Ayane, looming over her like a bleeding god. She was beautiful, yet frightening. Tall, lean, spine straightened like a sword and just as unyielding as steel.
She placed a skeletal finger beneath Ayane’s chin, tilting the woman’s head upward. That was when Ayane noticed her freckles were crimson, too, as scarce as they were.
“This is no greater way to serve the Dark Lord. He has been seeking the great object for many years, but has never succeeded.” The Crimson Woman’s breath smelt like cinnamon. Her grasp around Ayane’s chin tightened as her eyes grew wide and dark with desperation. “When you find it, we will waste no time in bringing the Lord back to his former glory. Do not doubt me, and you shall be heavily rewarded.”
Ayane swallowed thickly. The words heavily rewarded made her mouth water with the thirst, the desire, of endless possibilities.
“You must bring it to me, Ayane. Do you understand?”
It felt as though she could not disagree; it was impossible to think of a reason why. Something inside of her screamed yes, though her brain whirred with arguments that could not seem to breach the tip of her tongue.
“Yes. I will bring it to you.” the silver-haired woman agreed.
“Do not waste time. Begin the search today.”
“I shall.”
The Crimson Woman finally released her chin and strolled toward the fire. She stared into the crackling flames, her eyes burning bright as falling stars.
Ayane’s stomach tightened.
“Go. And do not return until you have it.” The Crimson Witch ordered brusquely.
“What does it look like?”
The fire roared, and for a moment it looked as though faces were dancing around within the streaks of red and orange. Ayane could not discern who or what they were, but the stricken expressions filled her with cold, chilling trepidation that turned her blood to ice.
The Crimson Witch peered at her subject from over her shoulder, “You will know it when you see it.”
And so Ayane set off into the rising dawn in search of an object she was a stranger to.