Authors Note: So we begin a most marvelous tale spawned from too much late night reading and an urge to be productive. I appreciate all comments and critiques. For venom is a much better cleanser than sugar.

-oOo-

The old wooden dock was barely standing against the gentle lapping waves of the sea. It jutted out into the crisp aquamarine water like an ugly piece of trash. The supporting pillars were waterlogged and its planking blanched by the sun. Barnacles crawled up the posts deepest in the waters, forming white capped spackle and slowly rotting their way through the wooden fibers. There were no boats tethered to it, just an old fat albatross sitting content in the heat of the sun. Snoozing in this empty place. It was a mixture of desolation and paradise. The beach was rocky, but beautifully untouched.

The craggy cliff that rose like a wall a few meters past it held no life save for the tough and sharp sea grass that doggedly found a home on any surface flat enough to root on. Gulls preferred to make their nests on such cliffs, the drop giving them protection from predators. Yet there were no gatherings of soft grass and sticks in any of the outcroppings from that mighty barrier. Not even a single dropping shat from up high onto the stone.

No, just a single seabird upon a forgotten dock. It's dark wings folded as the soft breeze rustled its feathers. One yellow eye unblinking and staring outwardly into a quiet sea. This was an old place, and a home of old ways. Where man dare not tread.

So it was quite a shock when the air was displaced, making a sound like a whip-crack and with it a figure appeared. The codger of a gull took to the air in fright, an awful racket following its launch. Wings beating to lift its pudgy body up as it cawed.

CAW! RAWWWK! CAAAW RAAWWK!

Furiously it tried to scare away the intruder. They were disheveled but standing strong. He was an old man, or old beyond his years. Watery blue eyes held contempt for the squawking bird. Sweat gathered along his brow beneath graying hair, the dark and heavy robes ill suited for the climate. With practiced ease a splotchy hand dove into the folds of his clothing, drawing forth an elegantly simple wand. Ebony, ten inches, Unicorn hair.

"Silencio!" A practiced wave and sound disappeared from the upset albatross. It continued to fly in circles, its mouth open in a continuous silent squeal. Leaving only the waves to greet Augustus Rookwood.

-oOo-

Rookwood was a simple man, for complexity in character lead to complexity in life. Narcissism, egotism, angst, depression, arrogance, self-loathing. To him, these were the signs of an ill-organized mind. Such emotional mess led to difficulties and problems, and Rookwood had enough problems as it were without them. Instead, he subscribed to much simpler philosophies. His wants in life were great, one would say fatally so, but they were quite unimpressive.

Gather close what you desire, push away what you detest.

He watched the sea bird circle for a moment, turning his gaze to the cliffs ahead. They reminded him of the shores of Dover, which was no comfort. He was very far from those chalky walls. Several thousand miles in fact, in the Aegean Sea. Somewhere off Greece's fractured coast. Rookwood did not particularly care for what 'home' meant, but he had a certain affection for England.

He had a single chance to see the cliffs, before he had taken an illegal portkey over the channel. While the Ministry still reeled in the chaos of the Battle of Hogwarts. As the Prophet called it, nasty rag it was. It was unlikely he would ever see the sight of Dover or any other part of England again, with the way his luck was going.

It had all turned quite sour. One didn't need access to the metaphysical qualities of good fortune to understand that...but as a disgraced Unspeakable the man was privy to understanding the nature of his own defeat. A prophecy. A boy. A Dark Lord. A battle. It was all very simple. The only complication(Oh how he hated complexity) was that the entire time Rookwood had been putting his stock on the wrong side of the line.

He took his firsts steps on the dock, the give in it belaying how utterly neglected the lonely pier was. Like his loafer was about to break through the ancient wood and into the sea below. That thought gave him pause, and he stared down. His soft eyes hardening as he dared the floor to crack. The wood settled beneath the hard bottom of his shoe, and the tension in his body relaxed.

Rookwood was testing his luck.

Testing your luck. An innocuous phrase. Often said but hardly thought upon. The general consensus was that unless you took a draught of Felix Felicis, luck was just there or it wasn't. But that was a paradoxical point wasn't it? The sheer existence of a potion that granted luck should have tipped the public off. But like many things that found their way to the Department of Mysteries; Luck, and the testing of rarely saw the light of day.

He had worked there, long before he had even heard of the Dark Mark that lay branded on his skin. Unspeakable things you know. He had studied alongside brilliant wizards who dug into Thought and Identity, Time and Death. Augustus was one of those geniuses, proud to stand among them. His research took place in the Office of Luck, which was a small room adjacent to Fate. They worked in tandem, as Bode would have said.

'Luck is the grease that keeps Fate going.'

Though Broderick Bode couldn't say that anymore, he was years in the grave. Put there by the ministrations of the Death Eaters. All it took was a single Confundus Charm on a doughy nurse and a sapling Devil Snare with a bow wrapped around the planter. He didn't feel very guilty over the crime.

Guilt was a complexity he did not allow himself.

Another obstacle halted Rookwood's path. The steps down to the rocky beach of the island stood before him. Off-kilter and shifted from countless storms, they were treacherous even without their age. He had a terrible image of winding up in a crumpled pile beneath them as they gave way, which made his brow furrow and his lips frown.

Rookwood did not want his benefactor to see that.

But that wasn't what stopped him. What stopped Augustus now was the taste, feel, and smell of the Anti-Apparition Ward that took up the air in front of his face. Just hovering over those maligned steps.

It was old magic. Older than the dock, older than him, and maybe as old as the cliffs. So old it thickened the air and had taken on a life of its own, infused into every pebble and driftwood the beach had to offer. It doubtfully would ever need to be refreshed, and once he stepped over its threshold he would be trapped.

Normally that wouldn't be a problem he would consider. Confident in both skill and experience, in who he was and what he offered, he would have strolled even up to Voldemort's dining table. He had, in the past.

But his luck had been rather poor as of late.

It was a machine. Not as anyone could understand it, but the definition would hold. It gave data, raw unprocessed data on luck and good fortune in the form of a colorful lightshow few had the Arithmancy to decipher. It had been his job, nay, his duty to convert the nonsense into information. It gave him insight into a world few would even glimpse.

He was marked for death, and it was draining his luck. One could make some nonsense about external factors but Rookwood knew the ugly truth. Eventually his luck would run out, and then turn bad. Like an egg left in the icebox for too long. It may have already done so, he could have wasted the last of it with that foolish contest of wills against the dock. Once that happened? He was left with his talent and knowledge.

Eventually that would be overcome, and something would kill him.

Simple, really. He liked simple. It affirmed him, even if it was a tad grim. The man could put his feet on simple, and stand on what he knew. Even if he died there.

He shook his head, dabbing more sweat away from his cheeks. He was Augustus Methuselah Rookwood! Unspeakable. He had earned the favor of the one of the most infamous Dark Wizards. Survived nearly fifteen years in Azkaban, and had held tight his sanity!

Splotch

Something splattered onto his right shoulder, a hot white mess speckled with black. It slowly trickled down a fetid trail, sinking into the cloth of his robe. Above, the Albatross cackled noiselessly, coming down for another pass at the wizard. Cracked lips pulled apart in an ugly snarl as the man raised his wand again.

"Bubalgo!" Roared out from deep in his throat, as the bird froze in mid air. Panicked and confused, the wings flapped helplessly. Its beak opening and snapping without even the softest of sounds. His liver-spotted knuckles curled tightly as he jabbed his wand forward, a flash of cobalt blue enveloping its target. His new friend twisted and contorted, belly bloating and growing. All done in complete silence. In an utter panic it voided its bowels again. This time simply into the sea. Bigger and bigger it grew, until even the silencing charm couldn't hide the rumbling coming from its stomach.

Rookwood continued the spell until the quaking, quivering mess of flesh resembled a child's balloon. Bones breaking and cracking as the body was warped beyond any recognition. The old sullen seabird gave one last confused squawk, not even allowed to voice its pain…

Then it exploded in a showering of blood like a thrown overripe fruit. Deep crimson splattered in a fine haze on the ocean waves, on the dock steps, and on Augustus Rookwood's hastily cast shield charm. With a dark satisfaction he watched one of the now cold and lifeless eyes slowly slip down the invisible wall. Then he vanished the offending droppings on his shoulder, straightened his robes, and stepped over the threshold of the anti-apparition wards.

Confidence, after all, was a proper substitute for good luck.

-oOo-

He found the stairs up easily, carved perfectly from the soft stone. As easily as the sentries spotted him most likely. Rookwood made an obvious target in his heavy and worn-through robes. But his watchers weren't as stealthy as they tried to be, all glamored up in their silver and their white. Disillusionment charms making the granite and grass hide their forms.

Even when hiding, they had to show off their wealth.

The stairway led deep into the island's growing height, spiraling out of sight. The walls of the cliff were cut to a perfect smoothness, showing off striations of minerals and flecked granite. There was only a sliver of sky straight above his head. After only a few seconds of climbing he was huffing. More stairs than the damnable Ministry! There had to be some hidden entrance built behind the walls. But he was forced to take the visitor's path. The message was obvious...

Look at our works, and cower.

Rookwood would have preferred any other group. Any...other. But the Dark Lord had left him with few allies. One did not become the most feared wizard in all of Europe by hosting tea. Though he often found that people overstated Lord Voldemort's position. If only they knew the true underbelly of the magical world, they might understand.

There were wizards, just as evil and powerful as he, who preferred to stay away from any overt business. They would never be in the history books, never have their names harshly whispered after too many drinks. Never have to worry about heroes or prophecies rising up to stop their machinations. That suited them just fine.

And Augustus was marching up to the front door of one of them in the very desperate hope his previous master hadn't committed enough offenses that they killed him on sight.

It wasn't simple, and he didn't like it and the man was very out of his comfort zone. Ever since the breakout, Rookwood knew he had lost...something.

Call it his nerve, or his luck, but that prison had stolen something important. The death eater did not know if he would ever get it back.

Company joined him as he scaled those seemingly endless steps. A vanguard peeling themselves off like hidden lizards from the sides. One in front, one behind. A dozen steps away in each direction. Their silver cloaks swishing just inches above the ground. Much lighter than his own english brand, they suffered the heat of the Mediterranean with a passing dignity that insulted the old, sweating Augustus. They were youthful and strong, his heart was already pounding in his ears from the effort of just taking each step higher.

Idly the thought of dueling them sprung to mind. If escape was necessary, it would have to be done. Could he take the both? His eyes narrowed as he examined the back of the one in front of him. Black hair, cut short. Tanned skin. A vibrancy of life that reminded him of…

Urrrgh, Weasleys.

You killed one, and two popped up to avenge him. Like Knarls in a garden! He couldn't tell the red-headed clan apart, but he had killed one of the twins. Did it really matter who? The elder Weasley came next, all full of fire and brimstone. If Rookwood had never gone to Azkaban the man would have been dead, facing the full might of the rogue Unspeakable. But imprisonment left him weak, and he only survived because of skill and quick thinking.

Then Dumbledore's brother stunned him in the back.

The blocking rock was not so menacing now, shrinking with every step. The sun was finally allowed to grace them again, which while pleasant didn't do much for the heat. With a final heave of effort from his aching knees he pushed his body over the last meager threshold of the cliff steps and saw the island proper. A field of golden grass licked at the feet of marble pillars, which held a veritable acropolis on top of this rocky island plateau. It was something out of myth or story. A white stone vista that overlooked the ocean and saw all for miles around. A home of Gods. It was circular in design, each of its sides framing a compass position. The roof was red terracotta, slanted at an angle. More of the white pillars supported the heavy structure, forming outer hallways and cloisters. He could see people traveling through them, disappearing from sight as if they were stepping through doors.

This was the ancestral home of the Benenati family, and it was the most dangerous place Augustus Rookwood could be. The guards blocked his path now,standing shoulder to shoulder in front of the stair case. There would be no turning back. He gave one last look, examining the two grey-clad men. Full of youth and health, neither were older than twenty. These were no young pups out of school though. Rookwood knew the eyes of trained killers when they were staring at him like that.

To be honest, it was probably safer dawdling with them than it was going in. Twenty years ago Voldemort had expelled(Quite brutally) every criminal syndicate and opposing dark faction in Britain…and that included the Previsione, the family's own organization.

Most likely they would still be angry about that.

But he knew the value of information, and he knew the temperament of his buyer. Francesco Benenati was a man he could understand.

Simple, not complex. A man of few pleasures and fewer problems. A simple transaction between like minds. That's how it should be.

He reached the pavilion. There was no entrance into the inner hallways. Just the pillars standing, breeze drifting between them. Magical in nature, a gateway of some kind. He felt that he was being cut off from every root of escape. First the Anti-Apparition Ward, then the guards, now this. Why couldn't they just meet out here on the veranda? The trouble of these sectioned travels were...getting to him.

Complexity never sat right, after Azkaban.

He fingered the front clasp of his robes, he had tricks to still use. But no point in running before the snare had even snapped shut. No, if there was a trap for him. Let it perform its function, and he'd beat it all the same. Show that Augustus Rookwood did not need a Dark Lord or any other master to make his worth.

With confidence waning, he passed through the gateway. There was a single split second, and the magic exerted itself on his body. He became like the wind, a rushing breeze. The edge of Rookwood's vision blurred as he took off. Flowing and turning at incredible rates down hallways and hairpin turns. Invisible forces dragged at every fraction of his being, until he was sure he resembled nothing more than a vaguely human-shaped cloud zooming down the corridor.

Despite the speed, it still took a noticeable time to traverse to wherever the blazes he was going. The complex was built deep into the island's plateau, all through the cliffs and ground. Without the guiding force pushing him along, there wasn't a chance in hell of navigating this place.

Down a shaft, through a cave, and finally his body was snapped back into place like a rubber band. Most people would be on their knees and vomiting after that trip. Rookwood exhaled, cracked his neck, and looked around.

It was a room blasted straight out of the rock. One wall made of pure glass to let the sun light in as it streamed from high in the sky. It must be past noon, for the way the island faced let the beams hit the shining marble floor and spread this way and that. Banners unfurled from the walls between unlit braziers, a dark blue that stood out from the stone gray. Upon them was etched in golden thread an eye, unblinking and staring out from a stylized triangle. Its edging warped and twisting from the glare of that ocular symbol. Trophies and displays hung from brass pegs in the wall or were scattered in front of dark leather chairs. Weapons mostly, occasionally a body part of some dangerous beast. Rookwood recognized a stuffed hippogriff head, the crossed horns of an erumpent, and even the jawbone of a manticore.

But they were all aged, and surely not new acquisitions. No, the recent additions were the bookcases. They were crammed haphazardly and without care of the other furnishings. The books on their shelves heavy and practically piled there. As if they were constantly being taken on and off to be looked at and studied.

In the center of this unique sitting room were more complications. Ones that made Rookwood nearly freeze. For at a dark mahogany table that held several plates of small samplers, a brewing cauldron of coffee, and what may have been a large pitcher of orange juice was not Francesco.

No, it was his son. And Rookwood's luck was running out.

Where the Father was simple, Cassis Benenati was uncomfortably complex. Rookwood remembered him as a fiery man out to prove himself. That was two decades ago. Now he sat with his legs crossed, his hawkish features…

Looking even more tired than Augustus's own. There was a terrible emptiness to his face. Blank and staring. His black hair was perfectly quaffed back with oils or spells, and he wore silver robes trimmed with fur. Opulent and fabulous. When he noticed Rookwood appraising him, that hollow face disappeared and he smiled and beckoned the man with lively, interested brown eyes.

"Augustus Rookwood, It has been long since I've even heard of you! We are both older men than we have any right to be." He spoke in English, stretching and playing with the syllables like a child with a fistful of putty. Accent just barely allowed into the words. Practiced.

Rookwood took a second, gathering his thoughts. And as easily as putting on a coat, he slipped into 'Old Rookwood'. The pleasant man from the ministry. A facade, Azkaban had long taken the real identity from him.

"Cassis, by I still breath! I wholly was remembering your father when I received the Previsione invitation. I hardly expected the young man who used to run riot in these halls." Mainly because Cassis despised death eaters and their ilk, when twenty years ago he swore if any entered his house they'd suffer a fate worse than death. "I never expected you to be the one to remove the persons non gratae of my...previous allegiances."

"Yes. I imagine it would be, surprising to hear that." There was something terribly fake about those straight teeth smiling. "Please, come to my table. We have business to attend to indeed."

Rookwood paced his way to the offered chair on the other side of the round table. Slowly. There were four people in this room. One was obvious. Off to the side, a plate of caprese in his lap. Dark clothes, not robes. Rookwood thought they were rather distinctly muggle in appearance. Messy brown hair that fell far past his ears, eyes hidden behind purple pince nez. He lifted a fork laden with tomato and white cheese, and tipped it towards the rogue Unspeakable.

"Afternoon, Boss." The greeting was friendly, but the man didn't smile. In fact he didn't sound happy at all.

"My retainer and friend, Mr. Marchesi. I would be quite lost in any negotiation without him." Explained Cassis. Where was the fourth man? A servant perhaps, or more likely a bodyguard. Rookwood knew he was here, could feel his magic breathing...But he was quite out of sight.

Let him remain so.

"Would you like something to eat, or some espresso? I could use a cup myself. Excuse me." He bent over, fiddling with the cauldron until it produced a steaming black brew. A dash of milk, and soon he lifted the small white cup to his lips. Slurping loudly. Rookwood winced.

"No, thank you...maybe water. Do not be offended, but I expected your father."

"I know you did." A silver carafe floated in the air, filling a goblet to his immediate right with clean crisp water. "Unfortunately I must be the one to tell you, my Father died some time ago. Right around when you entered Azkaban, or close enough." More complications.

"Oh, terrible news. I'm sorry...may I ask how it-"

"Happened? Insanity. It runs in my family. He leapt from his bedroom balcony chasing Gods...That also runs in my family." He chuckled. Rookwood didn't. "You walked by the spot where he landed, if you came by the docks." Bastard knew he did.

"A tragedy surely, but I only accepted this invitation because I thought I would be dealing with Francesco Benenati."

"And now you are dealing with Cassis. It must be very disconcerting." The man slurped loudly again, his eyes shut tight in enjoyment at the beverage. For a moment 'Old Rookwood' almost fell away, but he managed to hold on to the persona.

"I suppose one Benenati is just as good as another." That made the man open those scheming eyes. A riposte for a riposte. "I am willing to make a trade of information. Which I believe has value beyond measure."

"And I am wondering why a servant of the Dark Lord of this century is selling information to an enemy."

"Because I am no longer a servant of Lord Voldemort... Lord Voldemort is dead." Rookwood became aware of a steady scratching sound. He tilted his head towards the man addressed as Marchesi, who was now taking furious notes with a long quill on a pile of parchments pressed against a leather briefcase. His meal nowhere to be seen. Those purple glasses caught sight of his curious look, and gave a bow of their head.

"Hold up there, boss." The man adjusted his chair closer, pressing an arm against the table. Still writing as he stared with hidden eyes at Rookwood. "That's some deja vu you're spitting. I remember him dying about seventeen years , and then coming back. So, is he dead or is he just...gone again?"

"There's a body this time." He cut shortly to the point.

"Well you should have lead with that! A body changes everything, indeed it does~" Cassis folded his hands and leaned in, his attention entirely focused. "Please, Augustus. May I call you such?"

"Rookwood will be fine, thank you."

"Rookwood then. My request is the same with either name, explain."

"I am not sure how much you are aware of-"

"We are aware of concernedly little in your darling island home. Considering your Master...Mmh, excuse me, your previous Master. Killed our brothers-in-arms, burnt down Previsione holdings and forcibly removed our presence in your country with all the expert precision of a half-blind ghoul attempting surgery."

Italians. They never let a grudge go. The air grew cold in the room, tension thickening.

"Then let me be the one to mend those wounds and open your eyes again." He did not touch the water in the goblet, though his throat was terribly dry. "Lord Voldemort is dead. Killed by Harry Potter. Even you know his name, I can see it in your face Cassis. Yes, twice dead by one hand. He followed a prophecy, you know how those go." Both men shared a moment, Cassis waving a hand in disgust.

"Ah, intimately."

"Devoted utterly to its words...he was defeated by them. A battle took place at Hogwarts School. Voldemort tried to strike down the boy. Failed, and then was killed with his own wand. Afterwards his forces were defeated, scattered by those of the Light. Most captured, some killed. Few fled. I am one of those few."

"Fascinating, and that I do not think this is a delicious concocted lie because…?" he let Rookwood finish the thought. Oh he hated this man. Though his voice was full of mirth, Cassis had no pleasure in what he was doing. Rookwood could tell the signs of a man utterly distraught with complexity.

He showed his palms, giving a shrug. This was simply a game, one he would play to completion. If his luck held out.

"Because I am sitting in the smoking room of a man who'll kill me without hesitation and without provocation. In the vain hope that he spares enough mercy to grant me sanctuary from the hounds on my trail. It is that simple."

"Begging does not suit you, Rookwood. You are a better man than that...not by much mind you. Filthy death eater." Cassis casually leaned back, glancing over to his retainer. Who was still scratching at the parchment. Already it was beginning to roll at the top.

"Onto the meat then." Rookwood made no motion to the insult. It was better to ignore it. "Lord Voldemort's dark empire has crumbled. Before it did so, he had managed to infiltrate and conquer the Ministry of magic, as well Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. We are talking a resource pool that consisted of millions in galleons and raw materials. Dark artefacts and knowledge long since believed lost. Contacts and allies spanning most of Great Britain. All of that is now unclaimed and waiting to be taken for spoils." Francesco would have easily understood the offer. A simple man with simple tastes. Understandable, human. Cassis was disgustingly heroic, in the Greek sense. Complicated with motives that needed to be dissected and analyzed.

"Mmhh. And your role? You aren't giving this away for free, indeed."

"I have an innate knowledge of their location and defenses. Only I have the necessary understanding to connect these assets into a whole again. It may be possible to re-establish Previsione as a factional power in England and Ireland with them. In return for my...offered services, I expect Sanctuary...protection from the law...and a small provisional cut of gains. In return, I work for you." He had said the same thing to the Ministry, then to Voldemort. Rookwood's bleary eyes glanced between the two men. The retainer seemed interested, almost eagerly so if his quick quill-work was anything to go by. But Cassis was looking bored. A disconcerting look that the ex-Unspeakable did not like.

It reminded him of when the Lestrange Clan was getting annoyed listening, and were contemplating hurting something instead.

Rookwood was not a stupid man by any stretch, even if he now preferred life simple. He had prepared for the possibility that he would have to sway Francesco's son...

"There are several tomes the Dark Lord acquired. At least a dozen." He began. "Very powerful works on blood magic, arithmancy…necromancy. The Coulte' de Gouls is a particularly interesting read. " Rookwood felt a small smile, curiously, as Cassis jerked forward. He very much doubted that was the caffeine the man had just drank. "These items are much sought after, many would seek to reclaim them for their own uses...There is also the matter of Potter."

"And, what does Harry Potter have to do with...such matters?" Cassis replied softly. The hooks were in him now.

"Potter has survived the Killing Curse not once, but twice. The second time I was one of the witnesses. No effect on the boy, I swear it. If I understand the basic principle. I do. Potter has fulfilled parameters that make him an extremely potent locus of life and death…" He let it hang in the air.

Drama had its own kind of magic, like luck.

"To those interested in such theories and crafts. There would be a most assured interest in him." Rookwood finished, not even trying to hold the smug satisfaction on his face.

Cassis stared at him intensely for a single tick of the clock, and then disregarded the older wizard. He struck up a fierce conversation with his adviser, muttering in dark Italian. Rookwood did not speak enough of the language to understand, nor did he have the time or resources to brew up a Tongue Translation potion before coming.

He wished he had an inkling, because they were most likely deciding whether to kill him or not. For their hushed tone spoke of violence.

After far too long for his liking, they turned both their gazes to him.

"You are still as clever as always Rookwood, I must applaud not only your tenacity, but your bravery in confronting me in such a manner. Yes, indeed I must." Cassis gave a short bitter clap, before growing quiet. "And I think I can at least answer the one question that has been on your mind since your arrival here."

"Which is?"

"It has run out."

The room grew deathly still. Rookwood heard distant thunder. No. That was the sound of his own heart. Beating out of his chest. The air was stale and unpleasing. His vision swam in something close to terror.

"What, what did you say to me?" How did he know?

"Your luck. It's run out. Empty. Sou-red. Done."

How did he know?!

The room was practically spinning, Rookwood felt emotions welling up. Complex, hateful emotions he had long denied. His pock-marked face grew into an angry sneer. The pleasant old man disappeared and a feral beast took his place. He dove for his wand on instinct, scattering the table with a repelling curse. Food and hot fluid flinging everywhere.

"You upstart malcontent. Your pride will bury you! I am still Augustus Rookwood, greatest of the Dark Lord's servant. You promised safe passage, and now you WILL not deny me such. And you will not insult me so!"

"I think I will, Konstantinos!"

The fourth person in the room made their appearance in a startling fashion. Rookwood felt hands the size of dinner plates close around his neck. A half dozen defensive wards shattered, magic blooming up from the clasp of his cloak to defend its creator. His eyes were blinded by a showering display of his own broken curses.

He tried to breath, and the fingers crushed his windpipe flat. Legs kicked and spasmed as he waved his wand, expending the last of his will to drive deadly magic straight into his unseen assailant. He fought, and fought hard. But Cassis and the room were disappearing to darkness. he could still hear them.

Talking.

As if he wasn't even there. Distantly, their voices faded. His eyes bulging out of their sockets, his death curses missing them.

"Shall I arrange transportation?"

"I believe so, contact Promess as well."

"The old man's still kicking."

"Impressive...need him?"

"I'll...uses..."

"Go…Take Harry Potter…"

"...And then bleed London dry."