DISCLAIMER: I don't own the HP universe.
Bellatrix narrows her eyes as she enters the derelict cathedral; broken, rotten benches and one collapsed column are the reminders of how much time passed since someone took their prayers to this isolated corner of the world.
She's not alone. A cloaked figure examines the newest addition to the altar: a rudimentary cross, shoved unceremoniously to the floor, the remains of Fenrir Greyback pinned to it. More like spiked, she observes, silvery spears all over what's left of the werewolf's torso. Her steps alert the inspector, and as he turns around, Bellatrix does not bother disguising her disappointment.
"Hale."
"Lestrange," he answers, barely registering the famous Bellatrix, self-proclaimed right hand of The Dark Lord.
Darius Hale. More of a scholar than a Death Eater, but a true savant when it comes to death and its effects. The closest thing to a coroner they have, if you ask her.
Not that this makes Bellatrix acknowledge him any more than she needs to. The man is a bore, and a good one at that. Let's get this over with.
"Ol' Grey. Never thought I'd live to see this day." She takes measured steps down the aisle, closer to the grisly murder scene.
"I don't expect he did, either. Part of his 'pack' was beheaded and dismembered about three kilometers to the north, and he shows serious signs of struggle. He put up quite a fight … at first."
They look at the werewolf's horrified stare, then back at each other, and Hale pierces through her nonchalant posture. They are both thinking the same thing.
It's no simple task to break Fenrir Greyback's will.
"Macnair was not pretty when we found him, either, but the modus is all different."
"Same killer, though."
"You can't be sure of that," she challenges.
Hale snorts. "By all means, hide in your shell of denial if you must." He raises a hand before she can snarl an insult or reach for her wand. So predictably feisty.
"Different wounds don't change the overall signatures." He points to a specific stab mark. "He twists the blade here to get him into shock, probably to take the body somewhere else for the torture. Same as Macnair."
"Of course, Fenrir's a bit more than a man when it comes to stamina, so he fights through the pain." Hale moves to the side of the cross, eying the neck. "The pressure marks indicate strangling. The sheer amount of pressure applied … and it was not magical, mind you."
"What, someone actually choked Fenrir Greyback?" she laughs. "You're delusional."
"Not someone; something. A pet, probably a creature the assassin controls." He never looks back at Bellatrix and her insults, which makes her even more agitated. "See the sucked-in tissue patterns around the neck? Probably tentacles, or something resembling tentacles." He takes a step back, eyes on the floor, following an invisible trail. "The slightest extra pressure would've snapped his neck right there and then. Careful, but deliberate use of force. Fenrir passes out, is probably heavily bound, and brought here."
"Would you like some time alone, Hale? Sounds like you have a hard on for this freak."
"I admire efficiency," he admits, shrugging. "He plans, and executes. Once the victim is awake, he indulges in some real carnage."
Hale points at the cross again. The arms are nailed by the wrists, but dangling loose from the body, having been cut clean at shoulder length.
"Whatever cut through his flesh and bone also cauterized the wound instantly. Could be magic flame, or tempered steel. Just like Macnair."
"Macnair had his family jewels cut and put in his …"
"I don't need the reminder. Just pointing out that the weapon of choice is probably the same."
Bellatrix gives him a nasty smirk.
"Afraid you're next in line, Hale?"
What surprises her is that the smirk returns to her, and then disappears as Darius starts to walk away from the corpse.
"No reason why I should be, at least for now. I'm not out there burning houses to the ground just to see people squirming inside."
"What is that supposed to mean?" He does not pause, and she aims her wand to his back. "Hale, it's not like you need to force my hand here," she says, almost in a sing-song voice.
He sighs, turning around. Hale shoves a hand down one of his cloak's pockets and retrieves a small pouch wrapped with thin leather, throwing it at Bella's feet.
"Might as well take this to The Dark Lord yourself." Hale leans against the partial column Bellatrix avoided on her way in, his hands casually back in his pockets.
"Even if all other evidence pointed elsewhere, there was still this. Same content as the previous one. A small pile of ash, a piece of ruby carved as a rune of sorts, and the same inscription written with the victim's blood in old parchment." The Death Eater looks to the ceiling. "Nusquam Ad Abscondere."
"Nowhere to hide", she murmurs, still loud enough to be heard. Hale nods.
"What about the rune?" she demands.
"Like I told you before, it's similar to some patterns I've only heard about. Not anything you'll come across in Ancient Runes, certainly not in any book that Hogwarts ever offered."
"So how come you're the expert, then?"
"I never claimed to be. I'm just telling you what I know. It closely resembles symbols associated with retribution. The worst kind of retribution."
She sees it in his eyes, even from this distance. He knows more.
"What are you not telling me, Hale?"
He considers stalling, but chooses not to.
"I'm telling you everything that I observed and the information I gathered. What I keep to myself are speculations, and speculations alone."
"Amuse me," she quips, wrapping the pouch with a little more force than she means to. "We're obviously being targeted by a mad man. Lunatic theories should apply."
"There's method even in madness, Bellatrix. This is not someone acting in the heat of the moment." He stands properly. "Marking Death Eaters for execution? A lunatic, perhaps, but certainly not an idiot. And take a look around you, Bellatrix. He – or she - is not only succeeding; whoever this is … is enjoying every second of it."
Darius contemplates the seasoned (and now silent) Death Eater before him.
"Speak your mind!" she orders, annoyed.
"The universe keeps itself balanced, Bellatrix. Its many currents and dimensions, all connected and flowing. It's how it's always been; it's how it always will be. The Dark Lord bested Dumbledore. Killed Harry Potter. Defeated everyone that stood in his way. He tilted the scales to his favor, for sure …"
"… But no king rules forever. Balance makes sure of that. Perhaps it's what we're witnessing here."
He starts to walk towards the door. The witch now has her wand pointed directly at his back, her blood running with rage from this ... this stray's lack of belief in HER master!
"You insolent …"
"Kill me, if you so desire, Bellatrix." He reaches for the doorknob. "Merlin knows I wait for the moment where I can continue my studies on the other side. It will not stop this hunter, though. If anything, perhaps you'll just speed up his agenda." He turns his head to face her with a grim smile. It's one of the few times Darius scares her. Slowly, very slowly, she lowers her wand back.
"I didn't think so," he says, almost sadly. Hale's crossing the threshold when he hears her voice again.
"Who are we fighting here, Hale? What are we fighting?"
The Death Eater pauses again, knowing she finally chose the right question.
"We have used dark magics for so long to secure our rule over ordinary men, Bellatrix." He grabs the cowl smoothly to cover his head. "Crossed one too many lines, took - perhaps - one step too far. Did you ever stop to consider what would happen if the dark we so desperately wish to wield ever decided to rebel? What would it send our way?"
She just stares blankly. He looks at her one last time, face now hidden in shadows.
"Perhaps … we'll finally know the answer to that."
Darius disapparates, leaving Bellatrix to her thoughts ...
... And, in the distant borders of the northern forest, a shadowy form coils once it's done eavesdropping on the Death Eaters. It patiently sharpens a large, gleaming axe.
"Find the answer, you shall, old man." he smiles. "But don't you worry, scholar of Death. Mrs. Lestrange is higher up in my list. And, oh," he adds, apparently, speaking to his axe, ideas dancing in his mind, "we are going to take our sweet time with her, aren't we?"
AUTHOR NOTES: This was heavily inspired by two talented authors, their stories and characters, mainly these:
lightblue-Nymphadora: s/9618393/1/Hopeless
HeadlessHuntsman: s/8866359/1/Harry-Potter-and-The-Were-Squid
Also, because of this story, a skeleton will live(?) to sleep another day.