Hi guys this is my first harry potter fanfiction. This story will be dark. With torture, character death and gruesome scenes, so if you dont like that kinda thing please leave. I want to thank the person who helped me by editing it. You know who you I just want to say you are wonderful. One more thing please try not to flame this story. Now enjoy.
Mud squished beneath his boots as he made his way up the long driveway. The Ministry official had come to the old manor to discuss the recent events that had unfolded earlier that evening. He was an older man with thinning grey hair and a beard to match.
He had hoped that Foalyn Lestrange would be understanding, but the more he thought about it, the more unlikely he thought that would be. The rain had subsided, leaving nothing but soft ground in its wake. He cursed under his breath as he nearly slipped in a particularly wet spot.
Recovering from the near accident, and straightening himself, he was relieved to see that he had made it to the imposing gothic style door. With a shaking hand, he knocked, the sound echoing neatly in the night air.
The large door swung open to reveal a small creature with big ears and equally big frightened eyes—the family house-elf, Molly. She squeaked out a small, "Yes?"
The Ministry official looked down at her and asked, "Is your master in?"
The house-elf nodded her head in a jerky motion before ushering him in.
oOoOoOo
The Lestrange manor's interior was as massive as the exterior suggested, the spacious foyer greeting him lead to a grand staircase. Soon, he is lead into the stately office of the master of the house. He can't help but notice that it is three times larger than the size of his office at the Ministry.
The massive fireplace between the two leather chairs would be large enough to fit a caribou, if one wished to cook in it. He turned to look at the mahogany desk covered in papers, bottles of ink, and several thick volumes before turning his attention to the man sitting in front of the fire, nursing a drink and looking deep into the flames.
The house-elf announced his arrival before leaving the room with a deep bow. Long silver hair and small wrinkles adorn the man that stood to greet him, "Hello, Mr. Tuttle. To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"Mr. Lestrange, I trust you've heard about the death of Theodore Nott Sr. this afternoon?"
He motioned Mr. Tuttle to sit in the other leather chair. Mr. Lestrange looked at him questioningly and said, "I did, yes. How unfortunate it is to lose such a prominent member of our society. But that does not explain why an upper level Ministry official is gracing my doorstep at such a late hour."
This was the part Mr. Tuttle had been dreading. He took a deep breath and looked into the fire. His voice shook when he spoke, "We have strong evidence that suggests he was murdered."
Mr. Lestrange lifted his gaze from his glass, shocked. "What? How?"
Mr. Tuttle looked down at the expensive animal hide carpet, hoping to avoid the question. "We believe that he was pushed down his staircase by an intruder. No magical residue was left behind, so it is assumed the the assailant is a muggle and targeting pureblood wizards. You remember when Orion Black was found dead? Our medical examiner found high levels of radiation in his system."
"Mr. Tuttle, I mean no disrespect, but even if someone is targeting pureblood wizards, I sincerely doubt the perpetrator to be a muggle." he countered as he took a sip of his whiskey. Mr. Tuttle stared unflinchingly, "Even if it isn't a muggle, the Ministry would like to offer protection to pureblood wizards."
Foalyn Lestrange laughed as he stood and walked to a small table beside his desk, "I appreciate the offer, but I think I'm capable of taking care of myself."
He refilled his glass of whiskey and returned to his seat, "If that is all, Mr. Tuttle, it is getting quite late. You should be going."
Mr. Tuttle was not pleased with his decision, but knew that there was no use forcing protection on him if he did not want it, and took his leave.
oOoOoOo
Foalyn bid Mr. Tuttle a good night as he left the room and took a sip of his drink, feeling the familiar burn down his throat. He couldn't help but think about what the man had said, but how would a muggle be capable of killing two fully grown wizards? It just didn't make any sense. How would they get past their wards? And why were they doing it? After turning these thoughts around in his head, he decided that he wouldn't find the answers he was looking for tonight and downed the rest of his glass.
As he climbed the massive staircase on the way to his room, he observed the family portraits that covered nearly every inch of the wall. He paused when he came to an empty spot, his mind going back to the day it was taken down. He vanished the memory as quickly as it came though, with no desire to revisit that day.
He came to a stop in front of a door to a room he hadn't been in for a long time. He reached for the knob, turning it slowly and opening it to reveal an unfurnished room. Still, there wasn't a speck of dust on the floor; the house-elves must have continued to clean the room even as it stood unused.
His eyes ran over the wall where his family tapestry lied. Looking at all of the great wizards that had been in his family awashed him with pride, but one particular face caught his interest. His youngest son. He thought about turmoil the young boy had brought onto his family in recent years.
Oh, if only he had made the right decision when it came to his youngest, he just couldn't understand how the boy could bring such shame to the Lestrange name. The only source of relief was that no one would ever know about what he did. The Lestranges didn't disown, they simply replaced.
He didn't want to relive the memory any further and left the room. His master bedroom had a crackling fire going in the fireplace already and he couldn't help but be grateful for his wealth—to be able to afford luxuries, such as house-elves. His pajamas, along with his silk robe were already laid out on the end of the large four poster bed.
The soft silk sheets and luxurious fur comforter made the bed look especially inviting. He grabbed his pajamas and headed into the spacious bathroom which was illuminated by the small fireplace inside. Green and black tiles cover the walls and floor in an artful design. He is momentarily tempted by the wide bathtub, but ultimately decides against a bath for he is much too tired with the preparations for his friend's funeral occupying his mind.
A sudden noise coming from his room made him pause as he changed into his pajamas. He quickly grabbed his robe, feeling the smooth silk against his hands as he pulls it on. He stepped out of the bathroom, feeling the cool marble beneath his feet with his wand outstretched, bathing the room in light. He saw nothing.
With his heart pounding in his ears, he goes toward his closet, pulling the door open. Though he has long lost count of the many clothes and shoes within it, there was no one inside of the closet. He growls in frustration and for a moment thinks that he perhaps has taken what Mr. Tuttle had said too seriously and reminds himself that no one can get into the house with the wards up.
But the Blacks and Notts also had the same extensive wards, and look at what had happened to them, a small voice in the back of his mind says. He let out a tired sigh as he exited the closet, deciding that it would be best to go to bed and silence his thoughts. His mind however, betrayed him as he climbed into bed, badgering him again with Mr. Tuttle's words.
But how, were his last thoughts before he drifted to sleep.
oOoOoOo
A muffled bang caused to Foalyn jolt awake and grab his wand from the bedside table, muttering a quick Lumos. His heart raced as he realized that the noise had not been an imagination.
All he could see were the shadows cast by his furniture, but as he scanned the room, he noticed something out of place. His dresser drawer was open. Curious, he pushed the comforter off and climbed out of bed. The fire had ebbed while he slept, the room was colder than before.
He peered inside of the open drawer, seeing its usual contents of letters, documents, and a few photographs. He began shuffling through the drawer and slowed as it dawned on him what was missing. It was not of great importance, but it was still not something he wanted in the hands of a stranger. As he continued to shuffle through the papers, he heard a sharp squeak of rubber soles behind him. Foalyn Lestrange had tried to whip his head around, but a gloved hand had closed over his mouth, muffling his scream as a needle was stabbed into his neck.
There was nothing, but darkness then.