Prologue
–
A careless shepherd makes excellent
dinner for a wolf.
–
A disheveled man appeared out of nowhere in the narrow, blue moonlit lane. He walked with a slight limp, clutching his long leather cloak tight around him as if some nonexistent wind had suddenly chilled him to the bone. He was covered in what appeared to be mud, or soot, or possibly a mixture of the two. He was a tall man with long, tangled brown hair with a red streak. His skin was fair from what was visible from beneath the grime that coated nearly his entire body. He wore black boots and a black studded belt that looked as if it was used more as a tool of intimidation rather than holding up his dark plaid pants. There was no denying that he would come off rather chilling on most days, but his current shaken expression did little to support such a claim.
He drug his left leg with some difficulty until he reached a second man, wearing a dark cloak and an even darker expression. For a second they stood quite still, wands directed at each other's chests; then, recognizing each other, they stowed their wands beneath their cloaks and started walking briskly in the same direction.
"We heard what's happened," said Severus Snape apathetically. "He wishes to speak with you."
"It was 'er again, Severus," replied Scabior in a tone that desperately tried to seem indifferent but failed miserably, clutching his cloak ever tighter. "She– She's not even human."
The lane was bordered on the left by wild, low-growing brambles, on the right by a high, neatly manicured hedge. The men's long cloaks flapped around their ankles as they marched, and Severus noticed that quite a bit of blood had began to seep from the brim Scabior's left boot. He contemplated asking him if he could mend his wound but quickly ignored such an idea. The man deserved nothing but the most profound abuse for the crimes he committed daily, and Severus knew every gory detail. They turned right, into a wide driveway that led off the lane. The high hedge curved into them, running off into the distance beyond the pair of imposing wrought-iron gates barring the men's way. Neither of them broke step: In silence both raised their left arms in a kind of salute and passed straight through, as though the dark metal was smoke. The yew hedges muffled the sound of the men's footsteps.
A handsome manor house grew out of the darkness at the end of the straight drive, lights glinting in the diamond paned downstairs windows. Somewhere in the dark garden beyond the hedge a fountain was playing. Gravel crackled beneath their feet as Snape and Scabior sped toward the front door, which swung inward at their approach, though nobody had physically opened it.
The hallway was large, dimly lit, and sumptuously decorated, with a magnificent carpet covering most of the stone floor. The eyes of the pale-faced portraits on the wall followed Snape and Scabior as they strode past. The two men halted at a heavy wooden door leading into the next room, hesitated for the space of a heartbeat, then Snape turned the bronze handle.
The drawing room was full of silent people, sitting at a long and ornate table. Five seats sat empty, two belonging to them. The other three missing were the LeStrange brothers and Fenrir Greyback. The room's usual furniture had been pushed carelessly up against the walls. Illumination came from a roaring fire beneath a handsome marble mantelpiece surmounted by a gilded mirror. Snape and Scabior lingered for a moment on the threshold.
"Scabior. Snape," said a high, clear voice from the head of the table.
The speaker was seated directly in front of the fireplace, so that it was difficult, at first, for the new arrivals to make out more than his silhouette. As they drew nearer, however, his face shone through the gloom, hairless, snakelike, with slits for nostrils and gleaming red eyes whose pupils were vertical. He was so pale that he seemed to emit a pearly glow.
"Snape, here," said Voldemort, indicating the seat on his immediate right. "Scabior in the middle beside Bellatrix."
The two men took their allotted places. Most of the eyes around the table followed Scabior, though he refused to acknowledge any of them, and it was to him that Voldemort spoke first.
"How many this time?" he asked.
"Two," Scabior replied hoarsely. "She's killed two more of me men, she 'as."
"No, you ignorant fool," said Voldemort coldly, looking down at Scabior as if he was worth nothing more than a toad's bellybutton lint. "How many mudbloods escaped?"
"Oh!" he squeaked, blushing slightly and looking down at his hands. "Seven, there were seven that escaped."
"Seven," said Voldemort impassively, slowly pushing himself to his feet to almost hover around the long table. "Seven has always been a favored number of mine, usually lucky as well, but apparently the same does not go for you."
"I– I'm so sorry, my Lord," he quivered in reply. "Everything just 'appened to fast, 'n I don't know what 'appened. It's so 'ard to explain 'n–"
"Do try," said Voldemort quietly but no two syllables had ever struck so much terror into Scabior before.
A soft voice seemed to hiss on even after the cruel mouth had stopped moving. One or two of the wizards barely repressed a shudder as the hissing grew louder; something heavy could be heard sliding across the floor beneath the table. The huge snake emerged to climb slowly up Voldemort's chair. It rose, seemingly endlessly, and came to rest across Voldemort's shoulders: its neck the thickness of a man's thigh; its eyes, with their vertical slits for pupils, unblinking. Voldemort stroked the creature absently with long thin fingers, still looking at Scabior.
He opened his mouth as if his response was stuck in this throat, only monosyllabic grunt managed to escape his lips for a moment or two. He looked helplessly about to the numerous silent figures around him but most did not meet his pleading gaze and those who did appeared indifferent to his helplessness at best. Bellatrix sat between Scabior and her sister, as unlike her in looks, with her dark hair and heavily lidded eyes, as she was in bearing and demeanor; where Narcissa sat rigid and impassive. Bellatrix oddly did not look up, her eyes remained in her lap opposed to their usual relentless longing gaze onto Voldemort. She appeared even paler than usual, her hands were awkwardly positioned on her lap. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Scabior unfogged his mind with the clearing of his throat and looked up to Voldemort once again.
"We 'ad picked up a family of five 'n a couple just outside Puzzlewood, hidin' out, they were, but we got 'em," said Scabior, his throat noticeably dry. "We were leading them back with us when everything 'appened. Me two associates each 'ad a pair of the adults disarmed, 'n I was managin' the three little rats–"
"Do get to the climax of your dilemma, Scabior," Voldemort yawned, looking down slightly at Nagini. "We are all rather tired, and Nagini is hungry. You do know what happens when Nagini misses a meal."
"Er– yes! Of course, my Lord, so sorry," he said, bowing his head apologetically to the snake on Voldemort's shoulders. "Well, we 'ad just reached the portkey the Ministry 'ad set up for us when she showed up again. I didn't even 'ave time to reach for me wand before she killed O'Marrow, tackled 'im from behind as if she came from the trees 'n stabbed a dagger straight through 'is neck. Then it was like she disappeared into the darkness 'n by the time I spotted 'er again she was hanging Rigby's corpse from a tree limp by 'is ankles. She threw the confiscated wands to the ruddy mudbloods before I could stop 'er. I apparated just before she could finish me off too. It just I mean, everything just 'appened so fast–"
"Yes, we've well established the haste of the situation," said Voldemort in a voice that sounded nothing more than bored. "Now, who was this girl?"
"I– I don't know," he stammered.
"You mean to tell me that you've escaped her attacks four times now, and you cannot deliver me her name?"
Bellatrix released an involuntary squeak that only drew the attention of Narcissa, who sent her a confused sideways glance, but Bellatrix did not look up.
"S– She's like a shadow," Scabior began, trying to redeem himself. "She hides in the darkness, 'n preys on us Snatchers like a jungle cat. I've only caught a good glimpse of 'er once in the moonlight. She's got tan skin, like she's only lived outdoors since birth. 'er hair is as black as night 'n 'er eyes are like a feline, a greenish-yellow 'n bright even in the darkness. She wears coal around her eyes too, like a drawn on mask or something, 'n she moves... she moves like an animal, like an elegant huntress."
"Such a detailed description for someone who claims to no nothing of his attacker," Voldemort seethed. "She has slaughtered no less than fourteen of my Snatchers and freed well over fifty mudbloods, and yet you still know so little. Perhaps, your tenure has ended. Perhaps, you have grown weak, Scabior, your mind gone feeble. And perhaps, Nagini would appreciate an easy dinner."
The large snake from Voldemort's shoulder swayed and slithered from his shoulders onto the wooden table while everyone prepared to cringe at another sickening meal for the snake. Scabior appeared so frightened that he couldn't move or breathe for that matter.
"The Bastet," a foreign bark-like voice interrupted from the newly opened doorway. "You know, the Egyptian goddess, the feline protector of the innocent? That is what the mudbloods call her."
Nagini froze and recoiled onto Voldemort's shoulders as Fenrir Greyback's monstrous frame entered the room, claiming his usual seat between Travers and Yaxley. Scabior couldn't have looked more relieved.
"Ah, Fenrir, how nice of you to finally join us," said Voldemort dryly, ignoring Greyback's rather redundant sentiment.
"My sincerest apologies, my Lord, but I was... let's call it interrogating a few witnesses," he smirked to himself and it appeared that no one but Draco Malfoy seemed the slightest bit perturbed as he licked away a small blotch of fresh blood from his lower lip that obviously did not belong to the werewolf himself. "They were reluctant to give me any information, but a mother always protects her young... no matter the cost."
"Very good," said Voldemort, able to overlook his tardiness for useful information. "Go on, Fenrir."
"No one seems to know her true name," said Greyback, and Narcissa sent Bellatrix another sideways glance as she heard her sister breathe a quiet sigh of relief. "The Bastet appears to be her calling card to the lot of the mudbloods. She rescues the mongrels and hides them out all across Europe. She even robs the corpses of Snatchers to give the mudbloods some sort of finances to live off of. She must have a name, my Lord, and I am determined to retrieve it. I've seen her only once, but I can tell she's reasonably young and as beautiful as she is deadly."
Fenrir smiled a sickening grin and bit his lower lip with his razor sharp teeth. For the first time since their meeting began, Bellatrix looked up. She locked eyes with Fenrir and her expression appeared unreadable, her hands tightened in her lap.
"We must dispose of her, Fenrir," said Voldemort firmly. "I will leave her fate to you, and Scabior I suppose."
Voldemort looked at Scabior with the utmost detest but returned his stare onto Fenrir not a moment later.
"It would be my honor, my Lord," said Greyback, smiling wickedly.
"But bring her back alive," said Voldemort curtly. "You know how Nagini likes to play with her food before she eats it."
–
"I've told you, Charlie, the work you've done in Romania and eastern Europe has been nothing short of a godsend but–" stated Arthur Weasley to his furious-looking son as he sat with his elbows on his knees upon a favored velvet armchair before a roaring fire.
"Then why bring me back?" he demanded, striding back and forth before the fire as his father looked on helplessly. "I'm making real progress and–"
"Because it's wild territory," said Arthur calmly, causing his son to cease his steps suddenly. "You're the most familiar with magical creatures, and you're the most well-equipped to manage long stays in harsh conditions. I've seen you track an animal like–"
"An animal is much different than a human," he said, returning to his incessant pacing. "An animal has instinct which can be outwitted with a well-organized mind. A human has a strategy, a steady head, my tracking abilities will be useless."
"This girl seems to be more animal-like than human," said Arthur, rubbing the stubble upon his chin. "You can find her. I know you can."
"And what would I do if I were to miraculously find this wild woman?"
"Question her, see what her motives are," said Arthur anxiously, hoping Charlies question was a sign that he was caving to the Order's request. "She's been killing more and more Snatchers and rescuing countless muggle-borns every day, but she's not sought out the Order. She's skilled at her assassinations, as grim as that may sound, and if her justifications for these murders are sound then she needs to be persuaded to help us."
Charlie heaved a heavy sigh and collapsed onto the opposing velvet armchair across from his aging father, who looked older and more exhausted than he had ever seen him. Arthur had asked him to track down a serial killer, an assassin of Snatchers, a liberator of muggle-borns, and it would be more challenging than taming a dragon. He knew this already, and though he always liked a challenge, he was not keen on such an endeavor. He'd be facing harsh and dangerous wilderness to track down an assassin before Voldemort could. He rubbed his chin sloppily, closed his eyes for a long moment, and turned to look into the flames before speaking again.
"When do I leave?"
–
A/N: So this is most definitely not my typical fic. I like writing comedies, angst filled dramas, and fluffy young adult romances, and this is certainly not like any of that. If you like "Nothing But Words" then you will probably enjoy this. I hope it turns out like I hope, but only time will tell.
PS: Please excuse typos for now. I'm tired, and I can hardly read anymore without passing out.
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Review.