Conquest

[A Harry Potter Fan Fiction]

By Criterion

Chapter One

The spoon hovered motionless in the air, levitating one meter over the floor. The metal began to twist and bend as if it was merely tin foil. His mental dexterity had improved, the matter flexed and molded without much resistance. The silvery gray surface pulsed copper, first slowly, minutes passing between the times it changed from gray to copper, copper to gray. The pulse grew faster until only seconds passed, and then it was too fast to see the difference. It was now a color about halfway between gray and copper. The spoon gave a last gleam before defiantly sticking to a bright copper. The floor had disappeared from under him. Concentrating too hard on the spoon's transfiguration must have drawn all his concentration from the remaining fragments of reality and channeled all of his energy into the tiny fragment that constituted the spoon.

Slowly he pulled the crushing force of his mind from the spoon and detail began to leech back into the darkness. The center of the floor was sturdy oak, with a red umber varnish, its color spread from the center and climbed up the walls in tendrils, each causing its own fractal of tendrils. The ceiling was drywall painted white that eventually met the snaking tendrils of wall that inched upwards. Large holes throughout the room began to fill with furniture and glass; two windows stared out into the sable streets cut with messy imprecision by the glare of street lamps and windows of other souls that remained awake during the night.

The windows of his room were blinded by cataracts and almost black with dust. The furniture was not in any better shape. A metal bed with a stony mattress lay pressed against the wall, and a grimy nightstand was placed about fifteen centimeters from the bed. The red glow of a lamp was the only thing illuminating the room save the street lamps outside. The only other things besides the scarce furnishings were the twisted copper spoon that had bounced under the bed and a spider web on the right side of the wall opposite the two windows.

A sharp rapping stirred him from his mind's wandering. Pushing his consciousness past the windows, he saw a bird franticly trying to find purchase on the smooth window and windowsill. Walking to the source, he opened the window to allow the creature inside. Greedy cold rushed in before he closed the window. The bird was a demonic raven with pupil-less red eyes and putrid black feathers with touches of silver at the tips. It fluttered to the scrap of floor farthest from the man.

The man had short white hair, and he wore simple white garments, the shirt of which held a cobalt circle inclosing a smaller crimson circle. The bird scratched the ground tentatively before moving. In one short flap of its wings the bird morphed into a greasy person with unruly gray hair and a black cloak.

"You really need to put a door into your room."

"I could kill you," the man whispered. "You're weak; you must now give me a reason not to murder you on the spot."

"Because I have a bargaining chip, Moonstrike." The man stiffed at this last remark. With a cold smile, the man called "Moonstrike" stepped up to the other and spoke.

"That was my old alias, what do you have up your sleeve, Marcus?" Standing this close together Marcus could see the milky eyes of Moonstrike staring blindly at him. "You aren't trying to invoke my nostalgia, are you?" Three long, thin scars were cut across each of his eyes, marking two hexagrams.

"We need your abilities." Moonstrike lowered his smile to a thoughtful glare. "Of course, the reward would be substantial, but if you refuse—"

"Who's 'we?'" Moonstrike cut in.

"Moth and group thirteen, I'm just a messenger. Anyway—" Marcus stopped mid-sentence. He became very pale and stiff. "I have to go; here is the offer, come to the hideout when you've made your decision." Marcus threw an envelope at the feet of Moonstrike. Then he took three steps to the widow, pulled it open, and transformed back into the raven, flying off into the dark night in one motion.

Moonstrike gave one stiff, hoarse laugh. Are they ignorant enough to use the old hideout? He stooped down to pick up the envelope. After closing the window, he sat down on the bed and began to open it. Inside were three pieces of paper and a small badge with the number "13" enclosed in a crimson circle. Thirty years ago reading these pages would have been impossible, but he had learned new tricks since his vision had been stolen. Carefully, he began feeling out for the weak wavelengths of light that should be emanating from the lamp and bouncing off the pages.

Hm…this isn't good. The pages contained the mission, the reward, and the retaliation that thirteen would take if he refused. He would have to go to the hideout to see what Moth was up to. Everything seemed to be falling apart, but for the group…they must have put together all of the pieces already.