For the record, this is not a crossover. I just had all of those things in the disclaimer because I tend to make a lot of references to other works and wanted to cover my bases.
II. The Cairn
Harry Potter was dead. That was what the headlines all read the next morning.
Hermione could only stare blankly at the large bold letters that glared back at her from the front page of the Daily Prophet and the Quibbler alike. For once, the two publications seemed to be in agreement on something. That fact alone spoke volumes and lent credence to the words that she did not want to believe and yet were still there for all to see.
Her tea sat cold in its cup, untouched since it had been placed there by Dobby the House Elf; Kreacher had not been seen since the day that Harry was sentenced to life in Azkaban. And what a short life it had been, in the end.
Two years. Two long years and yet it seemed like only yesterday that they had been hiding out in the very basement that now resided beneath her home. Like yesterday, and yet so long ago.
Oh, how things had changed in such a short time. So much was different, and yet outside of the walls of her home, things were the same as they had ever been; at least on the surface. The Ministry was still corrupt, the Minister was still an idiot, children still laughed and played and learned, the adults still went to work every day and the sun still rose in the morning and set in the evening like clockwork.
So how come everything felt so wrong now?
Her eyes focused on the headlines again. Oh, yeah, that's why.
Harry was dead.
Had died in prison like some common criminal. It didn't seem possible but the truth was staring her right in the face, for beneath the headlines were the photos. She could barely glance at them without feeling a lance of pain through her heart. Side by side on the front page, the bodies of Harry Potter and Barty Crouch Jr. were laid out in their cells, eyes open but unseeing.
She had not managed to read the article, which detailed the specifics of the investigation carried out by Aurors Robards and Tonks, which she had gleaned from a short glance. That had come as a surprise to Hermione, seeing Tonks' name on the paper. Why had the woman not said anything to her about this? Why had only Robards come to the house to deliver the news? Hermione would have appreciated having a friendly face there, not someone who had fought against them.
Curious, Hermione picked up the Prophet and began to read.
By the time she was finished with the article she was even more confused than before. According to Rita Skeeter, who had written the article, Tonks had been there but was dismissed by Robards after suffering an emotional episode at the sight of Harry's body. Apparently, Skeeter had interviewed a few of the guards at Azkaban who were there and they told her that Tonks had just sat next to the body, weeping rather than doing her job. Skeeter painted a rather unfavorable picture of the young Auror, calling into question whether she actually had what it took to do the job that she was supposed to do and whether she deserved to be a member of the Auror Office, and what her relationship with Harry had been; one of the guards had spilled that Tonks had visited his cell every week at the same time, never missing a visit even if she was sick.
The words 'weak', 'unprofessional' and 'lackadaisical' were thrown around more than once in regards to Tonks' character and work ethic.
That didn't sound like the Tonks that Hermione knew. The woman was young and by no means a stranger to her emotions but she had a sense of professionalism when on the job and for her to completely shed that in such an open manner was odd. And to call her weak was to severely underestimate her, and that was a serious mistake; and while she could be a bit laid back – and somewhat lazy – outside of work, on the job or when the situation called for it, Tonks was an eager, if not altogether coordinated, participant.
According to one of the guards, Robards had kicked Tonks off the case when it was brought up that it was time to inform the families.
Hermione made a mental note to speak to the young Auror at the first chance she got. She figured focusing on a friend who might be going through something was easier than dealing with her own problems.
All in all, Hermione didn't know what to think anymore, about anything. She had been living day-to-day, taking care of her and Harry's son, working part-time to bolster the income from Lily's own work as a Charms Mistress and Enchanter, and she was ashamed to admit that during the last two years she had done nothing to try to help Harry. She told herself that there was nothing she could have done, that she couldn't take any risks that could end up with her dead or worse; not when she had a child to look after. It was wrong to pawn the burden of blame off on an infant that had no say in the matter, but she wasn't trying to lay blame, merely remind herself of her perfectly sound reasons and priorities.
What could she have done? Waltzed into Azkaban and broken him out? Where was the logic in that? How could she even do that? Azkaban was unplottable and only accessible via Ministry-issued portkey – the only way to apparate there was if you already knew its exact location and were keyed into the wards. Attempting a break-out like that was a logistical and practical nightmare and the very attempt could have ended with the lot of them dead or all occupying their own cells.
Not that the others wouldn't have signed on anyway but they all had things at stake now. Bill and Fleur had a child too – little Victoire, who looked so much like her mother, even at barely a year old, it was almost scary; the first Weasley in generations to not be born with red hair. Some would call that a miracle. They were living in France now, closer to Fleur's family where her daughter could learn more easily of her Veela heritage and Bill could be away from all of the reminders of how broken apart his family was now.
Charlie, for his part, wasn't even in the country anymore either, having gone back to Romania a few months after the war ended and taken up his former job as a dragon-handler. He sent letters every few months and Christmas gifts and birthday wishes, but that was about it.
Luna was abroad as well, traveling with the grandson of Newt Scamander, Rolf, in search of new magical creatures, including but not limited to the ever-elusive Crumple-Horned Snorkack.
Xeno was still working on the Quibbler, which now served as a more speculative foil to the Daily Prophet, but some of the wild, fantastical theories from before still made appearances from time to time.
The team was scattered, all keeping their heads down and going about their lives and they had been doing so since the sentencing.
The idea of trying to get Harry and Barty out had come up, briefly. Tonks had been rather vocal about it and Charlie had supported the idea, but that was around the time that Hermione and Fleur both discovered their respective pregnancies and the whole thing had been canned. Then they had all just drifted apart and gone their separate ways, keeping in touch but never really gathering together, save for the occasional visit here and there.
A soft cry broke Hermione from her thoughts and she sighed, tossing the paper aside and standing up. She made her way quickly to the drawing room, just across the hall, and scooped baby Hugo up in her arms, rocking him gently and softly shushing him as he continued to cry.
"Shh, there, there. Mummy's here," she cooed, stroking his soft dark hair comfortingly.
Once he was somewhat settled, she returned to the kitchen and fed him, then returned him to the drawing room. She sat herself down in a chair, Hugo resting against her breast and leaned back, letting her own breathing and a full belly lull the small child to sleep.
Yes, her life had changed so much in such a short time, and it was just going to get harder now what she carried the weight of her grief over Harry's death on her soul.
XXXX
Darkness.
That was the first thing that Tonks became aware of when she awoke from her troubled sleep. That, and the rapid beating of her own heart.
She had been dreaming. Of what, she couldn't quite remember but it had been something not at all pleasant and she recalled screaming, but nothing else. Not who was screaming or why, or even where or when.
She sat up and reached for her wand, which was sitting, like always, on her bedside table. With a quick flick the time appeared floating in front of her in soft glowing numbers. It was only three in the morning. She had to be up in four hours to go to work, and she had only managed to fall asleep an hour ago.
Scenes of her visit to Azkaban kept playing over and over in her mind, and kept her from relaxing enough to get to sleep.
Every time she closed her eyes she could see his, staring back at her, all green and empty and vacant. Dead. Every time she saw them in her mind, she would feel a tightening in her chest and the prickle of tears in her eyes.
It wasn't supposed to be like that. Harry wasn't supposed to die in there like a caged animal, so weak and damaged. A shell of his former self.
The first few times she had visited him, he had been quiet but she knew that he could hear her and knew that she was there. But, slowly, over time, he began to drift away, further and further into himself and away from her, until he no longer knew who she was. He had never said anything but she had seen the recognition in his eyes the few times they made eye contact, but that vanished too; sometimes she doubted he even knew she was there at all, not seeing and not hearing her.
She would bring him food during her visits, hoping a bit of real sustenance would do him good, but she could still track the gradual withering away of his body mass; she could trace the timeline of the atrophy in her mind.
She had watched the man that she called friend and loved dearly waste away into a mere shadow, a shade that bore his name and face, but wasn't him, and it broke her heart. But she had kept a tight lid on that hurt, and while every visit was a new crack in that fragile structure, she never let anyone see how much it truly affected her. Sure, she'd get the occasional "you look like shit, Tonks" comment from people after visiting, but at least she had never cried where anyone could see. Until yesterday.
Seeing him laying there, void of life and the light gone from those eyes that she had often seen in her dreams had opened the floodgates and it all came crashing down on her like tonne of bricks. She had been unable to hold it in any longer and collapsed at his side, weeping like a widow, though she was nothing of the sort.
It was not her finest moment, but she could not bring herself to care what Robards or any of the others might think of her. How was she supposed to react when one of the most important people in her life had just died and she had had to confront that reality literally face-to-face?
She was not ashamed to have cried and never would be.
As was wont to happen in times like this, her mind began to ponder that most dangerous of questions: what if?
What if she had tried to break him out, like she had thought of doing so many times during her visits. What would have happened then?
And, as also was common when these types of thoughts came around, the answers the mind conjured were often fantastical and improbable, and she was too honest with herself to accept any of them as a likely possibility.
Harry had never looked at her like that, and now he never would; saving him from prison wouldn't have changed that. Sure, they had flirted a few times and would tease each other occasionally but Harry had ever only had eyes for Hermione and even if she had managed to find a way to break him out, that would not have changed, especially once he found out that he had a son too.
A spike of jealousy lanced through her at that thought, but she roughly pushed it down. She was a better person than that, or at least that's what she liked to tell herself.
She looked at the time again and groaned. It was now half-past four. Her little dip into fantasy and ruminations on the stark reality had stolen another hour and a half from her allotted sleep time.
She whimpered softly and rolled onto her stomach, where she was most comfortable, and closed her eyes, carefully trying to keep her mind blank while thinking of staying awake; which kind of contradicted each other but whatever. She had read somewhere that if you tell yourself you aren't going to fall asleep, or not to fall asleep, your mind will rebel against you and make you sleep. She didn't understand the supposed science behind it but the idea of it was enough and it worked for her most nights, and maybe that was the point.
Tonight, however, luck just wasn't on her side and it took her another half hour to eventually doze off into a troubled sleep.
She was awoken a few hours later by her alarm and she crawled unhappily out of the bed and dragged herself into the bathroom to shower.
She was back out again in ten minutes still feeling groggy and miserable, her hair hanging limp and dull around her face, back to its natural color of dark dark brunette. What sleep she had managed to get had been plagued by dreams of green eyes and someone screaming. She was far from rested and was in no mood to even see other people but she had to go to work regardless; the bills didn't pay themselves.
She prepared herself some tea with honey to try and take the edge off of her fatigue but it did little good.
Normally, she wouldn't even bother with tea or coffee in the morning. She didn't need it to get herself going in the morning, but today was an exception.
She smiled, remembering a conversation she had once had with Harry on the subject. It had been when they were all staying at Grimmauld. She had come into the house one morning like a violet hurricane, tripped over the troll leg and spouted a jubilant 'good morning' to Harry, who had been the only one awake at the time and was eagerly taking in his morning cuppa. He had grumbled like Kreacher and muttered something of which the only thing she caught was 'unnatural'. Now, being a Metamorphmagus, she had often heard this word used in reference to herself, usually snarled in her direction or whispered under the breath by uppity Purebloods. So, with that in mind, one could understand why she might take offense.
As it turned out, Harry had been expressing that it was unnatural for someone to be that happy so early in the morning. Of course, he had only explained this after she had tried to curse him to kingdom come and back again. Their impromptu duel had done the trick in waking Harry up though. He still swore though that anyone who could function without a cup of tea or coffee in the morning was either a psychopath or a demon sent from the Underworld. Tonks' only response had been a wide, joyful grin and chipper laugh.
She shook her head. There she went again. Letting her mind drift to places it had no business going.
Her day only got worse when the morning Prophet arrived and she was presented with a rather harsh attack on her character, on the front page no less, hidden in with the report of Harry's death. Seeing who had written it, it didn't surprise her, but it still hurt nonetheless.
She threw the paper in the fireplace and watched it burn up into nothing, tossed out the rest of her tea down the sink and then grabbed her coat, pulling it on in hopes that the warmth would be enough to comfort her during the long day that she was sure to have ahead of her.
She flooed to the Ministry and walked to the lift, keeping her head down so that she couldn't see the people looking at her, as they were sure to be doing. She could hear the Prophet Crier shouting out that morning's headline and offering papers to those who passed by that didn't already have one. Soon, the whole Ministry would know about her major depressive episode the previous day.
She ignored the whispers that followed her as she sat down at her desk in the Auror Office, hiding herself behind a random case file. She didn't know what the case was and she didn't care, she just wanted to get through the day.
XXXX
Gawain had arrived at work late as usual. The last of the Auror Office to arrive and he could feel the eyes on him as he walked to his desk. He had seen the papers that morning and knew that his name had come up more than once in it. But he had been nowhere near as prominent as Tonks had been. The poor girl had been torn apart for the entire country to read.
He glanced in her direction and frowned. She had her head almost literally buried in a case file, while those around her either glancing at her, or clustered together like cockroaches and whispering and pointing at her.
He shook his head. Maybe he shouldn't have been so hard on her, but at the time it had seemed the right thing to do. It wasn't like there was anything he could do now. The damage had been done already. And it wasn't like he or Tonks could bring a libel case against the Prophet; everything they said was either true or just speculation and one couldn't charge someone for speculation, no matter how damaging it was. The Prophet was run by the Ministry, even if it wasn't officially in charge of it, and it was difficult to get at it. The wording was where it was at, and Skeeter had been very careful to keep her wording in a grey area. She had learned that lesson back when she had published an article saying that Harry Potter, then a teacher at Hogwarts, had been having a sexually based favor-for-favor relationship with then-student Hermione Granger. Savage had handled that one, back when things had been simple and they were all fighting on the same side; and before Harry had revealed himself as The God of Death.
Pushing the thoughts outs of his mind he sat down at his own desk and pulled out the case file from the previous day, the one he had been looking at when Savage had sent him off to Azkaban.
A woman named Margaret 'Marge' Thatcher, no relation to the former Muggle Prime Minister, who lived in Devon, near Dartmoor, had reported seeing flashing lights emitting from a cave near her home. She claimed that she had been walking her dog one evening when the dog had stiffened up and began growling as if something threatening were nearby. She had scanned the area and seen what at first appeared to be a torch, but soon turned into a series of flickering and flashing lights of various colors.
Of course, she had not gone to investigate, a decision that Gawain thought more than wise, and had contacted the Auror Office the next morning after spending a fretful night locked up in her house.
There was a new report added to the file this morning and he took it out and read it. It would seem that while he had been away at Azkaban yesterday, she had contacted the Office again. Claimed to have heard an unearthly howling from the direction of the cave the next night, which she described as being like screaming, but more horrible, and 'not of this world'.
He sighed and closed the case file after copying the relevant information into a small notebook that he kept with him for the purpose of taking notes when on a case; it never ran out of pages. He also kept an auto-refilling pen with it.
He stood up and donned his coat, placing a cigarette between his lips as he walked toward the front of the Office. He let the 'dispatch officer' know where he was going, in case they needed to go looking for him or send backup, and headed for the lifts. He stopped at the door and pinched the bridge of his nose. He looked back at Tonks and briefly wondered if he should bring her along, get her out of the Office and to some fresh air, but then he decided against it. With the Prophet this morning so fresh in everyone's minds, it was probably best she sit this one out, just in case the 'witness' recognized her and thought that they were not suitable to handle things. They couldn't stop them from investigating now that a report had been filed but she could file a complaint and that was more trouble than it was worth.
He apparated to Dartmoor, near Grimpen, and took a bit of time to look around the area, even venturing into the Mire very briefly, before heading into the small hamlet to get exact directions to where on the moor Mrs. Thatcher lived.
After a quick pint at the Cross Keys Inn and some helpful and concise directions from the barkeep, Gary, and Gary's 'husband' Billy, Gawain was on his way again.
It took him roughly twenty minutes to find the small little cottage that was the home of Mrs. Thatcher and took the time to have a smoke before he arrived. He also found himself glad that he had decided to wear his black topcoat today, rather than his regular trench coat, as the weather was a bit on the cool side and the black coat was warmer.
When he was within ten meters of the front door the sound of a dog barking was suddenly heard from within the house, and a moment later he saw a curtain move. Then the door opened and a middle-aged woman stuck her head out briefly. Gawain didn't have to guess to know that her wand was drawn behind the cover of the door.
"Who're you?" she called out, her voice containing the slightest of trembles.
Gawain showed her his empty hands – well, empty save for the cigarette perched between two fingers of his right hand – to indicate that he was unarmed and meant no harm. "My name is Auror Gawain Robards," he called out clearly. "I'm here to follow up on a report you filed with our Office about some strange lights?" While it was technically a statement, he spoke it more as a question, to get her mind going toward the relevant subject.
The woman looked him over briefly before nodding and stepping outside of her house and closing the door. Normally, he would be invited in with an offer for a cuppa, but so much for English hospitality.
"They only send one of you?" the woman asked.
Gawain nodded and took another drag from his cigarette. "We don't expect to find any trouble, but I am fully-trained Auror and former member of the Anti-Death Eater Task Force. I also happen to be the DMLE go-to guy for things that involve the Dark Arts."
The woman didn't look too impressed but nodded anyway.
Gawain pulled out his notebook and pen, flipping to a new page. "Now, state your name, please, for my notes."
"Margaret Licinia Thatcher, née Artoria," she answered succinctly.
Gawain made a note of it in his pad, briefly wondering if this woman was a cousin to the Artorius family, one of the oldest Pureblood families in the Kingdom, tracing their bloodline back to the second century C.E., but thought it better not to ask. The Artorius family had been driven to near extinction during the early years of Voldemort's rise to power, with the few remaining members fleeing to the continent to escape the Death Eaters. They had not returned.
"Right, then, Mrs, Thatcher," he sighed. "Why don't you walk me through it all, show me where and how it happened."
The woman nodded and pointed toward the back of her house. "'Round here," she said.
The two walked around the house and started up a small hill. Once at the top Gawain could see a cluster of trees off in the distance and some large rock formations not too far off and the mire to their right.
"I was walking me dog, out here, around, oh, nine-thirty, ten o'clock," she said as they started down the far side of the hill. "Was on my way back to the house, you see. We had been skirting around the mire and were just there, by the rocks. Jupiter, my dog, he likes to chase hares round there sometimes. Now, he weren't acting all excited, like he normally would, and that were the first sign of something being not quite right."
Gawain nodded and made a few more notes in his book, making mental notes of the direction and location of things.
"Who owns this land here?" he asked, gesturing ahead of them toward the mire and the thicket.
Thatcher titled her head. "Some Ministry bloke. McLaggen, his name is. Tried to contact him but he weren't home. Don't stay much in this area, ya see. Don't have no owl, meself, so's I just figure to report it to the Aurors."
Gawain made a small note of that in his book.
They were nearing the rocks now – which were more of a tor than anything – and the woman came to a stop. "It were about here that Jupiter started to go all tense. He stilled up and his ears went all alert, so I says to him, 'what's the matter, boy?' and just kind sits there, all rigid. Then, the starts growling and I look around, thinking maybe there be another dog around and he's feeling territorial or something. Then, that's when I see it." She points off toward the trees. "There, in the trees, there's a cave just there, and what I saw were these bright flashing lights. All colors. Red, blue, green, white...and I hear this noise, like a whining. First thought it was Jupiter, but then I realize that he's still growling and it's coming from too far away to be him anyway. Don't really know if the two were connected or not but it scared me, right down to me soul and I get the leash out and hook up me dog, then I get back to the house, quick-like. Locked the doors and windows tight and went to bed. But, I didn't sleep none that night. Next morning I go in and give a report at the Auror Office."
Gawain looked around the area, making note of the cave she mentioned and determining to take a closer look once his questioning was done. "And this was the first incident?" he asked. She nodded. "My notes say that you filed a second report this morning?"
Thatcher nods again. "Yes. You see, last night I was walking Jupiter again, right around here, like always. Decided not to venture beyond here though, just in case. Well, he was doing his thing when there comes an unearthly howling from the direction of the cave."
"Howling?" Robards questions. "Like a dog or wolf?"
The woman shakes her head. "No, no. More human-like. Can't really call it screaming, more a descending cry. Started out kinda high-pitched and loud, then went lower and quieter. After that was when the screaming started. Couldn't tell if it were a man or woman, or child maybe, but it was a horrible sound like someone were being tortured. I grabbed Jupiter by the collar and put on the leash and then we ran back to the house again. Went into the Office this morning and filed another report, and then you showed up and now we're here."
Gawain made a few more notes in his book and then closed it. "Right, well, I think that's all I'll need, thank you, Mrs. Thatcher."
She nodded and he started walking toward where she had indicated the cave to be.
"You be careful down there," Thatcher called out from behind him. "There's no telling what sort of evil sorcery is going on in that cave. And don't venture to far into the mire. We've lost more than a few outsiders to it's maw."
Gawain waved his hand over his head to indicate that he had heard her warnings and continued on his way.
He fished a fresh cigarette out and lit it, taking a lung-full of smoke and exhaling gratefully.
The walk to the treeline was short and easy and he drew his wand once he was about ten meters from the first trees. He could see that just beyond the treeline there was a deep depression in the earth, like a slope leading down into a dark tunnel of sorts, the inner sides of the slope overrun with brush and with the occasional tree root jutting out from it. The entrance of the cave itself was framed by large flat stones, like those that made up such structures as Stone Henge, and on the top was a stack of stones, smaller than the others, creating something like a crude spire or obelisk standing roughly thirty feet in height.
He skirted the edge of the slope and made his way to the stacked stones. Once up close he could see no distinguishing markings, no Runes, no carvings, nothing.
Making a quick note of all of this in his book, he then went back around and started down into the slope.
Once he reached the mouth of the cave, he suddenly felt disoriented and head started to hurt. He turned away from the cave and the feeling vanished, along with his recent memory of getting there. He couldn't remember why he was there. Frowning, he took out his book and read his last few entries. He remembered speaking to Mrs. Thatcher, but he was missing everything that came after nearing the trees.
He walked to the top of the slope while reading and looked back at the cave. This was where he was supposed to be, based on his notes. He walked back down to the cave entrance, which was really more like a doorway with the way the stones framed it and with it being only four feet wide and eight feet tall.
Once he was about to step through, the disorientation hit him and his head began to hurt. He ground his teeth and shakily wrote this into his book as best as he could before turning away from the doorway.
He gasped for breath as he looked around himself. Where was he? Why was he here?
Frowning at the headache that was fading with every second he lifted his notebook and read the last few pages. His frown deepened when he reached the end and he turned to look at the cave entrance behind him.
It had to be some sort of ward, if what he was reading here was accurate, and seeing how he had written it in his book, or at least he thought he did, then it was more than likely accurate.
Thinking back to what Thatcher had said about flashing lights, he wondered if the first night she had seen the erection of these wards. It would explain why she had never seen them before then, especially since he knew from the case file and the barkeep in Grimpen that she had lived here for over thirty years with her husband, now deceased.
What about the second night though? Perhaps something or someone had triggered the wards?
Determined to test his theory, he marched back into the cave entrance. Having read in his notes what to expect, he fought as hard as he could past the disorientation and did his best to see past the headache, and he could indeed see the flashing lights, faint in the daylight, as he struggled against the wards. He grit his teeth and wrote this down, knowing he would forget it as soon as he turned around. But, what if he didn't turn around? What if he pressed on in. Not being able to think past his headache any more than that he shakily put one foot in front of the other and then again. Slowly, he fought forward, leaning against the inside of the doorway to keep himself from collapsing.
Finally, when he thought that his head might just explode from the pressure he was feeling, it all went away and he was laying face-down on the earthen floor of the cave.
Gasping as the pain slowly faded he pulled himself back to his feet.
He was in an antechamber of sorts, the walls made of stone and covered with carvings; trees, strange creatures, runes. One particular drawing caught his attention and he approached it, running his hand over the intricate designs. The was a picture there, like an archway atop a raised crag or crude platform. There were several human figures kneeling on either side, facing in toward the mysterious structure. It resembled the archway in the Department of Mysteries, or at least the images he had seen of it, never having actually been in the Department of Mysteries before. What gave him pause was the vague outline of a humanoid figure in the center of the archway; unlike the worshipers, there were no details to the design of this figure, just a basic silhouette.
There was an inscription of runes above and below the image. Runes were something he had studied extensively in his time learning of the Dark Arts, and thus he had no trouble in translating the words that had been carved there probably more than a thousand years ago.
"The beasts of the earth shall die, those that share your blood shall die, and you too shall die; and though the deeds live on they may be forgotten in time and then they too shall die, but that which has gone toDeath shall never die."
Gawain frowned, wondering what exactly that meant, and made a quick note of it in his notebook, along with a rough sketch of the images.
Turning away from the wall, Gawain looked around himself and noticed a small doorway, leading deeper into the earth. He stepped inside, lighting his wand and following the twisting path of the hallway. After about five minutes of walking he noticed a light reflected on the wall ahead and extinguished his own light.
The light was warm in color, like the orange glow of a fire and he slowly crept forward, hearing the quiet murmur of voices speaking in low tones.
He was directly at the corner and knew that if he rounded it it would place him in the same room as whoever was down here when he was finally able to make out the words being spoken.
"...much longer you think he'll be out?" the first voice asked, sounding rough and a bit weak.
"Don't know," the second voice answered, this one stronger and smoother. "He hasn't stirred so much as an inch since that fit he had yesterday."
"You ready to take over watch now?" the first voice asked. "I don't know if I can keep my eyes open much longer."
"In a moment," the second voice answered, followed by the sound of someone climbing to their feet. "Just gonna take a quick look out front. Check the wards, make sure they're holding strong after that near-miss last night. Might add an early-warning into it."
Gawain cursed and began backing away as the sound of footsteps started in his direction.
He took a step and gave an involuntary gasp when he felt his ankle roll painfully when his foot landed awkwardly on a loose stone.
"What was that?" the first voice asked.
A second later, a dark form sped around the corner and a bright flash of red lit of the darkness before everything went dark and Gawain was knocked from consciousness..
XXXX
A/N: Chapter two down. Next chapter will see the return of Regulus and some more Robards, Tonks and Hermione, and more light will be shed on the Harry and Barty situation. They'll be back soon, never fear.
Now, as always, reviews mean the world to me and give me motivation to keep writing, so leave me some love or constructive criticism. And please point out any mistakes you see, please.
Until next time,
Atrocity.