Omake: The Black Family Business - Interlude: The Dark Rises

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Finnius Snerg thought himself highly ranked among Death Eaters. Well, not as highly ranked as the Inner Circle, but that also meant that he avoided a great deal of being tortured by Lord Voldemort for other people's incompetence, at least in his opinion.

No, he did important work for The Cause, but managed to avoid the notoriety that some of the more exuberant Death Eaters acquired, along with a decent bounty from the Ministry.

Today, he was doing important work.

The master had returned from the dead, through some unknown means and in secret, away from any interference. And now, he needed to gather forces to his banner to conquer Magical Britain and liberate it from the mongrels, the mudbloods, and the pathetic beasts that littered the land.

For that reason, he was visiting some dingy pub in Knockturn Alley, in order to trick some of those pathetic beasts into following his Lord.

The wooden sign of The Den hung above him, newly painted with the profile of a wolf sitting in front of the entrance to a cave.

Finnius rolled his eyes behind his Death Eater mask and entered the pub.

The first room he stepped into was actually a small foyer, with two burly bouncers and a smaller man running a coat check. All three men wore chain bracelets at their wrists, with a small talisman hanging from them. The metal was silvery, but Finnius doubted that these men would go anywhere near silver jewelry.

The two bouncers straightened slightly at his appearance, and he sneered at them.

Without a word, he crossed the room and made for the door between the bouncers.

He was surprised when one of them put their arm out and stopped them.

"We're a private club," the man said, his voice gravely but polite. "Can't let you in without a pass or the okay of one of our members."

"Members," Finnius mocked. "I'm afraid that I don't have dog tags, if that's what you're looking for. Now, get out of my way, grunt, this is above your pay grade. I'm here to speak to your boss."

The two bouncers ignored his jibe, and instead glanced at each other quietly.

After a moment, the one that Finnius had been speaking to jerked his head towards the door and the other bouncer entered the pub.

"He'll check with the boss," the bouncer said politely. "See if he wants to see you."

"You fool," Finnius hissed. "No one makes Lord Voldemort wait."

The bouncer didn't flinch as expected. Instead, he just raised a single eyebrow.

"You're Voldemort?" he asked. "Thought you'd be taller."

"No! You idiot! I'm not Lord Voldemort!"

"Oh... Guess it's fine to make you wait then."

Finnius stood rigid for his moment, clutching his wand and trying to keep himself from putting down the animal in front of him. Luckily for the beast, the door opened before he could draw his wand and the other bouncer returned.

"Boss says to send him in," the man reported.

Finnius snorted, let go of his wand, and marched towards the door, only to be stopped by the bouncer again.

"What!?"

"We have a cover charge," the burly man reported.

"A what?"

"It's a private club." The bouncer shrugged. "We have a cover charge for non-members."

A choking noise escaped from Finnius's throat and he had to hold himself back from reducing the man in front of him to paste.

He reminded himself that he was here to recruit these fools for Lord Voldemort's army. This same grunt in front of him would probably be on the front lines, eating spellfire so that pure-blooded wizards could cast spells from safety.

"How much?"

"Five galleons."

"Five galleons! That's robbery!"

"You could always join the club." The man grinned, showing off his strangely long canines. "If you plan on coming a lot, the cover can add up. It makes joining seem reasonable by comparison."

Finnius took a step back, then quickly composed himself. "I'll pass," he said coldly before passing over five galleons.

He stepped forward, only to be stopped by the bouncer again.

"Would you like to check your coat?"

"No! Get out of my way!" Finnius tried to shove the meathead out of the way, but only managed to push himself backwards.

The bouncer smiled at him and stepped out of the way, letting Finnius storm through into the pub proper.

What he saw there made him pause.

Everything in the Diagon and Knockturn Alleys were run down. When the buildings got to be upwards of nine centuries old, it took a rather enormous amount of magic to make things look like they weren't nine centuries old.

But The Den looked... not new, but perhaps properly antiqued.

There was a long wooden bar that spanned an entire wall of the large, open room, and the wood shone with the luster of a recent lacquering. The floors were well-trod, and clear paths of movement through the room could be discerned from the discolorations on the wood, but the floors had been polished recently, and it made the paths seem to add character to the pub, rather than make it seem more run-down.

A couple of pool tables occupied one corner of the room, and a dart board was set up close to the bar, but far enough away to provide a semblance of safety.

The members of the club were all dressed in business attire; slacks and button up shirts, though the women of the club sometimes wore pencil skirts. All of them had dressed down slightly; with loosened ties and untucked shirts all around.

More grizzled members occupied the bar, though they were often visited by younger members who seemed enthused to sit and talk with their elders.

Finnius shook his head at the idiocy he saw there.

Two of the younger members were even pretending at swordplay with a few of the pool cues.

One of the men was sitting at a couch in a recessed sitting area. He had brown hair, with an encroaching touch of grey, pulled back into a loose ponytail. A matching brown, sharply trimmed goatee showed only slight more brown than grey. He was dressed like the other men in the pub, white button-up shirt and slacks, with a loosened black tie at his throat.

He waved to Finnius and gestured for him to sit in the recessed section with him.

Finnius walked over to the man and sat down in a chair across a small table from the man.

"I'm here to speak with Fenrir Greyback," Finnius said. "The Dark Lord has sent me, and I am tired of being waylaid in my goals."

"That's a damn shame," the man across from him said. "The name's Mitchell, and I'm sorry to hear about your troubles, but there's a bit of a hitch in speaking with Greyback."

A waitress in a white blouse with black slacks and a half apron swept by their table and dropped off a full pint of beer in front of the strange man.

"You see," Mitchell continued. "You're a bit behind on the local news." He raised his pint in a sarcastic salute. "Greyback's dead." He took a long pull from his pint.

"Dead!? How!?"

Mitchell let out a long sigh as he stopped drinking and slammed his half-empty pint of beer onto the table in front of him. "'e thought it would be a good idea to turn a particular fifteen year old girl. I do not believe there were enough pieces left of him when she was done to fill a shoebox."

"Iris Potter?" Finnius smirked as he began to see an easy angle to getting these dogs to follow him.

"That's the one." Mitchell nodded as he fingered his mug a bit. "Didn't think she stood a chance, since Greyback tried for her when she was alone, and on a full moon, but the fight was real one sided."

Finnius sat up straight in his chair at that piece of news. The girl should not have been strong enough to fight a full werewolf on a full moon.

"Well..." He collected his thoughts and figured for the best approach for his recruitment pitch. "I think that we could work together to deal with Iris Potter once and for all."

"Deal with her, huh?" Mitchell leaned forward in his seat and studied Finnius. "What are you suggesting?"

"The Dark Lord could provide powerful wizards, who would help you kill her. She would no longer trouble our lord, and you would get your revenge."

"Revenge is always appealing. But what comes after?"

"What do you mean?"

Mitchell reached into his back pocket and pulled out a rumpled, folded piece of paper and tossed it over the table.

Finnius unfolded the parchment and immediately recognized what it was.

"That is the 'Death Eater Manifesto'," Mitchell said slowly. "It doesn't really have much good to say about people of less-than-pure blood. Which werewolves aren't even considered in, since we aren't even considered to be humans anymore.

"We're beasts. Plague ridden beasts. Dangerous beasts. To be used, then hunted down when our use has ended." Mitchell stared at Finnius across the table. "Or can you tell me that such a thing wasn't your plan from the beginning?"

"Exceptions to the Manifesto can be made for beings that have shown themselves to be useful and are amenable to negotiations," Finnius said smoothly. Of course no changes would be made, and the diseased dogs would most certainly be hunted down once the Ministry was brought to heel. "Eliminating Iris Potter would go a long way towards proving your people to be useful, and it would be a chance at your own revenge."

"Revenge..." Mitchell smiled across the table. "Here, let me show you something." He scooped up his pint glass and stood. "Mates!" he shouted, raising his glass and causing silence to fall in the pub. "To Fenrir Greyback."

The pub was quiet, with the exception of a few warning growls.

"May he rot in Hell!"

Roars of approval filled the room as mugs were raised and alcohol was consumed.

Mitchell sat back down and placed his now empty pint glass onto the table. "There you are," he said. "We all used to follow Greyback, but we all hated him. The only reason that none of us had taken him out was because he came across as an invincible monster." He shook his head and thumped himself on the chest. "Even my beast finds the idea of turning children to be revolting.

"He led through a mixture of fear and lies... Hell, you're a Death Eater, I don't need to explain how that kind of leadership works." Mitchell grinned. "But, a little thing happened when Greyback died."

He paused to let the tension build.

"Iris Potter came for us too... A fifteen year old girl faced down thirty five werewolves on the night of the full moon and handed us all our asses.

"We may be cursed by the moon, but that girl is blessed by it."

He shook his head to clear stray thoughts and continued. "Pinned us all down and waited for our transformations to end... Then... Then, she talked to us. Helped us. Nothing too direct. I doubt the old codgers would have accepted that, but she brought change to us with a featherlight touch that we couldn't turn down.

"We suddenly had a surplus of Wolfsbane in our stocks. A new waitress joined on with a mind for finances and a good knowledge of carpentry skills and spells to keep this old place from falling to ruin."

A young waitress slid by, picking up Mitchells empty mug and replacing it with a full one.

"A few suggestions were floated our way, and eventually an offer for conversation and negotiations." Mitchell grinned ferociously. "We went, of course, and here's the thing." He grabbed the silvery medallion that hung from the chain on his wrist and leaned across the table to show it off.

The material was most likely titanium as closer inspection, and it had the pub's icon, the cave and wolf profile, pressed into the front and back of it.

"You think this is just a pub for werewolves here." He pressed something on the side of the medallion, and it popped open with a soft click, revealing the Black Family crest. "But we're actually a mafia branch in service to the Blacks."

While Finnius was reeling from the revelation, Mitchell swiftly scooped up his new beer and shot to his feet.

"Mates!" he shouted, grabbing everyone's attention again. "To Our Lady of the Blacks!"

The roar of noise that followed shook the whole building.

"Now," Mitchell continued, once the noise had settled down. "This gentleman here was just talking about killing our little lady."

Finnius froze in his seat.

"Why don't we show him what happens to those who try to interfere in the Black Family Business."

Finnius pulled his wand but dropped it immediately as a hard piece of wood smashed against his wrist.

He glanced up quickly to see one of the fools that had been playing swords with a pool cue had just smashed his arm with said cue.

Mitchell tightened his tie and picked up a suit jacket that had been tossed over the back of the couch.

All around the pub, people brushed wrinkles out of their clothes and tidied themselves up.

"We don't have a dragon," Mitchell said, eliciting laughs from some of those around him. "But our little lady does, and I'm quite certain she'd be interested to hear what you have to say about where old Voldy-mort is hiding out."