Harry Potter belongs to J K Rowling, the wonderful lady who has inspired so many people to try their hand at writing too. Warhammer 40k belongs to Games Workshop who have a very scary legal team. Please don't sue me, I'm not very well off and could only pay you in pictures. I only mean to pay homage to the wonderful, funny, baroque, gruesomeness that is WH40k.
I should also say a big thank-you to my very patient Beta Jacobus-minoris who has read and reread my writing, pointed out my grammatical mistakes, questioned the suitability of some of my wilder ideas as well as putting up with my long winded rants about plot ideas.
Author's Note
This chapter just grew...and grew...and grew...and at no point could I see a reasonable place to chop the thing in half.
Chapter 3
The noise level in the Great Hall rapidly escalated, as the returning students poured in excitedly, catching up with friends and eager for food after their long train ride across the country. Already seated at the staff table, Snape noticed a distinct edge to the normal chatter, with many students nervously looking towards the staff table, before visibly relaxing. Carrow had obviously made a lasting impression. Remus Lupin, the new Defence teacher, had an extremely hard act to follow. Snape almost felt sorry for the man...almost. He certainly wouldn't want to have to follow Carrow as a teacher. He glanced down the staff table to the shabby threadbare man, and, seeing the man looking his way, tried a Carrow smile on him. Lupin blanched, his head snapping forward again, and Snape chuckled to himself.
As the hall slowly filled and came to some order, Snape started looking out for students he tended to keep an eye on. Crabbe and Goyle were looking rather lost; not only had they lost their favourite teacher, now Carrow was gone, they'd also lost Draco Malfoy. After several Wizengamot sessions with Carrow present, Narcissa had decided that the French air would be better for her little boy's delicate constitution, and had transferred him to Beauxbatons, while moving to the Malfoy family summer villa to be nearby for him. Snape could understand Carrow made Narcissa Malfoy nervous, but really, moving country? A little on the excessive side, he felt.
The Ravenclaws were being their usual selves, a heated debate having already erupted among the older students, while the younger ones listened. It was possible they were debating Carrow's merits as a professor, but frankly they were Ravenclaw, so it could be about anything under the sun.
His gaze travelled on. Cedric Diggory and his small group of close friends all looked rather disappointed at the lack of the large and overbearing man. The Hufflepuffs had been a real surprise; though many of them had found Carrow's teaching methods hard to stomach, his utter devotion and dedication to his ideals really struck a chord with the house of the badger, who had welcomed the man with open arms.
The Gryffindors, on the other hand, had been much more wary of Carrow, probably unnerved by the idea that he had once been one of their own. But a few had warmed up to him; the Weasley twins for one would, given the chance, devote their lives to serve the man, maybe even sell their souls to do so, and their friend Lee Jordan wasn't far behind...and then there was Hermione Granger. He'd actually met her during the summer at the Lodge, Carrow's new residence, where she was staying for several weeks. It was almost as if Carrow had taken her on as an apprentice, and was continuing the training he'd started at Hogwarts. Miss Granger seemed to be flourishing under the giant bully's attentions. What was Carrow up to? And did he really want to know?
Not that he was really complaining; after all he had benefited greatly from the man's generosity. Thanks to the gift of the basilisk corpse, Snape was now an extremely wealthy man. Not Malfoy wealthy, but rich enough that he could seriously consider pursuing lines of research with several potions that had hither to been closed off to him, purely due to the exorbitant cost of ingredients...and then the man had insisted on gifting him with some fresh nundu body parts, some beyond rare. Even now he had a whole liver sitting in his private ingredients store under stasis charms, just waiting to be used.
And why had he been at the Lodge? Carrow was having problems with basic household charms. The man was so ridiculously powerful, that attempting to use basic cleaning charms would result in several inches of the unfortunate object's surface being removed, a shoelace tying charm would cause the shoe itself to tie into a knot before exploding, and the use of a dishwashing charm...well the kitchen was never going to be the same again. Carrow's OWL and NEWT results neatly reflected Carrow's little problem. The man had barely passed his Transfiguration, Charms and DADA OWLS, and that only due to his exemplary theory scores. Anything that did not involve a wand he had aced. He had done a lot better on the NEWTS, gaining a commendation for his exceptional conjuration, though again he'd barely passed Charms and DADA.
Some of the household maintenance Carrow had been able to task to the revolting golems he had made while still living at Hogwarts, but they were useless at anything that required more than basic repetition. In the end, Carrow had taken Snape's advice, and acquired a couple of house elves. The large man had approved of the household helpers in principle; the idea of a non-human creature that lived to serve humanity's every whim fitted neatly into Carrow's world view, but the reality of the over-zealous little creatures was another matter. Snape still laughed himself silly every time he recalled one of the little things wrapping its arms around one of Carrow's thick muscular legs and sobbing that he was "the bestest master ever"; the big man's face had been an absolute picture.
And thinking of Gryffindors, where was Miss Granger? Snape could see the youngest Weasley boy was saving a place for her, as he shooed several of his year mates away from the sacred space...but then the young lady in question slipped in to the Great Hall, taking her seat just before McGonagall led the new first years in. Everything about her and young Weasley's behaviour smacked of "up to no good". Snape had no idea what it could be. He narrowed his eyes thoughtfully as he watched the two have an animated discussion, all his teacher instincts screaming "here be trouble". Taking a sip of the coffee he'd managed to persuade the kitchen elves to serve him instead of the usual pumpkin juice, he considered his options. In the end, it seemed best to leave them to it. If it proved to be dangerous though, he would step in and put a stop to it...with extreme prejudice.
The Sorting passed quite normally, the tiny little first years timidly approaching the stool for their turn, and then scurrying off to their new house table. Snape swore they got smaller every year. At least this year's crop looked reasonably promising.
As the feast proceeded, apparently normally, Snape kept half an eye on the Gryffindor table alert for anything...prank like. He was not to be disappointed. As the twins began a how-much-pumpkin-juice-can-you-drink-in-one-go competition with their friends, they became troubled as their hair began to grow uncontrollably...all their hair. Slowly at first, gradually increasing speed, their fringes flopped over their eyes, tangling with their lengthening eyebrows and lashes, then down into their goblets before completely covering their faces, but it didn't stop there. The recalcitrant strands wove their way through the boys' clothing before romping across the table and trailing over the floor until all that could be seen of the two Weasley boys was a great mound of quivering, gleaming bronze hair that gave out indignant and muffled shouts every so often. Snape stared; if this was how the start of the year was going to be, he dreaded to think what things were going to be like by June; probably up to their necks in conjured baby kangaroos or something.
Over the shouts, cheers and laughter of the students Dumbledore called for calm.
It was quite impressive in a way, Snape thought idly, as he watched Madam Pomfrey examining the two boys, preparatory to cutting them free of the Gryffindor table and bench.
"Well, there's no sign of any sort of hex or jinx." Madam Pomfrey said as she stepped back from her examination of the two boys. "I suspect somebody slipped them a potion somehow, probably not correctly brewed either, but you'd have to check with Severus."
Albus and Minerva turned to the resident potions master. "I'm inclined to agree with Madam Pomfrey." he said in his usual flat tone. "A botched hair growth or baldness relieving potion, I think, considering it appears to have affected more than their head hair." He carefully pulled aside a large copper lock. "Probably slipped in to all that pumpkin juice they were busily guzzling earlier." He sneered at the giant hair pile.
"Will the usual antidote work, do you think?" Madam Pomfrey politely asked.
Snape considered the matter. "Doubtful; without getting a sample of the specific potion they were dosed with, and seeing how it had been altered, I couldn't tell you. At least it appears to have worked its course." He considered the twin piles of hair. "It's probably best to just do it the hard way."
Madam Pomfrey nodded. "I know a really useful depilation charm that'll be just the ticket for the job."
The twin mounds of hair whimpered.
OOOOOO
On his way out of the hall he spied the two possible perpetrators; Miss Granger and Mr Weasley were standing with the other students, watching the proceedings with a glint of satisfaction in their eyes. Their eyes widened nervously when they saw him watching, so Snape grinned again revelling in the panicky reaction it received. Carrow was defiantly on to something with his repertoire of nasty smiles.
OOOOOO
Fred and George Weasley sat side by side at the Gryffindor table, their faces unusually grim and not a hair to be seen anywhere on their heads. Around them occasional out-breaks of sniggers occurred, but quickly stopped when a twin flattened the perpetrator with a glare.
"Sooo..."began Lee Jordan, "how did it...well..." He gestured hopelessly, lost for words, but intensely curious.
The twins looked at one another.
"It went as well as could be expected."
The other twin nodded in agreement.
"About as well as being plucked like a chicken ever goes..."
"...and just about as excruciating as well."
They turned back to their friend.
"My personal favourite was when Madam Pomfrey pulled my nasal hairs out one by one. Definitely a memorable experience that." George nodded sagely. Jordan winced.
"My dear brother, what about when Pomfrey plucked out our testi..."
"Whoa, whoa," Jordan waved his arms, as if warding off the awfulness the twins' experiences, "way too much information; seriously not wanting to know about that over here."
Nearby male students winced, and nodded in general agreement.
"Well," Fred continued, "other than that, we feel rather drafty. It's amazing how important body hair is for keeping warm."
"Not to mention how sensitive certain bodily parts can become after being plucked in delicate places. Pomfrey even warned us about in-growing hairs."
George dramatically put his hand to his forehead. "Calamity! My eyebrows will never be the same!" Fred nodded solemnly.
"Don't worry," Fred continued with a vicious smile that would have made Professor Carrow proud, "we're more than willing to share our pain and suffering with our rival pranksters."
Fortunately the whirring fluttering of the owl post distracted the students from the Weasley twins' misery.
OOOOOO
Snape smirked into his coffee, suppressing a chuckle as he observed the morning sunshine gleaming off two bald heads at the Gryffindor table. So the terrible twins had finally been given a taste of their own medicine, and in a particularly imaginative way too. He probably could have brewed an antidote; after all there were only so many ways in which a basic hair growth potion could be altered. However, watching Poppy pluck the boys had been much more fun.
A fluttering whir signalled the arrival of the owl post, and Snape looked expectantly for his copy of the morning's paper. As the owl approached he frowned in puzzlement. Today's edition appeared to be unusually hefty. Without another thought, he opened his copy while reaching for his drink. A casual glance at the front headline brought Snape's comfortable morning routine to a screeching halt, choking on a mouthful of coffee.
"DEATH EATERS DEAD!" screamed the headline in three inch high lettering that scrolled across the front page. Snape winced at the abominable typography, before looking at the dozen photographs underneath, each one a Death Eater, each one a familiar face, people he'd gone to school with, others he'd met after leaving Hogwarts when he'd joined the Death Eaters, and had started to move in those circles...and now they were all dead. At the same time. Which was slightly odd since they had all been imprisoned in Azkaban, and, while the place was notoriously unhealthy, for nearly a dozen people to die all at once was more than a little odd. With slightly trembling hands, Snape opened the paper.
"...only discovered because of the distressing smell..."
"...dead for weeks..."
"...uncertainty over the timescale..."
"...all cells still locked..."
"...no obvious signs of foul play..."
"...several of the deceased had broken necks...a sign of a tragic accident or something more sinister..."
"...probably died within moments of one another..."
...and it went on and on, becoming increasingly clear that actually nobody had any real idea at all of the exact circumstances leading up to these deaths. And the bodies themselves weren't talking either; frankly they were just too decomposed. Snape looked up, mind working at a frantic rate, observing the Great Hall unseeingly. Huddles of frightened students frantically discussed the article; even the teaching staff were affected, McGonagall, Sprout and Pomfrey all huddled over a copy of the paper, having a quiet but heated discussion, while Flitwick read the editorial, forgotten scrambled eggs slowly dripping off his fork and onto his lap unheeded.
Snape didn't know whether to laugh or cry. On the one hand these were people he had mixed with socially, and in a few cases known quite well, but on the other hand they had all committed dreadful crimes and for a few of them (the Lestranges came to mind) this was definitely a case of good riddance to bad rubbish. He rubbed a hand down his face, leaning back in his chair. The evidence that had actually made it in to the Daily Prophet was inconclusive to say the least, but there was the suggestion of foul play; he could think of a few people who had the skills and temperament to commit such an act, but they were almost exclusively international hit-wizards or criminals with a similar reputation...except...Snape looked down at the photographs of familiar and very dead faces. It was highly unlikely that anybody would ever be able to prove that the monstrous man had done this, and it was highly unlikely that he would ever willingly admit to having committed this act, but he'd proved himself more than capable of such things on numerous occasions.
Snape was so caught up in his thoughts that he nearly missed the small story that had been pushed to the bottom of page eight. "Nott Family Head Dead in Mugging Gone Wrong"
...mutilated body found in Skit Alley, Knockturn area...
...nearby, a hag was arrested after being found with a half cooked human liver, and finger pies...
...illegal meat suspected to have been looted from Quentin Nott's body...
How in Merlin's name did Quentin Nott, master dueller and all round nasty tough get mugged in Knockturn, and the sheer indignity of his lifeless corpse being dismembered and eaten...if Snape hadn't been sure of Carrow's involvement before, in a sick and strange way, he certainly was now. Snape rubbed at his forehead the beginnings of a headache starting up just above his left eye. This was like the last war before all hell broke loose, strange murders and disappearances as the Dark Lord removed everybody who was an immediate threat...except this time, the predator had become the prey, and the Death Eaters themselves were busily being exterminated. Except their removal was a good thing...wasn't it? After all many of them had done horrific things, Quentin Nott included, and got away with it scot free, so why did he feel so uneasy?
OOOOOO
Faulks growled in frustration as yet again his new computer presented him with the notorious blue-screen-of-death. He glared horribly at the little brass cog and candle that Carrow had insisted should be lit, at all times, while using the device, in order to appease the computer's "machine spirit". It didn't work, particularly when the computer in question had the mentality of an easily distracted three year old. At least he'd only recently saved the document he'd been working on, typing up all the information that they'd so far discovered relating to the sorry case of Lucretia Mipps, and wasn't it a sorry tale indeed. But of course, now he'd got to go through the whole rigmarole again of rebooting the blasted thing, before he could then load Windows 3.0. Blast ruddy technology, and blast Carrow too, for his insistence on having everything word-processed...in High Gothic...in a particularly horrible gothic font; and it was only going to get worse as Carrow was considering having the Lodge networked so he and his secretary could easily exchange documents.
Faulks didn't know whether to be happy or sad; on entering the Wizarding world, he thought he'd escaped the evils of the technological arms race that the mundane world was increasingly going through. On the other hand, every time he'd visited his family, he'd felt increasingly out of touch, an alien in a once familiar world. His older brother had teased him incessantly about it.
Carrow found the whole divide between the magical and muggle worlds perplexing and ridiculous. He was used to having access to certain technologies, and if they had been invented, he certainly wasn't going to go without. The Lodge had subsequently been wired for electricity, and now boasted a considerable number of the latest gadgets, including numerous computers, and a large television on which Carrow watched the evening news on a daily basis, as he tried to assimilate years of current affairs in a matter of weeks.
Faulks was beginning to miss the relative simplicity of Wizarding life, particularly his small flat off Diagon Alley. Carrow had banged on his door so many times in the early hours of the morning, demanding his attention that the next door neighbours had threatened to formally complain about his pet bear, what with all the growling.
In the end, Faulks had given in to Carrow's demands, and moved into the Potter family seat, the Lodge, taking up residence in a small suite of rooms on the second floor in the east wing; now here he was, surrounded by the sort of luxury that only "old money" could buy.
Rubbing blurry, gritty eyes, Faulks paced back and forth across the antique and slightly thread-bare Persian rugs scattered across the floor of his living room stroke office. At some point one of the Potters must have been rather fashion conscious, and had had the walls of Faulks' rooms covered in hand-painted Chinese silk, something he'd only ever seen in stately homes as a child. The paintings of various Potters through the years did little to detract from the glorious wall coverings. It also contrasted sharply with the furnishings.
Most of the furniture in the Lodge dated to just before the Statute of Secrecy, though some of it was even older and there were a few more modern pieces bought in by more up-to-date members of the Potter family, so most of the furniture in his suite of rooms was Tudor of some vintage, apart from the medieval iron banded chest in which he stored his horde of replacement remotes, and the Georgian desk, in which he hid his supply of blood pops to bribe Natasha with and his stash of Black Russians. It was a pity the blood pops didn't work on the rest of the extremely argumentative vampire clan, meaning he had to resort to other methods to break up their fights...when the technology phobic creatures weren't destroying television remotes of course.
But it was the bed that really got him; the flamboyant Elizabethan four-poster with its heavily embroidered hangings was extremely comfortable, but rather overwhelming for a young man raised in middle-class suburbia. Fortunately the bathroom was comparatively plain, and reassuringly Victorian in its solidity. Faulks had a suspicion that it had originally been a linen closet.
So here he was, stuck in this beautiful house in the middle of nowhere, the closest town being Godric's Hollow, a sleepy middle-class sort of place which gave every appearance of having been by-passed by the industrial revolution, and much of the twentieth century too, with thirteen vampires living in the wine cellar, and of course the resident, and very undomesticated sociopath, all of whom loved fighting, in and out of the sparring ring.
He'd thought his job description was secretary, or maybe personal assistant; instead he'd ended up as a negotiator, a mediator, a shoulder to cry on, the person who found lost things, and made sure everybody had clean sheets, and food, the person who ran errands to the small local shopping centre, the one who fixed things or found somebody who could. Some days he felt more like Carrow's wife.
As he walked past the grandfather clock it chimed the hour and Faulks groaned. Pulling himself together he dragged himself to his bedroom, the home of the ridiculous Elizabethan confection masquerading as a bed, and quickly pulled on his training gear before Carrow could break down his door, all in readiness for his daily three hour training session, something which Carrow insisted was vital. Faulks couldn't quite put into words just how thrilled he was to get beaten up by Carrow's disgusting combat golems, and Carrow himself, and now vampires too, just for variation. As if he didn't have enough on his plate already.
OOOOOO
The massive sword whistled over his head as he ducked and swerved, desperately trying to get close enough to the combat golem to do it some sort of damage. Darting in, Faulks whipped his sword round in a two handed grip in an attempt to hack at the thing's torso, legs, he wasn't picky. Distracted as he was, he didn't see the backswing of the Golem coming, until it pounded in to his side like a freight train. It knocked the wind out of his lungs, leaving him in a gasping wheezing heap on the floor of the training arena.
Strong arms scooped him up, and carried him out of the sunken pit of the arena, depositing him on one of the spectator benches.
As he regained control of his breathing, Faulks gingerly checked for broken ribs. They felt bruised, and he had a suspicion he would have a beautiful medley of colours on his side tomorrow. Nearby giggling caught his attention, and he cautiously opened his eyes, only to find Annie and Caroline, two of the resident vampires, leaning over him grinning, fangs prominent.
"Ten minutes this time." Annie smiled down at him, passing him some bottled water.
"Definitely an improvement," Caroline nodded approvingly, "you'll soon be able to keep up with us."
Faulks grimaced a smile; just what he needed, over enthusiastic vampires. The sound of clashing weapons drew their attention to the training arena where Carrow was sparring with the monstrous training Golem set aside for the man. The fight was nearly impossible to follow, the two combatants a blur of motion as they attempted to overwhelm the other, and in Faulks' opinion rather boring to watch. With a crash Carrow and the Golem locked their practise weapons, each straining against the other, trying to gain the upper hand. With a mighty shove Carrow pushed the Golem away, darting forward and punching its deactivation rune. The Golem slowly slumped into a messy kneeling position on the floor of the training arena with a slow crash, and Carrow banished it back to its allocated space.
As Carrow strode towards him, grinning broadly, still on an adrenaline high, Faulks wondered if now would be a great time to vacate the room.
"Your turn." Carrow cheerfully boomed.
Faulks smiled tightly at the large man, before making his way back into the training arena. There was no point trying to escape; it was probably best to just accept the torment with a smile on his face.
OOOOOO
Faulks desperately fought for his life in a whirl of clashing blades and fierce blows as he tried to keep Carrow from overwhelming him. He might as well have tried turning back the water of the Thames; it would have been just as effective. As he began to tire under the rain of blows his concentration began to waver and so he never saw the pommel of Carrow's training sword heading towards his face, not until it was far too late.
Groaning, Faulks spit out a couple more teeth in to the puddle of frothy blood on the floor in front of him. A tentative probing revealed that yes, Carrow really had managed to knock out all of his upper incisors and his gums were now bleeding profusely due to the abuse they had suffered. Sitting up he glared at the perpetrator who actually had the grace to look embarrassed.
"I am so sorry," Carrow murmured, "I really didn't mean to injure you so..."
He crouched down next to the much smaller man handing him a towel and a bottle of water.
"Since I am responsible for your injury I insist on paying for the replacement teeth...if such dental work is available yet."
Faulks nodded, scowling, "Crowns," he mumbled or rather lisped, before grimacing at the sound of his voice, "I'll go to my dentist, get it sorted, give you the bill," he muttered.
"Miss Granger's parents are practitioners of dental medicine," mused Carrow, "yes, yes, I'll give them a call," he smiled down at Timothy, giving him a friendly pat on the back before striding off towards the showers.
Faulks glared after him in increasing annoyance, rolling his now bruised shoulder, "I've got my own dentist," he slurred loudly at the man's retreating back.
"You did better than last time," a cheerful female voice piped up behind him.
Turning Faulks found Annie and Caroline standing behind him, far too close, fang revealing smiles on their faces.
"Yes, a whole two extra seconds," Caroline smiled up at him.
Faulks smiled tightly at them, dry blood encrusted on his chin. So he'd lasted against Carrow for approximately sixty-three seconds. Well, whoopee.
OOOOOO
Plastic and tubular steel creaked nervously under his considerable weight, as Carrow shifted restlessly in the too small chair, while Dr Granger tutted over the state of Timothy's mouth. Carrow had been very insistent that he should accompany Timothy to all his dental appointments; he felt it important to take responsibility for the injuries he had caused his secretary, not to mention his insatiable curiosity over the hither-to unexplored world of dentistry.
During the first appointment, Dr Granger had given then a stern lecture on the perils of contact sports, and the importance of gum shields and other safety equipment, and was he flossing regularly? When they had returned the second time, Dr Granger had fixed posts into Timothy's upper jaw that would act as anchor points for the new crowns, and gave him a reminder to floss his teeth.
Carrow had had quite the argument with Timothy about the material for these new teeth. Timothy was insistent on having porcelain. Carrow refused to spend good money on something so plebeian, and insisted on the more expensive option of gold. He really wanted to make it up to Timothy for having damaged his teeth, so only gold would do. There were other benefits too, as he had repeatedly explained to the young man; gold would show off a certain wealth, would open doors for him, and make him more acceptable in certain circles. Timothy had eventually given in.
Carrow had visited the Grangers' surgery alone to view the gold crowns before fitting, and had been horrified when he had been presented with the plainest gold teeth he had ever seen. He had expressed his opinion to Dr Granger in fairly strong language.
"Well what were you expecting?" Dr Granger had snapped back, "Diamond settings? Pearl inlay? Engraving, perhaps?"
Carrow had considered these new options being offered him, musing out loud. "I think the diamonds would be far too ostentatious, and pearl inlay is rather noveau-riche. I like the sound of the engraving though," he smiled down at the dentist, "yes, the engraving would be very nice, subtle but decorative."
Dr Granger slapped his forehead with one hand. Why couldn't he keep his mouth shut? It was always difficult to know how the large man was going to take things at the best of times. He watched nervously, as Carrow quickly and neatly drew out what he thought would be suitable designs. This was not going to end well he could tell, and Carrow was not somebody you wanted cross, not even over relatively minor matters such as the cosmetic appearance of crowns. No, it was going just going to be easier to avoid confronting the lunatic, have some porcelain crowns made up for young Tim and discretely tell him he could come in at a future date to have them installed.
So here they now were, at the ultimately instalment of the much anticipated crowns. Carrow shifted restlessly again, as Dr Granger handed a mirror to Timothy so he could see the final results. He could claim he was genuinely surprised by the look of utter horror and fury which initially crossed Timothy's face, until he managed to wrestle his emotions under control, a virtual shutter coming down, his expression stony and his eyes cold.
OOOOOO
As they entered the entrance hall of the Lodge, Faulks suddenly turned on Carrow, his face a rictus of fury.
"This is the final straw," he hissed at the larger man, "I have put up with a hell of a lot over the past couple of months from you, with little in the way of complaint."
Carrow frowned, bewildered as to what Timothy could possibly be talking about. The smaller man stalked forward until he was inches away from Carrow's broad chest.
"First of all it was all the nagging to get me to move here...and then my clothes disappeared...and you insisted on me wearing these," he gestured to his leather storm coat and steel toe-capped boots, "Thereby turning me into a mini clone of yourself," he gestured angrily at the huge slab of muscle in front of him, "and then there's the training," he snarled, "I can understand why I need it but I'm utterly sick of drinking skelegrow." He was starting to pace, a very bad sign. He whirled on Carrow. "I'm actively worried I'm acquiring resistance to the stuff." he hissed wild-eyed. "Have you never heard of health and safety? I also don't appreciate being the one who always has to put the Covens' snacks down when they go limp and droopy from constant blood loss. And what about your tendency to use me as bait?" he snarled, "First a nundu, then there was that rogue vampire clan in Romania and that's not forgetting the dragon with brain-rot!"
Carrow finally managed to get a word in. "It is your duty to..."
Faulks snarled, his glare utterly murderous. "There's duty and there's disposable! I'm your employee, not your slave! Which gets me to my main point! These Teeth! YOU...GRAFITTEED...ON...ME. You violated my personal space, my body, in a very fundamental, very visible way! I am NOT your property!"
Faulks paused, breathing heavily. "I haven't had a single day off since I started working for your ungrateful behind, so I am going to have a few days of well earned rest away from this madhouse. Do not try disturbing me." And with that Faulks turned on his heel, stalking away, back straight, storm-coat billowing around him.
Carrow stared at his retreating back. What had that been about?
OOOOOO
When Remus Lupin had accepted the position of DADA teacher at his old school, he could truly say this wasn't what he'd been expecting; the stony faces of the other teachers and the wary and judgemental stares of the students, but worst of all, there was no sign at all of his best friend's son. At the sorting feast, he'd initially looked for Harry among the Gryffindors and failed miserably to find any sign of that messy black hair he remembered so well, just like his father. Puzzled at the lack, he turned to the Ravenclaws. After all both his parents were highly intelligent and talented so it wasn't impossible that their son would end up in Rowena's house. Again he failed. So he had, with some disbelief, looked among the Hufflepuffs. He couldn't really imagine a Potter in the house of the badger but they were known for their hard working spirit, fortitude and loyalty, all wonderful characteristics; but no, no sign of a Potter anywhere. Surely he couldn't be a Slytherin, it just wasn't possible...was it? With some reluctance, he looked towards the Slytherins. There were plenty of children of Death Eaters there; certainly a Nott, Crabbe and Goyle were highly visible. With some relief, he was forced to come to the conclusion that there was no Potter among the snakes. But that raised the question, where in the world was Harry Potter? It was like he had lost a lucky talisman that proved everything was right with the world.
It really hadn't got any better from there. The teachers were grimfaced and evasive when he enquired as to Harry's whereabouts. His constant enquiries had resulted in a rather frightening confrontation in the staff-room involving McGonagall, Sprout and Hooch. He'd asked about his best friend's son once too often, so the lady professors had crowed round his chair in a very threatening manner. McGonagall, the ring leader, had leaned down until they were nearly nose to nose, her eyes cold and wintery.
"The first rule of the staff-room is, you do not talk about Harry Potter!" her expression became even more wintery if that could be possible, "and the second rule of the staff room is you do not talk about Harry Potter!"
She eyed him coldly. "As long as you remember those two simple rules I'm sure you'll do well here." She nodded decisively before stalking off, her colleagues following her. The slightly shaken werewolf looked around the room, taking in the other professors who eyed him with disdain...apart from Snape, who was busily laughing at him from behind his potions journal.
So he'd been living in the muggle world, it being the only place he could find employment, but was he really this out of touch? He'd resorted to reading back-copies of the Daily Prophet, but what he found there made no real sense. Harry had disappeared last summer, only to reappear that same Halloween...and then everything had gone very quiet.
And talking of the Daily Prophet there had also been the increasing number of reports of Death Eaters dying in strange circumstances. There had been the mass deaths at Azkaban, and Quentin Nott, and more recently still, there had been the particularly embarrassing case of Geoffrey Goyle, who died of poisoning while in the throes of passion...in Mistress Rouge's Menagerie of Delights, a particularly seedy brothel in the Knockturn area that catered to a clientele with very specialist tastes. It almost felt like the last war and people were beginning to sense something was going on. The atmosphere in the castle was increasingly uneasy.
And so, he started his teaching career at Hogwarts very much on the wrong foot.
The first few classes he taught had lulled him in to a false sense of security. The first year students were young and eager, and very excited to be learning magic for the very first time. He had taught them a couple of basic jinxes and a simple shield charm, before allowing them to have a few, very basic, mock duels. The children had left their classes, happily chattering among themselves over their successes and eager for more.
His next class had been with second year Hufflepuffs. In hindsight he should have spotted the warning signs. They were initially nervous when he announced a practical class, shooting wary glances at the duelling pit at the back of the class room, while they huddled right at the front as far away from it as they could get. As he guided them through a review of basic hexes and jinxes and their counters, they very slowly relaxed.
But the penny (or maybe the anvil) really dropped with the third year students. A boggart had moved into the cloak closet in the staff room, and he had seen a wonderful opportunity to give some of his students a little bit of first-hand experience dealing with a common dark household pest that was comparatively easy to do deal with. He felt it would certainly be much more exciting than sitting in a classroom.
The third year Ravenclaws had frozen when he had cheerfully told them, "Please put your books away, and take your wands out class. Today will be a practical lesson."
They had nervously complied. Seeing everyone was ready, he led them to the staffroom which the children had reluctantly entered, huddling together in a wide eyed group, wands at the ready, as they took in the slightly shabby, but cozy interior of the professors' bolt hole. Only one chair, near the fireplace, was occupied. Severus Snape was enjoying some student free time with a potions periodical. Peering over the top of his journal, he smirked at the fearful children, and practically grinned at Lupin, a look of gleeful anticipation in his eyes. Lupin returned the smile nervously; considering his past history with the potions professor, he doubted the man was trying to be friendly and wanting to bury the hatchet with him.
Pulling himself together, he turned back to his charges. "Right class," he smiled at the suspicious students, "gather round."
The huddle of children shuffled over eyeing the quaking cloak closet warily.
"Do we have to...kill it?" a small, tentative voice spoke up.
OOOOOO
The trembling student faced the cloak closet with a look of supreme determination on his face, wand clasped tightly in his hand.
"Ready?" asked a slightly shaken Lupin. The student merely nodded, steeling himself for whatever horror might slink out of the dark recesses of the cupboard before him. The door slowly creaked open, and a long and hairy leg eased its way out of the small space, as a fully grown acromantula forced its bulk through the slight opening. The boy frowned in concentration waiting for his moment, "Ridikulus!" he cried flourishing his wand. The head of the horror slipped free of its body in a rush of gore and the massive carcass slumped to the floor in a puddle of ichor. The boy grinned, happy with the results while his class mates chortled in the background.
Lupin, watching from the side-lines, blanched at the gory sight; and this was only the third student. The previous two had had some sort of monstrous man with an insane grin. For the life of him, Lupin couldn't think why he looked so familiar, and frankly the visual effects the children had chosen were rather disturbing. Beheadings, the man's body exploding in a shower of gore, impalements; he wasn't sure how much more of this he could take. It wasn't the gruesome effects precisely, but rather the childrens' tender age, and their cynical laughter. Maybe this hadn't been such a good idea after all.
When the third-to-last student stepped forward, Lupin was praying frantically, please, please be something normal, no gore, no gore. The tiny girl, the smallest child in the class, looked as if a strong wind would blow her away.
His hopes were shattered when the metal, skull encrusted monster he had witnessed twice before impossibly climbed out of the tiny cloak closet. Its baleful red glare took in the tiny child, as it stepped forward, its strange limbs whirring painfully with each step, one gore slicked gauntlet reached out to the girl, blood dripping sluggishly from its fingers.
The girl became increasingly wild-eyed, her body trembling, and to Lupin's increasing alarm, she began to froth at the mouth. With an unearthly shriek, she threw herself at the apparition, rending it with teeth and nails, her wand lying forgotten on the floor some feet away. The boggart itself was considerably smaller and definitely weaker than the terrifying apparition it projected that was its one and only defence mechanism. Against a small teenage girl driven to a blood-crazed frenzy, it didn't really stand much of a chance.
The class watched in fascination, as the girl literally pulled the boggart apart, splattering her surroundings with thick, goopey ichor, beating the remains with one torn and tattered limb. Her shrieks of rage slowly turned to huffing bellows as she ran out of steam, drool dribbling down her chin, eyes glassy and staring.
Her friends carefully sidled forward and, encouraged by the fact she didn't attack them, they gently pried the unrecognisable remains from her hands.
"There, there, it's dead now, Su-Su." one said in an overly bright voice, patting her gore slicked hand comfortingly.
"Why don't we go to Madam Pomfrey now?" the other one said gently, trying to lead Su-Li away to the Infirmary.
Snape picked this moment to glide forward, a vial of something in one hand, "Miss Li, I think it would be an excellent idea, if you would take this calming draft, after your...sterling performance with the boggart." The severe man was surprisingly gentle as he handed over the little vial to the still distressed student. He turned to the girl's friends. "If you would escort Miss Li to the Infirmary..." The two girls nodded solemnly, before gently, but firmly, leading away the smaller student.
Lupin had watched all this in a horrified daze. "Ah right...class dismissed...and three feet on boggarts, their habits, and how to counter them...due in next class, please, no excuses!"
The children all piled out the door as quickly as they could, determined to vacate the scene of the grizzly boggart corpse, leaving behind a bewildered and slightly shaken professor.
Lupin turned to Snape. "What was that all about?" he gasped. Snape raise an eyebrow questioningly.
"Miss Li," Lupin clarified, "I've never seen the like." his face furrowed in worry.
"Ah yes," Snape smirked at him, "our resident berserker. Yes, the previous incumbent was very impressed with her natural talent, and did his best to nurture it."
"What? Gilderoy Lockhart?" Lupin asked incredulously.
Snape snorted at the idea. "No, Allesandor Carrow. He took over when Lockhart...resigned." He looked speculatively at the gooey mess that was all that remained of the boggart. "I have a feeling that Mr Carrow will probably try to employ Miss Li straight out of school."
"Alessandor Carrow? Who's that?" The name sounded vaguely familiar to Lupin. "He's not related to Amycus and Alecto is he?" He shuddered at the thought of another one of them running around.
Snape shook his head. "Not that I'm aware of, but you be the judge. After all, you have already seen him." He smirked at the other man.
Lupin shrugged, puzzled.
"The boggart," Snape grinned, "some of them were a remarkable likeness. I swear the man doesn't even have to be present to cause utter mayhem. Well I must be off. Can't have the little hellions destroying the potions lab, can we?"
Snape stalked away in an impressive billow of black robes, leaving behind a bewildered and unsettled Lupin. The werewolf gazed down at the mess on the floor. Well, that was his lesson plans for the rest of the week completely messed up.
OOOOOO
It was like a fog horn in training, Faulks finally decided, as a small child erupted into wails, just feet away from him. His carefully honed reflexes were working overtime today. Yet again, he barely managed to stop reaching for weapons that weren't there, instead gripping the handle of the shopping trolley even tighter, the leather of his gloves creaking with the strain. The mother of the child scowled horribly at him, for daring to object to her adorable little noise generator, before storming down the rest of the cereal aisle, head held high.
Faulks retreated even further behind his stony mask, superb for dealing with over exuberant space-marines and irritating vampires, but not for very urban and very ordinary supermarkets full of equally urban and ordinary people. Mother dearest's wonderful idea of getting him out of the house to stop him brooding was busily back-firing. Faulks was bored rigid, but at the same time dangerously on edge, nerves jangling, alert for any danger, all in all a very dangerous combination not ideal for pushing a shopping trolley, as he trailed around after his mother. He was very much of the opinion that he currently looked like a complete idiot clad, as he was in Carrow approved horrors. Heavily tailored leather storm coats with miles of braiding and brass skull decorated buttons on the front did not really go with the orange plastic aesthetics of the local supermarket. The engraved skulls and acanthus leaves on the steel toes of his boots weren't helping things either.
"Keep up Timothy." His mother's voice cut through his frustrated thoughts. With an angry huff, he pushed the packed trolley after her. Having spent so much of the last decade in the Wizarding World, he hadn't realised before just how odd supermarkets were. For instance, mince pack sizes; they were either big enough for two portions or four, so what if you needed to feed three people? Did you end up buying two packs and have half of one left over or did you buy a large pack and only use three quarters? He tried explaining it to his mother very carefully, but she seemed to miss the point entirely, so as they turned into "Soup & Tinned Veg" he pointed out the sheer ridiculousness of six different types of baked beans, all of them with very similar labels. What was all that about? Did they truly think people were stupid enough that they could be tricked into picking up the wrong brand of beans by mistakes? Maybe it was some sort of conspiracy...mind control and manipulation implemented through tinned comestibles.
"Don't be ridiculous, Timothy!" was mother's only response,
And then he spotted the security guard for the third time. The man was lurking, in what he obviously thought was a nonchalant manner by a display of mushy peas with his radio at the ready. Faulks carefully analysed the man. Late forties, early fifties, judging by his greying, receding hair, a big man run slightly to seed, not up to a very long chase, possibly ex-police, probably retired, definitely bored out of his skull.
The man sauntered off and left towards "spreads & butter" trying to look casual, but Faulks knew his game. If he doubled back, slipped through "pasta & rice", then nipped across into "household detergents", he could come up behind the man and give him the old one two...well, make him jump any way. Seeing his chance, he grabbed his mother's elbow, as she came back with an armload of soup, and led her off, ignoring her protests, on a convoluted security guard dodging tour of the supermarket.
Peering round a display of "magic" dusters in "household cleaners", to his utter delight, they were in luck. Releasing the protesting Mrs Faulks, he sauntered forward, gently bumping the shopping-trolley into the security guard. So intent was he on watching for the scrawny dodgy man in the weird leather coat, that he jumped a mile, yelping in shock and frantically juggling his radio, trying not to drop the expensive piece of electronics. He whirled on the spot, furious, only to come face to face with a smirking Faulks who was leaning on the handle of the shopping trolley.
"Hi," purred Timothy as the security guard's face paled, turned red and finally settled on blotchy grey. "I couldn't help but notice," Timothy continued, "that you're rather wasted on a supermarket." He pulled one of his business cards out of a pocket, handing it to the unnerved security guard, who stared at it warily. "My employer is always on the look-out for reliable security staff. Give me a call, and I'll set you up with an interview." Pushing the shopping-trolley away, Faulks sauntered past the bewildered security guard, giving him a quick grin, Mrs Faulks trying to catch up with her recalcitrant son's long stride.
"Really, Timothy!" Mrs Faulks started. "How could you do something so childish, and in public too. I've never been so embarrassed in my life..."
The security guard watched them walk away, the lady's rant fading with distance, before looking at the business card once again. The thick piece of creamy parchment was simply adorned, a name, Timothy Faulks, a phone number, and an image of a double headed eagle, wings outstretched, one head staring out at him, the other blind.
OOOOOO
William Faulks sighed heavily as he finished the paperwork he'd brought home from the office; the cause for his concern could be clearly seen through the window, yet again waving that ridiculous sword around. Timothy, his younger son, the beloved eccentric and almost black sheep of the family had been a cause for concern for many years, ever since he'd received that letter from that Scottish school, Hogwarts. It was concerning enough that the poor boy was apparently a wizard, the family had always produced steadily middle-class types, doctors, accountants, solicitors, even the odd military type, but what precisely did a wizard do?
When Timothy left Hogwarts with, apparently, glowing qualifications the boy had done his best to get a job in government...only to collide with a magical brick wall of prejudice. Being the first wizard in his family had really not helped his political career, being far more talented that most of his pure-blood peer group had only further compounded the problem leaving the poor lad with no choice but to take a job cleaning toilets at the Ministry and hope that someone spotted him. The family had been on the point of taking intervening action when Timothy had finally landed a plum job, secretary to one of the newest members of the Wizengamot, one Allesandor Carrow...and then four months later he storms home in a furious temper at his employer...oddly changed and not for the better...the dreadful gold teeth, the dark and aggressive wardrobe, the jumpiness, the obsessive exercise, the smoking, the insomnia, the signs of paranoia, the antisocial behaviour, the lack of appetite...where did it end? More than ever William Faulks regretted allowing his little boy to go to that strange Scottish school. Really, could it get any worse? Hearing the doorbell chime he pulled himself to his feet and went to answer it puzzled, they weren't expecting any parcels at the moment. Opening the door he came face to chest with a veritable wall of black braid and leather, brass skull buttons and extreme tailoring. His eyes slowly drifted upward... and the abominable apparition smiled down at him like a tiger in a deer enclosure.
OOOOOO
The silence stretched on, as Timothy sat on the sofa arms folded, glaring poisonously at his employer. Carrow himself seemed unperturbed with his secretary's hostility, and was experimenting with dunking ginger biscuits in his tea. William fidgeted, uncomfortable in his own living room, feeling like a spare part to all the subtle unspoken communication between the two dark and brooding figures that he was not initiated in. He was sure he'd met divorcing couples worse than this, but he was having trouble remembering when.
Timothy narrowed his eyes viciously at the hulking figure of Carrow. "Well?" he snapped.
Carrow's head jerked up mid-chew, eyes wide and innocent, a distinctly ridiculous expression on such a blatantly violent man. Timothy sneered, the contentious gold teeth glittering dangerously in the light filtering in through the net curtains.
"Right!" William finally said, his voice overly cheerful and forced in the oppressive silence, his smile a humourless parody. "I'll leave you to your discussion then," before practically sprinting from the room.
"Do you understand now?" Timothy practically hissed, "Or are you still wallowing in denial?"
Carrow set his teacup down, leaning back in the protesting chair, face unreadable.
"After you left, the young ladies came to your defence. They were extremely...angry and felt that I had wronged you greatly," the large man sighed wrestling with foreign concepts and feelings, "Annie asked me how would I feel if someone were to...deface my armour," he stared up at the ceiling sighing again, "my armour is a holy relic that I am merely the current guardian of...and I don't think your teeth are." He paused again, thinking hard, "I think what Annie was trying to convey was the sense of violation...of desecration almost...was what you experienced...they are teeth..." he trailed off perplexed by the level of upset a simple act of kindness had managed to cause.
Leaning forward in the protesting chair he started intently at his secretary, "Timothy, you work for me, therefore it is my responsibility to look after you, to provide you with the necessities of life... so you can concentrate fully on doing your duty..."
Timothy sighed, exasperated, head in his hands, as Carrow really got into his stride on his lecture on duty and what they should expect from one another.
"You really don't understand why I'm upset do you?" he snarled gate-crashing Carrow's rant. The large man stared back at him, puzzlement clearly visible in his unnaturally green eyes.
"Do you know what I mean by personal space?" Timothy asked.
Carrow narrowed his eyes, suspicious and unsure as to where this was going to go, "no," he finally murmured shaking his head slightly.
"Well let me demonstrate to you," Timothy smirked at the increasingly wary manner in which Carrow watched him, as he levered himself up from the sofa and sauntered round the coffee table.
Carrow eyed him carefully, obviously expecting something violent from his secretary. Timothy smiled sweetly at him, before leaning forward and tweaking the other man's nose. Jerking in surprise, Carrow nearly broke the back off the poor abused chair, his hand flying protectively to his face, a growl escaping him.
"And that," Timothy said patronisingly, "is personal space...and now for a smoke." And with that he left the room, Carrow watching his retreating back his face unreadable
OOOOOO
"I need you," the unnaturally deep voice murmured by his ear wrenching Timothy from his contemplation of the family garden. Startled, he turned coming almost nose to nose with Carrow.
"I am...pleased with your progress as my apprentice so far." Carrow continued, "You have the potential to do...great things." The large man straightened. "I do not want to lose you." he continued almost...pleading Timothy felt.
"Apprentice?" Timothy asked, one eyebrow raised suspiciously. "I was very much under the impression that I was your secretary."
Carrow smirked down at him as he took a drag from the black cigarette, its gold filter glinting in the watery sunlight. "Apprentice for what?" Timothy hissed, a sudden chilly suspicion building in his stomach. He had a very horrible feeling about this as a lot of odd things Carrow insisted he do started to make a strange and uncomfortable sense.
"As an Inquisitor, of course." Carrow stared down at him, eyes intense.
"Mr Carrow..." Faulks began squeezing his eyes shut, disbelieving what he was hearing, "this is the twentieth century. I can understand that in the 41st Millennium the ...Inquisition was vital to safeguard humanity, just as the Adeptus Astartes, Imperial Guard, and all the other Imperial organisation you have told me about...but now? We don't have the same, don't face the same dangers at all." He took another drag of the cigarette, watching Carrow with concern. The rate the big man was going, he was going to draw the attention of large and dangerous organisations to himself and then what...Carrow was formidable but...
There was a dangerous glint in Carrow's eyes. "The Inquisition is always needed," he snarled, "our work is never done. If there isn't a threat from an outside force then there is the threat from within, of the mutant, the heretic, those tainted by the ruinous powers...it never ends..."
He pointed at Faulks with one large finger, the ruby eyes of the ugly skull ring glinting in the autumnal sunlight, "...and you, boy, have the mentality, the potential to join our ranks."
Faulks stared at him, mouth hanging open, cigarette drooping from his fingers.
"Do you want to spend the rest of your life as a petty bureacrat?" Carrow demanded. "Or a politician even." he hissed as if the word itself was dirty. "I won't be kind, you will hate me, and the training itself...it will...change you."
Faulks shut his mouth with a snap; the man had a point. If he hadn't had the good fortune to be offered the position of secretary to Carrow, he would have been condemned to a lifetime of cleaning pure-blood faeces off toilet bowls, or if he was very lucky, an extremely low-level position as a filing clerk maybe; that is if he didn't try his luck in the non-magical world. So Carrow was a dangerous maniac with an agenda, life was definitely never dull around the man, and maybe he could stop the daft lump ending up in an early grave by running interference and damage control between him and the rest of the human race...and the things he could learn...
"I accept," Faulks murmured, looking up into Carrow's intense stare.
Carrow's face broke into a slow predatory smile, as he held out one massive hand for Faulks to shake. "Welcome to the Inquisition, Timothy."
OOOOOO
"There will be conditions of course." Timothy snapped as they returned to the living room. "Annie and I practically run the Lodge alone, and though the house-elves have made a definite difference, they aren't enough. That house needs proper domestic staff," he stated poking Carrow in the chest in time to his words, "and grounds people," he added, "That garden is an utter disgrace."
"But you will come back," Carrow asked hopefully, "or I'll have to kidnap you." He grinned boyishly. Timothy snorted at him, un-amused.
"Good, good," Carrow virtually bounced on his toes, putting the ceiling in danger, "now that is dealt with, I have something I wish to have your opinion on," he pulled a jam-jar out of his pocket. Timothy rolled his eyes at the large man's quick turn about in mood.
He peered at the proffered jam-jar. "Ah, a particularly exciting jam-jar. I do believe that's the one the lime marmalade comes in." Carrow titled his head, his lips curling sarcastically.
Timothy smirked at him before taking a closer looks at the contents of the jar. Inside sat a particularly ugly beetle, crawling around the bottom in circles, occasionally taking flight pinging off the sides of the jar. Giving Carrow an odd look, he pulled his wand out, and cast a few basic detection charms on the incarcerated creature. The results were extremely interesting.
Faulks leaned back in his seat. "This is either a transfigured person, or an animagus, from the amount of magic it's giving off."
Carrow nodded in agreement. "It's why I caught the wretched creature. It felt...wrong, far too large an aura for a simple beetle. Now all we need to know is who?"
Timothy was carefully examining the beetle, fascinated at the textures on its wing casing. "There is a record of all registered animagi available at the Ministry, but of course that only tells you about those who've come forward to register...hang on..." he frowned. Why did the odd discolouration around the little creature's eyes looks so familiar, and then it hit him. Slamming the jar down much to the beetle's distress, Faulks leapt up and sprinted out of the room. William Faulks poked his head around the door, worried as to what was occurring; the two men exchanged looks, before Carrow shrugged his shoulders, as puzzled as the elder Faulks. Timothy stormed back into the room, nearly running his own father over, his prize triumphantly held in one hand. Folding open the morning's Daily Prophet to the article "Talented Reporter Missing". Timothy slammed it down on the coffee table in front of Carrow. Grabbing the jar, he thrust it into Carrow's hands. "Compare the markings around its eyes to Skeeter's glasses," he said breathlessly, his grin excited.
Carrow narrowed his eyes, staring intently at the beetle cowering on the bottom of the jar, before looking equally intently at the picture in the paper. The woman's ugly glasses were highly distinctive. A smile slowly crept across his face. It made a lot of sense; a gossip rag journalist of the absolute worst sort, who could turn into a beetle, enabling her to get access to all sorts of places and information that nobody in their right mind would give her. Oh how he could use this, what a wonderful gift to fall into his lap. He turned to Timothy, his smile utterly feral. "I think you're onto something there." Faulks grinned back at him, his smile equally dangerous, the engraved skulls in their little gothic arches on his gold teeth glinting in the light.
OOOOOO
Dumbledore pensively sipped his pumpkin juice, watching the students chatter among themselves, as they ate dinner after another long day of learning. The ceiling above reflected the clear starlit sky outside; it was going to be a frosty night, a sure sign winter was on its way. His contemplation of the Milky Way was disturbed by a frantic rustling coming from the owl entrances up near the eaves. As he gazed upwards, puzzled, a barn owl popped out of one of the dedicated arches, like a cork from a bottle, in a small shower of feathers. The distressed owl scrambled through the air towards the high table in an undignified way, before practically throwing an envelope at Dumbledore. Unthinking, he caught it before it could land in his beef hotpot...and then promptly dropped it in shock.
The letter pulsed with magic, in fact, so much so, it virtually glowed. On the front, in a powerful hand was simply written "Albus Dumbledore". The intent behind the writing was so clear, fizzed with through every line, surged through every curve of the dynamic hand writing, that Dumbledore had a feeling that the letter, given half a chance, could have made its way to him all on its own, so strong, so pure was the purpose with which his name had been written.
Grabbing a napkin, he tentatively picked up the unnerving object, and virtually sprinted from the hall, ignoring the shocked and gaping teaching staff and the whispering students.
OOOOOO
The letter lay on his desk like an unexploded bomb, pulsing quietly to itself. Dumbledore combed his fingers through his beard soothingly, trying to think who could possibly be the sender of this...correspondence. Definitely not one of his usual contacts, he'd never seen the highly distinctive handwriting before...so who had he written to recently that was new? He'd written to Carrow's mystery pen-pal several times but never received a response...he looked at the letter sharply. Could the mystery individual have finally written back? It really was the only thing he could think of. Tentatively, he reached for the letter, only for his actions to be interrupted by a very excited Fawkes who landed heavily on the letter, frantically rubbing himself against it, wings spread, basking in the aura that the paper radiated and even wriggling on to his back, as if the letter were a magical dust bath. After a little fight, Dumbledore managed to extract his post from under the over-excited phoenix. Fawkes stared at him despondently, chirping unhappily, wings drooping; sidling closer the large bird pinned his familiar with a hopeful look.
"Maybe we can come to some sort of compromise?" Dumbledore murmured to his familiar with a small smile. Fawkes instantly brightened up, giving a happy chirp.
And so Dumbledore finally managed to read his letter, while Fawkes happily basked on the opened out envelope. And what a frustrating letter it was too, raising far more questions than it answered. The sender was extremely polite, but rather miserly when it came to giving out personal information.
Dumbledore leaned back in his chair deep in thought staring unseeingly at Fawkes snoozing happily, still spread out on top of the envelope. Who was this incredibly powerful wizard who Carrow seemed to already know? And why wasn't he already a major player in the Wizarding World?
