~ Chapter Ten – Of Riddlers and Darklings ~
"You're on top of things, I see," said Harry, coming into Ron's office and sitting casually on his desk. Ron looked up briefly from the paperwork that littered his desk and smiled.
"Yeah, can't you tell? Tremayne gave me that report on Brady and Stevenson three hours ago and I've still not even had time to look at it. Where's Hermione when you need her, eh?"
"Well, you could always go and find her," said Harry, stretching slightly; he slept uncomfortably last night. For some reason a spring had come loose in his mattress, and no amount of pressing it, magic or rather loud swearing could coax it back into lying flat rather than jutting painfully into the flesh of his hip. "But I don't think she'd appreciate you dumping a load of your work on her desk – we're not at school anymore."
"Yeah," agreed Ron, laughing a little. "And don't I know it!"
"You all ready to move in, then?"
"What do you think?" Ron replied coolly, and Harry laughed and shook his head.
"Knowing you, I'd say you've not even packed yet."
"Got it in one."
"Hermione's gonna kill you – you're meant to be moving in tonight!"
Ron raised an eyebrow at his friend. "Believe it or not, mate, I actually had worked that one out myself. Oh well, it'll be a fun argument."
"I'm surprised, actually," said Harry, and Ron frowned.
"Why's that?"
"Two things really. One - that you didn't pack the day you picked the flat out of sheer excitement. And two - that it took you this long to ask her to move in with you."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning I was expecting you to do it within about six months." This wasn't a lie. Ron didn't know it, but Harry and Ginny had been making bets with one another as to when it would happen, and currently Harry owed Ginny twenty-seven Galleons and six Sickles. Her knowledge of her brother's emotional and social ineptitude looked set to make her a rather well-off girl.
"Well," said Ron. "I've done it now. Your turn next."
"Not for a while yet," said Harry pensively, and Ron looked confused. "I don't think me and Gin are quite there yet," he offered by way of explanation.
"Can't believe I'm about to say this, but why not?" asked Ron. It's not that he was particularly desperate to marry off his little sister, but at the same time Harry was his best friend, and he wanted him to be happy. And from what he had witnessed of the two of them (not that he wanted to; she was still his little sister, and he had no desire to see anything other than a chaste kiss on the cheek or the occasional hand-holding) they certainly appeared to be strong and happy.
"I dunno," shrugged Harry. "I don't know if she'd want to, you know? I think she still wants to be young while she's got the chance – I mean, she's still at the joke shop with George, and she's enjoying it. I don't want to rush anything."
Ron's ears reddened slightly as he focused on the last part of Harry's comment. "Is that what you think I'm doing? Rushing things?"
Harry didn't even blink as he answered his friend. "How could I think you're rushing things when I've just said I was expecting you to do this eighteen months ago?"
A silver head poked around the corner of Ron's office, interrupting their conversation. "I need you two to get down to Maidstone pronto and take Longbottom and Silvas with you for backup," said Jeremy Filkins, their boss. We just got a tip-off that Burton and Finchley have been spotted there."
Gerald Burton and Orion Finchley had been Ron and Harry's main focus for several months now. Over the summer the two of them had helped to disband a small group of Dark wizards, fanatics really, who called themselves Darklings and who remained loyal to Voldemort, despite his death, and continued to attempt to carry out his plans. In the two and a half years since the Battle of Hogwarts the Auror team under Kingsley's rule had been largely successful in tracking down and imprisoning rogue Death Eaters who had previously eluded the authorities, but shortly after this the Darklings appeared to form, though it wasn't clear precisely how. There had been several Muggle deaths over the last few months, which the government had attributed to gas leaks, and so far most of the Darklings had been caught and sent to Azkaban, now no longer under Dementor rule. Burton and Finchley, however, had proven to be the most difficult to catch; though by no means the ringleaders they were nevertheless extremely dangerous, and the Auror Department feared that they would reform the Darklings. There were always wizards and witches out to seek power and notoriety whatever the cost, although currently Burton and Finchley were the only two known ones. This, however, did not mean a thing; Burton and Finchley were known only because they elected to be, whereas the other, more dangerous, Darklings remained hidden, at least for the time being.
Twenty minutes later, Ron and Harry, accompanied by Neville and Tristan Silvas, were on the streets of Maidstone, heading towards the little house they had been informed contains the two Darklings, their earlier conversation forgotten. Reaching the house, Harry pulled his wand out and glanced down at the Sneakoscope in his hand, fitted with a Silencing Charm so as not to give away their position, and studied it carefully, waiting for the lights to spin, a warning. Ron followed his lead, his own wand gripped tightly in his long fingers as they slip the Invisibility Cloak over their shoulders, trying to pull it down; they were far taller now that they were no longer thirteen, and every so often their feet slipped out from beneath the silvery folds of the Cloak. Neville and Tristan simply pressed themselves against the frames of the door, out of direct sight. When the door proved to be locked, Ron pointed his wand at it and whispered "Alohomora" but nothing happened.
"Locking charm," whispered Harry, and Ron nodded, pulling out a Swiss-army knife from his pocket and flipping to the knife attachment that could open any lock. He pressed himself carefully against the door, aware that they might have only minutes, and slid the knife down the crease between the door and the frame, waiting for the small click that meant he was successful. The little group slipped quietly inside, feeling the darkness settle over them uncomfortably, and edged towards the stairs, spreading out slightly.
A scuffling noise upstairs made Harry freeze, every hair on his body on end, his nerves stretched taut as he strained to pinpoint the source. Tristan, a stocky blond wizard of twenty-three, moved beside him, pointing at the ceiling with his wand carefully and whispering , "Ostendo Presentia."
Nothing happened for long moments, and the four of them stared carefully at the ceiling, waiting. Slowly, patches of colour seemed to seep through the ceiling, moving around, in the shapes of footprints, as though someone was walking on the ceiling wearing paint-spattered shoes.
"They're upstairs," breathed Tristan. "I'd say there's about three of them but they're all in the same room."
"Right," said Harry. "Me and Ron will head upstairs first – you two stay behind us a bit, just in case. They don't know we're here yet, so let's try and take them by surprise."
At collective nods from the assembled group, Harry gripped his wand tighter, and carefully the four of them moved towards the stairs.
"Hang on," said Ron, and he pointed his wand at the stairs. "Silencio," he muttered, and when he took a tentative first step he was relieved that it did not groan beneath his weight.
"Right," said Neville bracingly. "Let's go."
~ OoOoO ~
The air in the little house was stale and stung the backs of the young men's throats and eyes; it felt solid, almost, thick with the stench of cigarettes and malevolence, and Harry could see the sinewy muscles that stretched tautly along the length of Neville's forearms as he gripped his wand, moving beside him as they crept carefully up the stairs. The tension hung between them so tightly they hardly dared breathe, aware that even the slightest noise could tip the scales out of their favour, and in this kind of situation they needed every single advantage they could possibly get. At the top of the scuffed stairs, draped in darkness, was a small landing, with three doors that led off from it, and here the little group paused. Tristan's spell was able to detect the presence of other people – it could not, however, tell them exactly which room they were in.
"Muffliato," said Ron quietly. "Well, there's three doors and four of us. What d'you reckon, Harry?" He, Neville and Tristan all turned to face Harry, their eyes expectant and hard.
"We don't know how many of them there are," whispered Harry. "I reckon it'd be madness trying to go in one at a time, but we can't waste time standing here talking. I say we all try one door at a time. Agreed?"
"Agreed."
"Right," said Harry, clutching his wand and sounding braver than he felt. He had been what was known affectionately as a Body Bag (since, as the originator of such a disconcerting nickname argued, they were far more likely to be killed on the job than a Pen Pusher working in the Auror Department, and it was (unfortunately) true that this Department of the Ministry held the highest death toll) for the best part of a year now, but he always got a sick fluttering in his stomach when faced with a situation such as this. "On my word…one…two…THREE!"
He kicked the door open as he cried the last word, sending dust flying up into his eyes, and, coughing and spluttering, he stood back and wiped his eyes as Ron and Tristan ran into the room, wands aimed. But when the dust settled, the room was revealed to be empty, with nothing but the skeleton of a child's bed nestled against a wall covered with stained and tattered wallpaper. A mouse skittered across the bare wood flooring, making Neville squeal slightly.
"Nothing here," said Ron, stating the obvious. "C'mon, next room, quick."
In a heartbeat they were crouched outside the second door, Harry's foot lifted in preparation, but just as he swung it back, Tristan stopped him, clamping a meaty hand on his thin shoulder.
"Wait," he said, his keen blue eyes piercing Harry's. "I don't reckon they heard us kick the first door in, else they'd've done something, but there's still the chance they're on to us. I think we should De-Apparate the place, so's they can't get away once we're in."
When Harry and Ron nodded their assent he lifted his wand carefully and pointed it at the door, muttering under his breath. As soon as the words left his mouth the frame of the door seemed to glow deep violet, just for a second, before returning to normal, and once more Harry lifted his foot to kick the door in.
The door had barely swung to meet the wall with a thundering crash and back again before all four of them were in the room, their wands pointed straight ahead at a single sallow-skinned young man who crouched opposite, beneath a large French window. His smoke-grey eyes were unyielding and there was a kind of hard desperation about him. His long hair was a deep copper, and he just missed being handsome by the air of disdain and general lack of cleanliness that clung to him. He smiled for the briefest of moments, so that they could see the disarming whiteness of his teeth, and then in the space between heartbeats he pointed his wand at them, slashing wildly at the air and screaming, "Fractalus!"
There was a shriek that resonated around the room, a note of purest pain, and Neville had fallen to the floor, his wand sent clattering, his hands clamped around his right ankle, which stained his skin and the floor crimson with his blood, and the man had only seconds to laugh before the combined force of Ron and Tristan's cry of "STUPEFY!" had him passed out cold on the floor. Harry knelt beside Neville, whose face was damp and pink with the exertion of his pain, and carefully tried to peel away his long fingers from his wound. He winced as the damage was revealed; when Tristan pointed his wand at it, siphoning the blood away, they had only seconds to see what was there before blood swathed it once more, but once seen it was unmistakeable. A clear half-inch of bone, bleached white, protruded from Neville's ankle, and the flesh around it was red and black and angry.
"Can you fix it, Tristan?" asked Ron anxiously, but Tristan was already shaking his head ruefully.
"No," he said carefully. "This is Dark Magic, and I'm not a Healer – I only know the basics and a bit more. He needs St Mungo's; I'll take him."
Before Harry and Ron could protest he lifted Neville carefully over his shoulder and carried him gently from the room so that he could Disapparate to safety.
"Jesus," said Ron, rubbing the back of his head in disbelief. "He looked unarmed, he really did."
"We should have Disarmed him straight away," saysaids Harry, angrily. "And now look."
Ron didn't answer him, because he didn't need to; Harry was right. Instead he busied himself with checking the room for signs of action prior to their arrival. The room looked perfectly normal, but a dark patch below the window caught his attention and he moved for a closer look. Seeing the thick glutinous red of blood he recoiled slightly, but when he peered closer still and saw three long yellowish fingernails he turned away, retching.
"There was more than just this one here," he said. "Looks like Splinching to me."
"Where?"
"Fingernails, look – under the window. And blood."
"But we made the room impossible to Disapparate out of," said Harry, confused.
"Maybe whoever left did it just as we cast the charm," suggested Ron. "Only one way to find out," he added, and nodded his head in the direction of the still body lying on the floor at their feet. He felt in his robes for a moment and then pulled out what he was looking for; a tiny cut-glass bottle whose stopper he pulled out, and, crouching close to the man, he tipped his head back and carefully poured a few drops of the clear liquid into his mouth.
"Rennervate," murmured Harry, pointing his wand at the man, just as Ron muttered a spell that sent thick black rope spewing from the end of his own wand and wrapping itself tightly around the man, who blinked and stirred now, sitting up.
"What's your name?" Harry asked curtly, and the man smiled wolfishly up at him as he gave his answer.
"Orion Finchley," he said truthfully, Veritaserum loosening his tongue somewhat. "And you are too late."
"Who are you working for?" said Ron, ignoring Finchley's comment.
"The Riddlers," answered Finchley, smiling wolfishly.
"The Riddlers?" repeated Harry and Ron simultaneously. Then, Ron added, "I thought you lot called yourself Darklings?"
"I am a Darkling, one sympathetic to the First's aims and desires, one who wishes to aid him in his quest. The Riddlers form the inner circle of his most trusted followers, the most devoted, those most dedicated to reviving the arts of the True Dark Lord -"
"Whose most trusted followers? Voldemort's?"
"Do not speak his name!" spat Finchley, kicking out at Harry, his movements hampered by the thick layers of his bindings.
"Whose most trusted followers, Finchley?" asked Ron firmly, and Finchley glared up at him.
"His name is Logan O'Connell, and he is the Truest of all, the First Riddler, devoted to the resurrection of the True Dark Lord, Tom Riddle - "
"Logan O'Connell?" repeated Harry. "Is he the leader of all this? He's behind everything?"
"Yes," hissed Finchley, his sheet of thick copper hair shining in the half-light from the window. "We work to create his vision, to make it a reality once more, to bring back the glory days - "
"Glory days?" snarled Ron, unable to hold back any longer. "Is that what you call them? All those innocent people dying, tortured, all those families split up, all the shit we had to fight through and still have to fight through, and you're calling them glory days - "
"Those who died were unworthy of life -" began Finchley defiantly, and in a heartbeat Ron's wand was pointed directly at his throat. The rest of his words were choked out by the tight grip of Ron's other hand closing around the vulnerable flesh.
"My brother died because of people like you," Ron said, biting the words off at the ends, because if he forced the sentence through his teeth this way it didn't feel so much like it was going to break him clean in two. He could taste his anger so strongly it was making him dizzy, and he bit down hard on his hatred of this man, so that only Harry's eyes on his back prevented him from killing him.
He squeezed Finchley's throat a little tighter for good measure, his blue eyes flashing dangerously and looking like precisely cut steel blades, cold and sharp and lethal. "My brother was the same age I am now, and he died because of people like you, so I'd think very carefully about what I say next if I were you," he said, speaking slowly and carefully, because it was the only control he had over his fury, so intense his hand shook, his eyes wide and his mouth set so tightly it felt like it would snap, and as he spoke his glare never left the pale face of the man sitting before him. "And if you're too thick to understand that, and you dare even suggest he didn't deserve to be alive, I promise I will kill you here and now, and no one will ever believe it wasn't self defence. He'll back me up," he added nodding his head towards Harry.
Finchley swallowed audibly, painful against Ron's fist, and Harry changed the subject quickly. He had never seen Ron so angry in the entire ten years he had known him, not even during the worst of his fights with Hermione.
"Were you alone here?" he asked, and Finchley darted his eyes back towards Harry, grateful for the escape, though beads of sweat now blotted his forehead. "Ron, lower your wand. We need him alive."
It was easy to see how much effort it cost Ron to uncurl his fingers from around Finchley's throat, even without the way his hand trembled and his upper lip curled with disdain, but to Harry's enormous surprise he obeyed, slowly, his blade-like eyes burning into Finchley's own wide ones.
"If you say another word that I don't like," Ron told him simply, his honesty evident in his cold voice. "I will break your jaw for you. And then you won't be spreading any of your filth for a while, because I will make sure it can be healed with magic."
"Ron." Harry's voice was a warning now; Ron shrugged his words away and stepped carefully back from Finchley, who watched him warily. Harry repeated his question.
"No," he answered. "I was here with Gerald Burton. He heard you and Apparated just as you cast your spell, which prevented me from joining him. I assume he did it just as you finished saying the incantation, because he Splinched himself."
"What were you doing here?" Harry continuec, because Ron was still too angry to speak; he had stalked to the other side of the little room where he paced now, casting the occasional dark look in Finchley's direction.
"We hadn't been here long," replied Finchley coolly. "Perhaps four hours at most. We were discussing how best to carry out the First's next plan – to kidnap and hold to ransom a prominent Muggle, so that you will all finally realise that we are no idle threat."
"Why you two?" asked Harry. "Why not the Riddlers? They're his higher circle, right?"
"It was to be our test," said Finchley, throwing his head back and smiling wondrously as if glowing in the warmth of some unknown admiration. "Our initiation. Upon completion we were to be welcomed into the circle of the Riddlers."
"Enough," said Ron from the other side of the room. "Let's just hurry up and get him to Azkaban. They can deal with him."
~ OoOoO ~
Since Voldemort's downfall, over two years previously, control of Azkaban had been taken entirely from the Dementors. It was partly due to the fact that they held no loyalty to any human, offering their services to anyone who could supply them with enough fresh souls to satisfy their ghoulish appetite, and partly due to the fact that every time Kingsley Shacklebolt walked past them he could feel every single hair on his body shiver, and considering he made trips to the prison with some regularity, this had to change. Therefore, the prison itself was now staffed by wizards and witches, with every magical security measure known to the Ministry to guard it, and each prison guard was paired with another and accompanied by a Crup, for extra protection. Kingsley believed the staff were more at risk than the prisoners because after all, there was nowhere to go once a prisoner escaped but the freezing open sea, and he was extra careful to ensure none of his staff members were ever at threat of attack. Each inmate was kept entirely isolated, particularly since the vast majority were Darklings or former Death Eaters, at all times, wandless and with their only human interaction coming from the surly two guards who brought them their meals three times daily.
A large part of both Ron and Harry's job descriptions, unfortunately, required that they, too, make several regular visits to the prison. The decaying smell of despair now no longer clung to the place, but all the same the stench of desperation and the longing for freedom pervaded the air, clinging to their clothes long after they left the fortress. Today, they arrived supporting an unconscious and heavily-bound Finchley, whose head lolled from side to side as they passed through the seemingly-endless series of heavy metal doors and gates.
"Got another one for us?" said Leona Jenkins, the dark-skinned female prison guard who was generally the person who showed them to their capture's cells. "Off we go then – 8H is free."
Leona was pretty enough in an obvious kind of way, but despite her jollity she always made Ron's blood run a little cooler in his veins. There was something not quite right about her carefully pitched laughter. He attributed it to her proximity to such despicable humans, but privately he theorised that his natural dislike of her stemmed from the fact that, despite the absolute scum she dealt with every minute of every day, she remained so...chirpy. Relentlessly happy people were grating at the best of times – but an Azkaban prison guard who smiled so much Ron half expected her cheeks to crumble away from overuse was more than he could comfortably bear, so he kept his distance at all times.
Together, Leona, Harry, Ron, Finchley, and Leona's partner, Geoffrey Rawling, made their way through the narrow corridors, ignoring the few hands that thrusted feebly between the bars and the keening cries of men driven mad by solitude, Leona even more chirpy than usual as they
"You're getting good at this, aren't you?" she said jovially as they went. A large woman, her full cheekbones and dark brows meant that she had a formidable appearance that did not match her bright personality or high-pitched, girlish laugh. "How many have you got now?"
"Twenty-seven, including this one," said Harry, and Leona laughed raucously.
"Good, good," she said, and when they reached cell 8H they lay Finchley down carefully, Geoffrey locking the cell behind them once they left, using a complicated system of two separate keys and a spell too quietly whispered for either Ron or Harry to make out.
"That ought to hold him," Leona said cheerfully. "How long's he here for?"
"Depends when his trial is, and what they decide," replied Harry. "But we've been after him for quite a while, so I'd say he'll be here for a fairly long stay. We've got to find his partner too – he got away."
"Best get cracking then," said Leona, and she laughed loudly once more at her own joke. The little group made its way carefully back towards the main entrance, Leona and Geoffrey walking ahead.
The sight of a tall figure with long white-blond hair made Harry pause in his tracks, causing Ron to walk straight into him. At his cry of shock, the figure turned around, revealing cool grey eyes and a haughty expression, which quickly turned to surprise as he took in the sight of Harry.
"Malfoy," whispered Ron, his eyes narrowing instantly. Harry shouldn't have been surprised, not really. He knew, of course, that Lucius Malfoy was halfway through his five-year sentence in Azkaban. The first of the Death Eaters to be captured, his sentence had been dramatically reduced for several reasons, the main ones being his complete and utter about-face. Lucius had not only given himself in voluntarily, but he also donated a large portion of his wealth towards helping victims of Voldemort's regime. If anything, Harry was surprised they hadn't crossed paths sooner. Beside him, he could feel the white-hot of Ron's anger, barely cooled since his confrontation with Finchley only hours before, and Harry gripped his friend's arm carefully, knowing that Ron was aching to take out his frustration on someone, and Malfoy would have provided the perfect scapegoat.
"Come on, Harry," he hissed now. "Look at him – we saved his life and he's visiting his scummy father in prison and he still looks down on us!"
"Leave it, Ron," muttered Harry. "It's not worth it."
His eyes were locked carefully on Draco's, who held his gaze for as long as he dared before finally faltering and looking down, and when he swept his stare back up, Harry could read the silent grudging respect written there across his haughty features. Draco nodded, almost imperceptibly, and Harry returned the nod before he quite knew what he was doing.
"It's over," he said, half to Ron and half to himself, and he continued walking, his footsteps echoing off the smooth stone walls, as if nothing had happened at all.
~ OoOoO ~
Some explanation of spells I created:
~ Ostendo Presentia is the result of me typing Reveal Presence into an online Latin translator, therefore please do not flame me for you having a better grasp of Latin than me – I studied it for five years but I gave it up three years ago, meaning I remember very little of it. If anyone has any corrections then please let me know and I'll fix this.
~ Fractalus is made up of the words for 'shatter' and 'bone' and found 'fracta' which means 'to break/shatter' and 'talus' which means specifically 'ankle bone', which was perfect, and I then amalgamated it. I wanted a spell that sounded Dark and I didn't want to use Sectusempra.