Title: When Death Comes a'Knocking
Plot Mistresses: Kelly & LibraryCat
Spell Researchers: Kelly & LibraryCat
Warning: Hisoka being snarky. Kyo-torture. Harry-angst. Lucius-style evilness. Good stuff, y'know?
Scene Master: Kelly and Librarycat
Note: It majorly sucks, that they won't allow review replies anymore. You guys all know I and Lisa cherish each comment/observation/praise right? 'Cause we do. Darn you, size=1 width=100% noshade>
Chapter 37
Oh, the tangled webs we weave…
"Well." The lift of one, dark brown eyebrow, a foot tapping impatiently against the wooden floor, a bitten nail lightly scratching the creamy white cotton covers of the sofa and catching on a loose thread. It wasn't that obvious but Harry had known Hermione long enough to tell that she was nervous.
Hermione on the trail was like a hunting hound; eager and ready to bound down whichever path the scent took her, but the way she shifted minutely in her place were telltale signs that she was hesitant about what she might discover.
In stark opposite, her prey was cool and relaxed, bored even, to judge by the way he slouched like any sixteen year old boy would in the armchair angled to face the four of them. Hisoka watched back from under long bangs of summer sun gold, eyes gone dark and hooded. Sitting on the arm rest beside Harry, Ginny tensed, then relaxed when the empath's eyes flickered over her before moving on to study each of them, like a butterfly impatient and unsatisfied.
The supposedly dead boy sighed, folding in one leg and tucking the ankle beneath him. "I suppose it's fate's way of saying that the world doesn't revolve around you," he said offhandedly and the teens stiffened, surprised.
Ron, by Hermione's side and standing guard if the way he kept palming his wand was any indication, barked, "Stop talking riddles, Kurosaki! Or-or whoever you really are!"
"Keep it down, Weasley-san." Frowning, Hisoka shot the redhead boy a fierce glare, adding, "You'll wake up Kyo and Takashi."
Harry didn't miss the fact that Hisoka had reverted to using Ron's last name; something he hadn't done since the first few days after the Japanese had arrived at Hogwarts. "Don't try to change the subject!" Shrill with impatience, maybe even fear, Hermione poised forward as though ready to launch herself in attack.
"I'm not." Everything that Hermione currently wasn't, Hisoka's mask of cool indifference fell into place again and–
Well, the Boy Who Lived really shouldn't be so surprised anymore that a teenager could look like that, could he? After all, he wasn't even sure if his 'friends' were even who they said they were. He restrained the urge to let out a rude snort.
"I just find it extremely funny and bone-crackingly hilarious that I could spend so much time and energy, worrying what people are going to think about the part I played in Kyo's curse—" The self-mockery was too jaded, too old, too perfect to be a youth's. Dammit, why hadn't he seen it from the start? Was he that desperate? "—but they barely bat an eyelid. I guess it's the world's way of saying 'don't be too full of yourself,' " Hisoka said negligently.
"You're not answering the question, Kurosaki," Ginny rebuked stiffly. "And Harry, why aren't you saying anything? They lied to you, for Merlin's sake!"
With everyone's attention on him, the Boy Who Lived shrugged uncomfortably, leaning back into the sofa, eyes looking anywhere but at darker, forest-dappled green. "Kyo said from the start that they were not telling me everything." He rolled his shoulders. "So it's not really a surprise after all. . ."
"You're missing the point, Harry." Bristling, Hermione fixed a cold frown of disapproval on her friend. "The fact of the matter is that they lied to you about something as simple as their names! How can you trust anyone who won't even tell you who they really are?" she demanded.
Stung, he surged to his feet and it was with surprise that he found himself shouting. At Hisoka. "Because I'm tired, dammit! I've been lied to my whole life, so what's the big deal with being lied to, again? You want me to say something?" He said this to a suddenly quiet Ginny. "Fine! I'll say something!" Whirling back to face the blond, it was only the table in between that stopped him from stalking up to the empath. "My friends," he snarled, a wild gesture encompassing a stunned Hermione, Ron and Ginny, "have been trying to warn me about the four of you since the beginning. But I didn't-" he choked slightly, but continued, with dogged determination, "—I refused to hear! And what do I find? That you can't even tell me your real names!"
Breathing hard, he stared at the still silent Hisoka for a long while before dropping back into his seat, sinking back into the cushions. "And the best thing is," he muttered, remembering a night in the woods when gods walked the earth, "I don't really care." He laughed, the sound amazingly bitter. "I've been lied to my whole life," he repeated. "What's another lie anyway?"
"Ara! Why are all of you here? The dinner bell rang already. Won't your dorm mates be worried?"
The four of them whirled around in surprise; Harry barely stopped a curse, of the magical kind. He hadn't sensed Tsuzuki's arrival, or even heard the door opening.
The young guest professor, hair perpetually disarrayed and tie barely knotted, blinked quizzically at them, bent over and in the act of putting on a pair of those anonymous house slippers.
"Tsuzuki." The simple greeting from the blond Japanese reminded them of their interrogation and Ron was visibly wary, unsure who was the bigger threat. Seemingly oblivious of the tension, Tsuzuki ambled to the kitchen, his cheery voice floating easily over to them.
"Maa, there are guests and you didn't serve them tea, Hisoka? People are going to think you're intentionally rude!" Whistling a light tune, the older Japanese started rummaging around the kitchen drawers and unearthed a squat, earthy colored pot along with a canister. "Hah! Takashi's too predictable for his own good. Look, 'Soka! I found his stash of Wen Shan oolong!"
"Baka," the boy muttered but the young wizards and witches saw a small smile playing on his lips, even when Harry's scanty repertoire of Japanese told him that 'baka' was hardly complimentary. Hisoka raised his voice slightly, still scrutinizing them with unreadable eyes. "Granger-san here found out that Kurosaki Hisoka died some thirty years ago, Tsuzuki. And Harry-kun is a bit pissed off with our. . .duplicity."
"You don't say." Unexpected, the still smiling professor appeared by Ron's side, startling the redhead into a squawk as he scrambled back out of the way. Shooting the gangly boy a puzzled smile, Tsuzuki shuffled carefully into the little island of sofa, chair and table, setting down his burden of tray, tea and cups, along with a plate of chocolate chip cookies. Artlessly happy, he poured steaming, fragrant tea into the small, fragile cups. "Maa, that explains why you're so stiff, 'Soka," he teased.
"Continue that and we'll see who won't be seeing their sweets allowance when next month's pay comes in."
" 'Soka!" Huge, tear-filled eyes peered out from beneath chocolate brown bangs. "You're so mean. . ."
"Oh, just stop it already!" Furious with how easily the two Japanese got them sidetracked, Hermione jumped to her feet, trembling with indignation. "Stop giving us the run around and answer me, for Christ' sake!"
Green, slanted cat eyes blinked slowly. "Yes, Kurosaki Hisoka is dead."
"Then who are you?" she asked just as swiftly.
"Kurosaki Hisoka."
The hiss that produced was startlingly similar to an enraged Crookshanks. Tsuzuki had perched himself on the arm rest by Hisoka's side, arm slung over the top of the chair but the older man said nothing.
"It can't be a glamour," Hermione said rapidly, eyes bright, hands clenching her robes tightly. "It can't last this long without constant reapplication and the method differs too much from your Eastern style. If it is a Western based spell, a level as complex as this would have required in-depth knowledge of the spell's structure and—"
Harry let the rest of it drown in a muted buzz that filled his head. Unlike the others, he had taken Tsuzuki's offer of whatever drink it was the man had so jovially unearthed, and the herbal scent of it tickled his nose, relaxing him minutely.
He was exhausted. Merlin, it felt as though his bones had been replaced by lead; it was too tiresome to even move. In hindsight, it was pathetic, how easily he trusted the Japanese, how eager he was to accept their offer of comfort and caring. It made him feel just the slightest bit nauseous. Was he really still that gullible, even after the Dursleys, and S-sirius? And after what Dumbledore did?
He trusted them. He trusted the Japanese. He told them his nightmares, his fears, his visions.
Harry's palms were sweaty. Carefully, he set the hot tea down on the low table before him, a small clink like a gunshot, or the crack of an annullo through wood or bone, echoing through his buzz-filled head. With the same, cautious movement, the restless wizard scrubbed his wet palms against his robes. The cotton was slightly coarse from hard wear. He should get new ones from Malkin's. Maybe Kyo or T—
"Kyo and Takashi."
His raspy voice cut through the rising babble around him, silencing his friends. The two Japanese who had been content to just sit back and allow the accusations to flow hot and fast shifted the heavy burden of their unreadable gazes to him. He felt it settling around his shoulders like a deadweight, assessing and maybe even judging.
He refused to acknowledge it.
"Kyo and Takashi. Are those even their real names? Were they lying as well, like you?" he raised opaque eyes, something dying flickering feebly in their depths. "If Hermione's right, and you really are Kurosaki Hisoka as you claim to be," he said steadily, "Then you would have been 'dead' for over thirty years. That makes you. . .forty-six years old at least. I don't care how you disguised it. I only want to know one thing; are Kyo and Takashi lying as well? Is Kyo even eighteen?"
"No." It was the older man who answered, and his face was kind. "We are not exactly who we say we are, but we were not lying when we said we are here to help you. And yes, Kyo and Takashi are older than they look."
"Though you can't tell it from the way Kyo acts most of the time," Hisoka added wryly.
The choked off snicker from his partner said that his opinion didn't meet with any disagreement.
He closed his eyes wearily. A little voice chanted softly in a dark corner of his mind; distance is good. Yes, distance was wonderful. Get too close, analyze an emotion too much, and he'd just lose himself to the rage and despair again. Like last year. And look where that had got him. Less one godfather.
"Then how?" Hermione demanded, overriding anything else he wanted to say, even if he wasn't sure what it might be in the first place. "How do you do it? What spell do you use? Does the Headmaster know?"
"Frankly, it would be embarrassingly stupid of us to tell you how we 'did it'," Hisoka sneered, quotation marks practically visible. Even as the girl flushed indignantly, the blond continued, "Why give up something that could be used to our advantage? And no matter what you think, we are here for Harry-kun. Does the Headmaster know? Probably. Most likely even. He is not a stupid man. And since your Headmaster, the so-called leader of the Order chooses to trust us, why not you?"
"Be kind, koibito," the taller man by his side murmured.
"I am being kind," Hisoka snapped back. He directed his fierce gaze to everyone but Harry. "If I wasn't, I would have kicked them out a long time ago so that Kyo and Takashi can get some rest."
"Too late."
"Told you," Hisoka grumbled under his breath even as the young wizards and witches spun around at the husky interjection. Kyo stood just outside their little circle of interrogation, swaying a little. His clothes, simple cotton pants and a tee-shirt Hisoka had changed him into earlier were rumpled, his hair similarly disarrayed.
The young man's strangely darkened eyes were bemused, and Harry sensed that Kyo wasn't really seeing them.
Or not.
The instant those eyes landed on him, something stirred to life within, and the Japanese headed unerringly to him. There was some confusion at first, as Ginny scrambled to get out of the Japanese' way while fumbling for her wand, Ron trying to pull his sister and Harry back, and Hermione demanding the truth, now dammit..
Funnily enough, Hisoka and Tsuzuki said and did nothing.
The tumult died when Kyo crawled over the arm rest to tumble into Harry's lap, pushing his face into the boy's legs. " 'S loud," was his muffled complaint. "Shaddup and g'away."
Harry froze, unsure. What should he do? This wasn't the Kyo he thought he knew. . .or did it matter?
The boy – or man – in question whined softly, curling around his lap.
"What did I tell you? Juvenile. Just doesn't act his age." The mocking words were laced with something else; affection, he identified belatedly when Hisoka knelt by the couch, running his thin, pale hand through Kyo's messy hair. "How are you feeling, Kyo?"
"Stupid," came the mumbled reply.
Tentatively, as though handling fragile china, Harry laid a wary hand between Kyo's shoulder blades. A sigh escaped the figure lying in his lap and encouraged by it, he started to stroke, slowly and carefully. "Feels good," Kyo yawned. "Wha' happened?"
Hisoka answered before anyone else could. "Nothing much. We underestimated how the curse affects you. You passed out on Harry-kun and the others after you left the office, remember?"
At Ginny's sharp inhalation, the blond empath threw her a dark glare that was a clear warning. Kyo, face turned into Harry's leg, didn't see it. He grunted. "Taka?"
"He didn't take too well to the viewing," Tsuzuki this time answered swiftly. "In fact, I should check on him."
"I'm up." Nobody was really surprised this time at the second, hoarse interruption of their unplanned little gathering. The man in question stood midway between kitchen and living room, none too steady on his feet. The usual clean, neat appearance the redhead presented to the world was decidedly missing – hair rumpled and clothes wrinkled, he looked just as out of it as his partner. The man surveyed them all with a befuddled air.
"Too many of you," he said blankly. "I need coffee." With that, he shuffled into the kitchen.
The other guest professor gave a small chuckle. "It's rare we get to see Takashi like that," Tsuzuki said cheerfully to them. "Enjoy it while you can."
"I think you're taking this far too lightly. . .professor," Hermione said, voice clipped and terse. The hesitation before the title was obvious, especially when it was Hermione. "I don't care what you say, you can be sure that the Headmaster will know about this."
"Do we look like we give a damn?" Hisoka snapped back.
"Wha'?" Kyo lifted his head from Harry's thighs, looking puzzled. "What the hell is wrong with everyone?"
"Nothing's wrong," Ron replied sarcastically. "Unless you ignore the fact that none of you are who you say you are and that Kurosaki here has been dead for thirty years."
Alarm crossed Kyo's mobile features, and he heaved himself upright awkwardly, catching himself with a hand on Harry's shoulder. Without a word, the young wizard steadied him. " 'Soka?"
"They found information regarding the Kurosaki clan." Hisoka shrugged. "I told them that yes, it is me, and yes, we are older than we said we were or look like. Nothing else."
There wasn't a particular way to how Hisoka said the last bit, but nonetheless, Harry frowned slightly, catching a hidden current underneath that allowed for the tension he felt in the warm body beside him to leech slowly out.
"Oh." Black lashes swept down, closing sapphire dark eyes briefly as Kyo massaged his temples. "Great. Taka?" he called out. "You hear that?"
"Yeah, yeah, whatever."
Kyo grunted again before facing Harry, face carefully neutral. "I'm guessing you're just as pissed off with us as they are?" He waved a hand vaguely, encompassing the other wizard and witches who kept on eyeing the Japanese like sharks would a fat, bleeding seal.
Harry shrugged. "A bit," he answered honestly before a humorless grin crossed his face. "But I'm not really surprised. I've been expecting something like this."
Kyo flinched slightly from the barb. This close, Harry could see how there was a visibly darker stain spreading from dilated pupils, like ink in water, a dark, spreading cloud. It was disconcerting to see what the Japanese had gone through because of him so evident.
Those polluted eyes studied him with something akin to sorrow in their depths.
He could get lost in those eyes, the young wizard realized with a start. And he had. Lost in the way the supposedly older youth showed a certain, carefree joy. The smile curving those lips testified to a love for all things chocolate, and affection that was shown readily. Harry had been the recipient of it, many, many times. And if Kyo's eyes shone bright like winter sun striking the snow, Takashi's would burn like warm fire, promising safety, the comfort of strong arms that would shelter you from pain.
Merlin, he loved them both. He loved them with a fierceness that had seen parents and a godfather taken too early from him and sweet Circe, did that made him gullible? Foolish and needy enough that he would accept love and care offered by strangers with more secrets than truth?
Something painful twisted sharply inside and he jerked back from the hand that had reached out for him. "Why the hell does everyone keep on lying to me?" His voice was raspy with unshed tears; frustration, and anger and plain grief pressed his words down to a bare thinness that stretched tenuously between them. Harry barely saw as Hisoka drew back, a well-chosen insult flung his friends' way as a distraction. The two of them could have been the only people in the world, right there on the too comfortable couch that kept making you want to sink back. He rallied, trying to ignore the way hurt filled those curse-darkened eyes. "You say you're here to help me," he accused instead, hardening his heart. "But you expect trust when you can't even tell me your real names? You're just like them!" Harry's voice rose, and unnoticed by him, silence befell the apartment. What he did note was the way that head of dark hair hung low in defeat and that, surprisingly, infuriated him further. "Dumbledore wants his Boy Who Lived but he thinks he can keep me innocent at the same time," he bit out, resisting the urge to shake that thin body, hunched under the wrinkled tee shirt. A cold laugh worked itself free. "Didn't really work, that idea. So what do you want? A weapon too? Someone to take care of your troubles?"
"Harry, please." The plea was soft, and it fell as loud as stones in the quiet. Kyo reached up to him, and only then Harry realized he was standing, practically looming over the Japanese.
"Don't touch me," he spat, and would have added more if not for the fast grip that pulled Kyo back against the couch, pinning him in place. Takashi stood behind his partner, a heavy hand on the younger man's shoulder. All signs of Takashi's befuddlement with the world had disappeared, to be replaced with fury. A dark scowl wrinkled his brow and Harry preferred to think that it was chance lighting that turned the former doctor's eyes a burning, liquid gold.
"If you want to get angry, then get angry at all of us," Takashi snapped. "Not just Kyo. Yes, we came here out of duty, and whatever we feel for you rose out of performing our obligations. If you want to blame us for anything, then blame the fact that we couldn't mind our damn business and stick to our job, instead of wanting to be friends with you."
"Taka, please—"
"No!" Furious eyes swept down, and the removal of their weight on him almost made the young wizard stagger. He pressed a hand to his chest, shocked. Hisoka edged up to his side, a warning touch at his elbow. He shot the boy a confused look, meeting a grim, shadowed face. A quick signal he almost missed – from Hisoka – and Tsuzuki was behind Takashi, watching the man carefully.
"—I've indulged you enough, koibito." Harry almost took a step back. He never heard Takashi sound so cold before and the wrongness jarred. "I have stood by and kept my silence, even when I knew it would reach this." The redhead made a gesture that encompassed them all, Harry's friends included. "They are mortals."
He wondered at the significance Takashi gave that word. And he knew the others were wondering as well, judging by the set of their shoulders, the closed, pinched faces. Kyo surged to his feet, dislodging his husband's restraining hand.
"You can't say that!" Kyo sounded shrill, almost panicky. The wizard wondered what it meant – why was Takashi not supposed to call them mortals, ignoring the fact that it was such an odd term to use? Because. . .his blood ran cold, because they, the Japanese, weren't?
"You can't say that! You like them as much as I do!"
"Precisely," the former doctor shot back, and never had the difference in their age and size appeared more forcefully than right that moment. Kyo looked like a mutinous child compared to the grave, almost sad, censure on his partner's face. "It's because I like them that I want you, I want us to stop. Dammit, Kyo." Takashi's composure broke then, anguish turning oddly colored eyes a clouded grey. "Our love for them is not going to help when the time comes."
"Takashi," Tsuzuki broke in, touching his arm gently. "This is perhaps, not the best time or place to talk about this."
"Then shall we take it up with the Headmaster?" A voice said archly.
Hermione met their blank faces with a raised eyebrow. "Well? I've heard some very interesting things today," she said tartly, arms crossed and her wand tapping an agitated rhythm. "I think Professor Dumbledore ought to hear it as well. For example, how you've just implied that you will do something, in the future, that will most likely affect Harry or even all of us and it's not something you'll like. I don't know about you four," she continued sweetly, "But us mortals don't take too kindly at threats to our friends, no matter how oblique it sounds, or how well-meaning your intentions are."
The air became charged, a strange energy in the air and Harry was edging away from Hisoka, putting distance between them. His friends did likewise, wands at the ready. All four Japanese watched them back, an odd. . .hunger in their eyes that sent tingles of fear down his spine. His feet slid in their slippers, the furry weave too smooth for a good grip. Cursing, he shook them off, falling into a ready stance.
None dared to move, each sure that the first one to will start a cascade of events that might, for better or worse, change things irrevocably.
It was rather anticlimactic, when the tension was broken by a bright, shining white, three-tailed dove alighting on the back of the couch. The summoning, and Harry recognized it for a shikigami, gave a polite, almost apologetic trill. It sidestepped closer to Takashi, head bobbing up and down, and deposited a thick envelope in the doctor's hand.
Like a giant exhalation, the tension seeped out, and wands were lowered, and the Japanese stood down, that disturbing desire to do. . what? erased from their eyes. Harry caught the sideway glance from Kyo and he flushed, looking away. Shifting from foot to foot, he wondered what would be the right thing to say now. Should he—
A sharp crack. Takashi had broken the red seal on the envelope, earning a frown from Tsuzuki. The amethyst eyed man, now sprawled in the armchair Hisoka had earlier vacated, as if they hadn't just been on the verge of violence, said in a mild voice, "Should you be reading that out here?"
Takashi grunted. "Enma-sama used a red seal. I think it's pretty damn important enough to warrant immediate attention."
While the man read, ignoring everything and everyone else, Kyo and Hisoka made themselves comfortable on the couch and Tsuzuki sighed. Getting to his feet ponderously, he gestured at the door. "Excuse us please," he said to Harry and his friends. "But we have. . .office matters to attend to." A bright smile lit the mobile face, crinkling the corners of his eyes. "If it will make you feel better," this, he directed to Harry, "Then we'll have that discussion with the Headmaster, yes? With all of you in attendance."
"Just like that?" Hermione asked, suspicion tightening her features. "You're going to tell us everything? And to the Headmaster as well?"
"Well, not so much everything as everything that we can tell you," Tsuzuki amended, a wry grin quirking his full lips. He held up his hands in a placating gesture when that earned a glower from the smart witch. "We have our orders, you understand that, right, Granger-san?" he asked soothingly.
"I understand."
Harry exchanged a look with his best friend, their echo petering off and a smile finally worked its way on to his face. A small, tired one but it was there nonetheless. Maybe it was the prospect of getting answers, after fighting tooth and nail for them, but at least, he was getting some.
He was very careful to not look at either Kyo or Takashi.
"Well, why don't you kids go get—"
"Tsuzuki Asato, I am going to kill you."
The doomed man shut his mouth with a snap, wariness replacing the cheer. Gem-bright eyes grew hooded and no one failed to notice the way they flicked from the sheaf of papers held murderously tight in a white-knuckled grip, to the fact that the air around Takashi was practically snapping with arcane energy.
" 'Unfit for continued responsibility of this mission, due to his compromised judgment'," The obvious quote hung in the air like a spark just waiting to explode. Confused, Harry eyed both men warily, though his instincts said that right now, Takashi was the more threatening. He had to be, with the way magic wreathed his form in a visible storm. The boy wizard looked to see if their partners would intervene but Hisoka merely looked resigned, while Kyo was trying very hard to make himself inconspicuous.
"Wait, I think I like this one better," Takashi continued with a grim smile and a miniature bolt of colored lightning struck out, and everyone but Takashi and Tsuzuki jumped when an unfortunate picture frame on the wall behind fell to the floor with a crash. " 'It is our recommendation that Matsumada Takashi relinquish the heavy burdens of his duty as mission leader to one Tsuzuki Asato who is clearly the more fitting candidate to continue this responsibility.'"
Dead, heavy silence pressed down, and nobody dared move, not even Hermione, until Tsuzuki said, mildly, "Well, actually, I recommended Hisoka be placed in charge--"
"Asato," Takashi announced with false sweetness. "We, are going to have a talk, Asato." And with that, he proceeded to drag away the unresisting Tsuzuki by his shirtfront, and the bedroom door slammed shut behind them with ominous finality.
A tense minute passed, before Hermione cleared her throat nervously. "Well. . .that was. . ." It was obvious that the usually friendly, open, redhead's ascent into towering rage had taken her aback. Giving Harry a helpless look, she trailed off, fiddling with her wand nervously and throwing anxious glances at the closed door.
"Kyo," Harry started awkwardly. "Are y—"
He was stopped short by another heavy crash, this time, from inside the bedroom and the solid, wooden panel rattled on its hinges. They could just barely hear a voice shouting when Kyo jumped to his feet and when another crash sounded, he kicked the door.
"Taka!" he hollered. "That better not be my manga!"
Silence, and then a grudging, faint, "Sorry."
"Kyo, I—"
"We'll let you know when a meeting has been arranged." Smoothly ignoring every protest, the four teens found themselves ushered out of the apartment efficiently. It was with dazed confusion that they found themselves on the other side of the apartment's front door, getting a mocking salute from the slight, blond boy who had herded them out like so much cattle.
"Go have dinner," Hisoka suggested, with just the slightest sardonic twist to his lips. "Eat your greens. Be good. Stop nosing in our business. At least," Here, the grin turned decidedly shark-like, "Until tomorrow."
And the door slammed shut in their faces.
Their footsteps rang loudly, echoing back from the stone walls and floor, a dirty, dusky green stippled and mottled through with rust red. The whole effect was like walking through the belly of some serpentine monster and he thought could almost hear the drip of falling water somewhere up ahead. A frown marred his smooth, seemingly young forehead; the Western Shinigami – Tuatha de Dannen, he corrected himself – seemed to have a penchant for medieval age décor. And surroundings, he had discovered in the past, were a good indication of a person's frame of mind.
He eyed a burning torch with distaste.
"Rather tight budgeting they have, ne, Tatsumi-kun?"
The cool blue eyes that slanted sideways showed mute acknowledgement of the jab, and got an almost blindingly bright smile in return from the blond who gave it. Watari's smile outshone the flickering torches spaced in intervals on the disquieting walls, and he was, silently, grateful for it.
"I mean, sure, Summoning Bureaus always get the short end of the stick whenever the annual budget comes around," Watari continued blithely on, ignoring Tatsumi's resigned, weary amusement. It was better than the cold rage from earlier. "But I never thought there'd be anyone who could dethrone you from your rightful place of Scary Accountant of Death."
"Shocking," he agreed mildly, and delicately pushed the bridge of his glasses up. "But I do draw the line between prudent investments and reducing unnecessary costs, and providing an agreeable atmosphere in which a Shinigami can perform his duties efficiently."
"You don't say," Watari deadpanned. "Is that why we only get two reams of paper every day, for the photostat and the printer?"
"Yes," the Shokan secretary replied primly. "It will be another hundred years before I'd forget the Paper Airplane War incident and I don't intend on letting you, Tsuzuki or Kyo forget it either."
Watari's protestations of his and his cohorts' innocence washed over Tatsumi, a familiar litany that he had heard countless times before, from the aforementioned paper war, and other misdemeanors the most rambunctious lot of the Shokan division had caused or participated in. His smile was almost invisible; just the barest, up-turning of the corners of his lips, hut his mate had had enough practice over the years, and the manic grin became more genuine.
The rest of their walk through the belly of the monster was spent in silence, Tatsumi's smart leather loafers providing a sharp counterpoint to Watari's more ambling gait; the blond's steps had a tendency to drag occasionally. A few minutes later, Tatsumi felt the ghost-flicker skating across his senses, and another alert was delivered to him from the shadows. He stopped, and Watari followed suit, waiting expectantly.
The silence, underscored by their shallow breathing and the hiss of the torches, was soon broken by light, rapid footsteps up ahead and a small figure emerged from the gloom. Petite, even for a Japanese, her long dark hair was bound in a neat ponytail, and the small body was encased in one of those billowing robes these gaijin were so fond of. Her aura tasted of old paper and ink, the lingering cold of Western-style maho, overlaid by the spicier tang of old-fashioned onmyoujitsu. Shiina Ami, his mind provided clinically. Stationed here in the Western Realms' Summoning Division for the past twenty years. Her official designation was 'observer' and something of a diplomat when the Eastern Realms' troubles spilled over to their neighbours, as during the last Youkai Wars for instance. But to some extent, her role fulfilled the part of spy.
Not all of bureaucracy was just pushing paper and stringing red tape, the Shadow Master thought critically. And Ami-san was proof of that. His colleagues weren't that naïve when it came to Meifu politics either, but most tended to ignore it in favour of carrying out their duties and trying to find that peace that would allow them final rest.
By his side, Watari shifted in agitation, fists clenching before the scientist forcibly made himself relax. Things had changed after the Kurosaki case; Watari had, to Tatsumi's sorrow, learned of too many things – of the shadows that made up the power of Death, and of the secrets that haunted their friends. Secrets that even the owners of themselves weren't aware. One of it was Shiina Ami. Or rather, the true purpose of her being stationed here when not even the Southern and Northern Realms bothered to.
But. . ."We are here for another purpose, koi." The use of that private endearment surprised Watari into blinking astonishment. Tatsumi held back a fond smile at how similar his partner looked to his pet owl at that moment. But the reminder served its purpose, and a bright grin made its home again on the blond's lips and he waved a cheery greeting.
"Ohayo!" he chirped, and the petite Shinigami quickened her pace until she was almost running. She skidded to a stop, her robes catching around her legs and she more or less fumbled a deep bow. Tatsumi caught her gently by the elbow and received a grateful, slightly embarrassed smile.
"Ohayo gozaimasu, Tatsumi-dono, Watari-san," she murmured in return, giving them a more proper bow. "Thank you for coming so promptly, and at such short notice. Forgive me for not being able to provide a better welcome."
Tatsumi could practically taste the vaguely amused confusion Watari was radiating. His partner knew a lot of classified information, but he knew more. He had been involved in quite a number of them after all.
"It is of no matter," he answered smoothly, and Ami bowed again in relief. She turned back to where she came from, gesturing for the other two to follow.
"Fudge-san has moved the meeting time," she said quickly, nervously tucking back her hair. "We have another. . ." she checked her watch, "Five minutes. It took too much effort and a little. . .persuasion for him to even have this meeting in the first place. He was about to send out the warrants for Shinigami Kurosaki and Shinigami Shiozaki's arrest until I reminded him that they both have diplomatic immunity, considering that the four of them are here on his invitation."
His control was absolute, but Watari eyed him carefully anyway, and he gave the blond a tight, reassuring smile. Tatsumi Seiichiro was fiercely protective of his Shinigami, and even more protective of his friends. This Banalius Fudge had been about to haul his Kurosaki Hisoka and Shiozaki Kyo into so-called "protective custody" for the slaying of five mortals and that, in Tatsumi's books, was a mistake.
They turned a corner, and the air here wasn't that much better, nor the light. But there were doors spaced evenly in the wall, with tarnished brass plaques. They didn't bother to stop and read, trusting the female Shinigami to lead them.
"He's ignoring the fact that the Shokan has started our own inquiry into the matter, and considering the situation and as per Realm laws, our findings and verdict would take precedence over the Tuatha de Dannen's?" Tatsumi asked, his voice dangerously soft.
Both Ami and Watari flinched – those who worked long enough with Tatsumi learned the subtle, but clear signals of his temper reaching perilous levels, and the Kagetsukai was pissed.
"He claims that they were not given permission to act aggressively, Tatsumi-dono," Ami rushed out, eyeing the shadows clustered thickly around them in apprehension. "And Shinigami Shiozaki has been accused as well, of unnecessary grand conjury and Shinigami Kurosaki, of malicious use of the killing curse, Avada Kedavra. And there are whispers that he plans on charging all four of them of forging bonds with a mortal, despite the boy's status, and Shinigami Tsuzuki for willfully breaking the code of secrecy."
Watari let out a low whistle. "Wow," he breathed out in admiration. "This Fudge is really going all out, isn't he? All four of our colleagues are under Enma-sama's protection. Fudge had to agree to that before Enma's Own would even draw up the contracts. How can he ignore that?"
The girl winced, shooting the both of them apologetic looks. "He's like his brother, Cornelius, currently Minister of Magic in the mortal realm," she explained in a harassed tone. "The both of them are famous for being as stubborn as oni and as blind as bats. He let the Voldemort situation go on this far before he finally caved in and asked for help."
"A poor candidate then, to lead a division of Death gods, especially against that aberration," Tatsumi said coldly. The echo of their footsteps changed from hollow ringing to something more solid; the walls and floors changed to a more pleasing buff-colored sandstone and the air was dryer. Ami led them down another twisting corridor and quietly identified the massive doors at the end as the Office for the Regulation of the Affairs of the Dead.
There were no guards waiting, but Tatsumi made them stop a good distance away – he knew the fundamentals of Western-style magic, but he didn't want to underestimate his opponent. Extending his senses, the Kagetsukai was satisfied that there were no listening devices or spells near them.
"Thank you for your timely warning of our colleagues' predicament, Shiina-san," Tatsumi began, and received a murmured, "To serve our Lord."
"Nevertheless," he continued, and with a bang, the huge wooden doors crashed open, spilling golden light and the yelps of surprised officials. The shadows responsible writhed menacingly before falling back with an almost audible hiss. "What I am most interested to know is this. . ."
Banalius Fudge, Head of the British Summoning Division of the Western Realms, found himself inexplicably pinned to his seat as a lithe figure in a drab brown Muggle suit and glasses materialized before him, radiating a cold menace.
"What I want to know is," the man whispered, and his words were icy fingers caressing down their spines, "How were you able to produce such a meticulously prepared warrant, listing each and every charge in full detail, when I myself have just received a report from my colleagues?"
He shouldn't have. Gods, he knew he shouldn't have and Kyo had only himself to blame.
His shoulder banged painfully into the wall, sending bright lancing pain down his arm and up to pound his already aching head. He only just managed to not slide down into a boneless heap on the floor, but the prospect was tempting. Another spike of raw, unadulterated power pumped through and in him and he bit off a sharp curse.
In hindsight, Kyo knew he should have just called one of those weird imp-like creatures to sate his sudden, pre-dawn craving for a hot bun with chocolate ice cream. But no, he just had to slip out of the bed he shared with his husband; Takashi sleeping deep enough that the slight jostle of the mattress didn't wake him as it usually would. And since trust was supposed to be one of the cornerstones of marriage, the former sensei had naturally trusted that Kyo wouldn't be silly enough to go wandering off in a large castle unescorted.
At the thought of Takashi, and the sure fury this latest boo-boo would cause, Kyo resisted the urge to bang his head against the wall. Takashi was going to kill him. The younger man had thought to make a quick run down to the kitchens, let his legs stretch a little and maybe catch a breather. His husband had gone to bed in, well, not a sour mood but Takashi was certainly not a very happy man. Not after the fight with Tsuzuki. So Kyo thought, rather innocently, that he ought to let the man sleep. He was only going to get a snack after all.
What he hadn't counted on, was the sun rising.
The touch of sunlight on snow and stone, tree and bare earth, had awakened the elements, enticing them to a quickening aliveness in the face of encroaching winter. It was a daily affirmation of life and magic, a pulse that throbbed in time to the living awareness that was Earth and Sky and Wind and Fire, that would slow once winter gripped the land fully, but never completely cease. It was a daily ritual that he had grown so accustomed to, he could sleep through the daily ablutions undisturbed save for a faint flush to his skin, a vibrancy to his aura that had, more than once, woke his husband up with aching need, tuned as Takashi was to the flow and ebb of magic.
What he hadn't factored in though, was what would happen should he ever be made a slave to the will of a Dark wizard, made into a Vessel that would harness the wild energies of the elements into ruthless obedience by an affront to the gods that should have never happened in the first place.
When the sun rose over the Forbidden forest, the land answered and aware on a level that was incomprehensible to a mortal's mind, it knew that one who could hear them was near, and the earth sang out in joyous greeting.
What greeted that call was the black, oil-slick coldness of wrong where previously, there had been right and Blessed. Surprised to hurt fury, questioning in the slow, deep beat that was Earth and the whispering shriek of Air that partnered the solid, steady presence, the elements demanded an answer for why the one they had gifted with love, now felt hated.
Kyo cried out, falling to his knees, barely aware of the stinging pain of flesh and bone striking the hard floor. His vision swam, then turned upside down and inside out, shot through with indescribable colors that blinded. Without conscious control, his talents engaged and he saw with Air's clarity.
The vivid brightness that colored his world then was staggering – he had absolutely no command over the raw potency of his vision – he saw magic, and he saw beyond magic, to the shimmering snowdrop beauty that was Life in every atom, every particle. Stung with grief that felt too fresh for a wound that had over thirty years to heal, Kyo choked, scrambling back on hands and knees until he hit the wall, as though physical distance mattered.
It didn't.
Caught in the wakened throes of a pain he thought long gone, or at least, long buried, he threw off the stifling, oppressive glamour that had made four Death gods appear solid, real and very much mortal and embraced, with perverse, greedy joy, the Blessed touch of Enma-Daioh.
With a timing that could have been maliciously Hells-gifted, the daily call of elements subsided into subliminal throbbing that promised a repetition, again and again until their hurt confusion was answered. Surprised, stumbling and reeling in the wake, a Shinigami in his full, immortal glory was left kneeling on the hard floor and cursing his stomach for leading him to this sorry situation in the first place.
He was aware of company when his still active gift rippled, and the dim gold aura of a human slid through the gilt-flecked shower of his sight. Shocked, Kyo fumbled for the dropped reins of his mastery, tried to plead with quicksilver Air to let him go, to forgive him for the wrongness and with a mercy only the Immortals could understand, it did, but only after extracting a promise from the wrecked, shivering Shinigami that he would answer the next time, and make right what went awry.
Trembling with relief, Kyo tried plastering a shaky smile on his face, all too aware that the witness to his little episode was facing a Death god uncloaked. He could try to smother the otherworldly aura that marked a Shinigami, and pretend he really was human, but that was trying to. . .what did these gaijin call it? Closing the barn door after the cows ran off? Or was it stables and horses? His mind decided it was too taxing a thought, and blinked back sweat and reflexive tears, preparing himself for a cock and bull story that could perhaps, salvage the sorry situation he found himself in.
He didn't recognize the girl immediately. To judge by the soft, unblemished cheeks that had only the last traces of baby fat, the girl was on the verge of womanhood, and it showed in the ripening curves of her body and the rich, amber gold her aura pulsated with as surprise, fear and adrenaline coursed through.
Kyo flinched; the other facets of his gift were still all too active, but he didn't have the time to dampen them. The girl, most likely a seventh year, stared at him with slanted dark eyes gone wide, huge in the elfin beauty of her face. Chinese, he realized dimly. A Chinese, seventh year girl. Wearing a Ravenclaw tie and badge. That meant something, he was sure. Something important.
"I. . .it's a gift for my c-cousin. It's her b-birthday today."
He jerked back in surprise, barely aware of smacking the back of his head against the wall. The soft, Scottish drawl – incongruous with her Asian features – slid the last puzzle into place. Cho Chang. Harry's first crush. He blinked rapidly, trying to order his swimming, thankfully normal vision to focus, dammit. Light glinted off a bright object held in the girl's hand, and he squinted, trying to make it out. A silver bracelet, he realized with faint confusion. A silver charm bracelet to be exact, with tiny silver bells.
Which were dancing, filling the air with soft, tinkling chimes that would have perhaps, soothed the listener, brightening the air with their light sound.
Only, the bells were chiming on their own because there was no wind or breeze to stir them, and Chang was utterly still, staring at him, then the charm bracelet, with growing bewilderment, and rising horror.
Mouth dry, Kyo swallowed, trying to fight back the nausea enough to say something, anything, godsdammit, but his head hurt too much, and so did his stomach. They could have stayed like that forever, frozen in time with the tiny bells tinkling merrily away if the rapid approach of footsteps hadn't broken the strange reverie they had fallen into. Kyo inhaled sharply and with that action, dampened down the unearthly presence that marked him as Death god, and in the space of an instant, was again, mortal.
The laughing chimes of the bells died.
"Mr. Shiozaki! What on earth are you doing wandering around alone!"
He tore his eyes away from the girl's blanched face, a voice murmuring in his head, she knows she knows she knows what you are, and offered Professor McGonagall a weak smile.
"Had a craving for ice cream," and he visibly winced at the scraped roughness of his voice. Had he screamed earlier?
"That's not all you'll be craving for when I am through with you, Shiozaki Kyo." Oh damn, Takashi was awake, dressed and, he chanced a peek between long, sweat-soaked fringes, very much angry. But his husband's hands were gentle and warm, and felt like sweet relief against his cold, clammy skin as Takashi checked his temperature, brushing back his hair lovingly.
"I heard you," Takashi murmured in his ear, the wild grief in those cultured, educated tones all too clear and his aches doubled. "They're angry? You didn't feel right to them."
He nodded wearily, resting his forehead against Takashi's broader shoulder, the tension leaving his body like water through sieve. McGonagall was scolding a silent Cho Chang, berating the foolish girl for being up and about by herself when curfew was only just lifted and as Head Girl, she should have shown more common sense than a first year Gryffindor.
"The Headmaster wants to see us," Takashi was whispering in his ear. "Tsuzuki promised them yesterday, you remember? Harry-kun's friends won't be so easily placated like before."
He sighed, letting Takashi take his weight and curled into the man's embrace. "Lost control," he whispered back. "The girl felt. . .saw me. But I needed it. I hate this place."
To a stranger, their conversation would have held little meaning, full of unspoken words, but his partner, his husband, understood. "I know," Takashi soothed, running a hand down his back, and more of that aching tension left him, dissipating in the wake of the warm glow that hand trailed. "It's alright. Tsuzuki thinks we should tell them. Makes it easier. They're bound to find out, especially Snape and Remus-san."
Takashi said more, meaningless sounds that he heard only for the comfort they offered, concentrating on the way Takashi held him so very close, tucked protectively under an arm as the former sensei urged him to his feet. They left a reprimanded Cho Chang behind, McGonagall sweeping ahead with pursed lips and Kyo harbored a wild hope that this would all be over soon and they could leave the mortal world to go back to where they belonged. And in the wake of painful scrapes and dull throbbing, Kyo could easily ignore the memory of shadowed, forest-green eyes large with accusation.
She stared down the corridor where the two Japanese, and Professor McGonagall had disappeared to, and she could have stood there for hours if the breakfast bell hadn't rung, shaking her out of her stupor.
Dazed, and mouth feeling cotton-dry, she stuffed the bracelet in the pocket of her robes, her earlier intent to post her cousin's birthday gift forgotten as her feet took her away from the owlery and to the Ravenclaw dorms. She didn't feel like eating for some reason.
When the portrait of the Lady smiled, swinging open at the muttered password, the soft murmuring of House Ravenclaw on a beautiful, November morning washed over her and Cho Chang smiled. In the wake of the subdued, but cheerful greetings of her housemates, Cho could forget the whispered advice of an old, Chinese woman in a rocking chair, who was proud of her heritage and wanted to pass that pride to her granddaughter.
Cho had learned, sitting by her grandmother's side, that the dead must be buried in yang earth, and to do otherwise would birth a vampire. She learned that red would bring prosperity and wealth, and that a house facing a busy road would fare better with a mirror to deflect the bad chi. But among the other traditional, esoteric knowledge the old woman taught a respectful, impressionable child, one stood out which Cho tried desperately to forget now.
Be wary, granddaughter, when you hear bells ringing when they shouldn't, for they warn the presence of the undead.
"Really... He shouldn't have been quite so... 'Dedicated.' " Nudging the rigid corpse at his feet with one toe, Lucius Malfoy sighed. Not a one of the Death Eaters fanning out to search the Ministry office dared to comment on his crocodile-falseness, as the aristocrat allowed a snowy handkerchief to flutter down and conceal the contorted grimace on the clerk's lifeless face. Lucius picked up a sheet of parchment from the litter strewn across desks and floor. "All for the sake of the newly revised State of Emergency Act?" Shrugging, the scarred man crumpled it into a ball and bounced it off the white linen tented over the corpse's nose.
He stepped over the unfortunate man, dismissing him from his mind. Glass crunched under a hard boot heel, and Lucius absently noted the light and color dying from a delicate instrument as its internal mechanisms ceased to spin. What its purpose had been was completely unknown, and the aristocrat frankly couldn't have cared less. A sudden cacophony of guttural curses and growls split the air, originating from deeper within the suite of offices and putting a singularly nasty smile on Lucius' lips. It was such a… pleasure… to be visiting the Ministry again, and to do so as a free man, in control of not only his own fate, but those of the simpering idiots who pretended to speak for all of the wizarding world. Claiming that Muggles ought to be protected, as if they were the endangered species- Although, and his smile grew both colder and crueler, if he had his way, the worthless beasts most certainly would be on the endangered list. He intended to imperil each and every one of them personally, should it come to that.
Suddenly cheered by the notion, the Dark wizard scooped a still whirling Sneak-o-scope from the shattered debris that was all that remained of a particularly solid door, tossing it carelessly from hand to gloved hand. The gizmo's alarm had come far too late to do its owner any good, if the smear of blood and gore down the door's frame was any indication. In fact, Lucius lobbed the sphere into a miraculously intact trash bin, all their gadgets were rather worthless.
The wolves and ghouls had passed this way ahead of him, destroying the flimsy barrier of filing cabinet and desk that had blocked an interior door when the protective wards had failed. The carnage flung across the practical, Wear-ever charmed carpet was no longer identifiable as remotely human, and certainly exceeded the carpet's capacity for stain removal by several orders of magnitude. The stench alone suggested burst intestines and scorching magic, and Lucius had a sudden, whimsical vision of fussy, parsimonious Fudge writing to its manufacturer and demanding a refund. Rather than acts of God, the label on its back ought to disallow damage due to werewolf.
He followed the noise of more of the same down a stodgy, narrow corridor with its middle-class, practical runner in puce and lavender. Feasting ghouls had cleaned up most of the obstructions, but his boots still squelched in the saturated nap, staining the glossy leather. Well, no matter, the wizard shrugged to himself, It isn't as if these are my favorites. Some hapless house-elf would take care of polishing away the mess, anyway.
The maze doubled back onto itself in typical, mind-warping Ministry fashion – too cheap to pay for the additional space, they'd made use of lazy tricks to maximize the building's interior – and then Luicus found himself at the ornately carved double doors that bore a plaque that read 'Department of Magical Law Enforcement.' Except, of course, that it would be more appropriate to say 'had borne,' as the plaque now hung forlornly by a single screw in one corner, and only the letters 'epart, 'Magi,' and 'orcem' were readable. He reached out and gave one of the weighty doors a gentle shove, and was delighted to watch it slowly, ponderously fall backwards without connection to its hinges, hitting the floor with a building-shaking boom, and a rising cloud of dust. Lucius' boot heels left fresh scratches in its dark varnish as he walked over top of it.
What had once been the headquarters of the Aurors was a shambles. The vast room had been neatly arranged with desks two-by-two in rows, portraits of famous peace keepers of the past on its walls, and modern conveniences like self-arranging facial identification kits and animated blackboards set out ready for use. Now everything was scattered wreckage, splinters white against the dark finish of broken furniture, parchments fluttering, and a sour, burnt smell hovering over all. There was comparatively little blood, and some of it, Lucius was not particularly sorry to see, had poured from no-longer useful allies. The constant harrying of small attacks out in the countryside had drawn the majority of the Aurors away, but the few remaining had put up a good fight. He counted no fewer than four downed ghouls, and one torn, nude corpse that had been a lycanthrope before death had returned her to her original form. Another wolf was panting heavily, its liquid gold eyes glazed with pain, where it lay full-length atop an overturned file cabinet. The Dark wizard paid the gray beast no mind; of greater interest were the bodies of three of the arrogant, meddlesome bastards who considered it their duty to interfere with their betters.
Using one foot, Lucius turned over the nearer body, anonymous in dark, uniform robes and tried to put a name to the man's face. Slack jawed in death, brown eyes dulled, and equally brown hair turned dark auburn by drying blood, the Auror was no one that he recognized.
Not one of the ones who'd tormented him in Azkaban.
Frustrated, the scarred man moved on to the next, only to find a woman rookie who was likewise an unknown. The third however, returned a satisfied smirk to his features. Shacklebolt had cost Lucius a finger during an interrogation session, and it was a pleasure to see that one of the creatures of Darkness had reduced the man's entire right arm to sausage stuffing before killing him. But then annoyance twisted his smile askew; he had specifically told the ghouls and lycans that he wished them to leave as many alive as possible. Yet between the running battlefield in the outer offices and corridors, and the siege here in the Auror's headquarters, he had yet to find a single survivor. Pale gray eyes narrowed dangerously as he stepped over the forgotten Auror to cross in the direction of the Department's smaller units and the remaining sounds of fighting. There might be no one left to amuse him in this large room, but there was still a good bit of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement to go.
A less portentous door that gapped on its hinges led Lucius into the warren of second ranked Offices and Committees, intended to monitor this or regulate that. His unit of Death Eaters was methodically searching for concealed hidey holes – fishing out both the stray Ministry drone and other, more useful items. As their superior looked in on them, each white porcelain mask dipped in a quick bow, or a gloved hand rose in salute. Lucius felt his spirits rise gleefully in anticipation; there were five, no, six waxy-faced, ill-looking wizards and witches shivering in their dull, off-the-rack robes. And to judge by the way they cringed, at least two of them recognized his platinum blond hair and sneering silver gray eyes, knew him as well as they knew his Master. Lucius jerked a thumb back over his shoulder, adding the breathing loot to the collection slowly forming in the corridor. He gave a low, humorless chuckle.
It wasn't as if he'd never walked these halls before. Only, this time, that was no need for stealth. They had not come to steal a glimpse of some useless, twittering fool's prophesy. Now they were come as lords. Lucius adjusted the fit of his custom-tailored gloves with a jerk, mood gone suddenly savage at the memory of his humiliation at the hands of the Wizengamot. Oh, they'd pay for what they'd done in the dungeons beneath this very building! Once, he'd been able to go when and where he wished – a pureblood giant striding amongst the peasant pygmies. They'd taken him, stripped him and broken his wand in front of all he'd held dear, his so-called betters with lineages no better than his dogs looking down from the galleries as he was condemned and cast down. But they would pay; each and every one of them. And the terrible retribution would begin today.
Lucius arrived at the end of the hall, just as the door that laughably said Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office burst under the combined assault of magic and heavy foot-gear, firmly planted in the panel's center. There was a pathetic shower of fireworks, and smoke billowed from the miniscule office.
A handful of black robed wizards swept in like wraiths.
Moments later, they dragged out a kicking, thrashing figure that could barely spare the breath for gasped curses. Shabby green robes were tangled around the insides of his elbows, exposing brown herring-bone tweed and a crooked school tie in Gryffindor colors. Blue eyes were shocked and bright in a soot-smudged face, and thinning red hair stuck out wildly in all directions. Lucius' contemptuous gaze traveled up and down the man as he was wrenched into a suitably respectful, kneeling position. "Well…" the Dark wizard drawled. "Isn't this a surprise, Weasel?"
"Oh, Merlin…" Arthur Weasley's face paled beneath its coating of dirt and smuts. "Malfoy. You're in Azkab-" A vicious, short jab into his solar plexus by a black-gloved fist silenced the inopportune protest.
Luicius said reprovingly, "I was. And now, I'm not. Obviously." Feverish humor brightened his face as he leaned down to whisper into the wheezing man's ear, "But it's a secret, Weasel."
Straightening, Lucius rocked back onto his heels, and considered what fortune had dropped into his lap. From the beginning, he'd planned to leave a more… personal… message behind when his forces withdrew. It was one thing to brazenly enter the Ministry, pushing directly into the territory of the Aurors themselves to plunder the department, and quite another to let the idiots know just how weak and vulnerable the forces of Good truly were. To drive that point home, he would need a spokesman.
And here Lucius had that insult to good breeding, Weasley himself.
The Weasley clan had an excellent blood-line, nearly as pure as that of the Malfoy, but they persisted in betraying that heritage with nonsense like the Protection of Muggles Act.
It would be more than a pleasure to teach the affront to his race a lesson.
Abruptly, mind made up, Lucius flipped open the long, concealing folds of his robe so that his solidly muscular form in dark, tailored breeches, cream waist coat, and wine-red frock coat was revealed. He planted his hands on his hips, staring down at the confusedly defiant man. Anticipation tightened his abdomen, making his breath come more quickly, and Lucius felt a tingling flush spread deliciously across his skin. He gestured lightly for the team of Death Eaters that held the enemy wizard to get him onto his feet, and to hold him steady, even as his other hand slyly slid his wand from its holster. Struggling ineffectually, Weasley failed to see the subtle twist and flick, missed hearing the murmured, "Cruciatus"
But his body heard, and reacted. A shudder passed through him, and his head snapped back, spine bowed into a devastating arch. His arms and legs vibrated with the violent, spastic tension, the tremors doubling and redoubling until they were wracked his whole frame, nearly tearing him from his captors' grasp. A guttural cry rose from his chest as the seizing muscles forced the air out of his aching lungs.
Lucius released the spell with a small flick just as his victim's lips took on that lovely, faint, cyanotic shade of blue that meant that he was close to passing out. Looking down at the shuddering, brown tweed-clad shoulders and the crown of the thinning red hair, the Dark wizard licked his twisted lower lip consideringly. The tip of his wand traced the smooth ivory of exposed scalp peeping through the mussed, carroty waves, transmitting the shivering tremors like an insect's antenna. As the reaction receded, Lucius said, "Cruciatus," and hungrily watched the spell play itself out once more.
But even the best entertainments could be wearying. At the third repetition, the demonic presence within his soul twisted, hissing, not enough… and the rage began gnawing at his insides again. Torturing a worthless pimple on the face of the wizarding world was NOT ENOUGH! Lucius' hand shook with sudden fury, and without his conscious input, his wand slashed across the sobbing man's face, leaving a mark like a brand on the pallid cheek. His fingers twisted into the short-clipped hair, wrenching Wesley's head up, and he snarled into the foggy, reddened eyes, "You people make me sick, with your complacency and incompetence. Take this useless Ministry as an example: we entered here not long ago and fought a battle in the Department of Mysteries, one that surely should have told you fools how vulnerable you were. Did you have the sense to do more than set another round of pointless wards, as if we were a pack of common mudbloods? How difficult do you think it was to recruit ghouls and wolves for a non-magical assault? And so we slid through your worthless defenses like a knife-" During his diatribe, Weasley's eyes had slid back into focus, and an angry flush crept up on his cheeks, competing with the mark Lucius had made. But, typical to his useless kind, he'd been watching the contorted fury of the face thrust into his, and missed the stealthy movement of the Dark wizard's hand – the slim, razor-sharp blade sliding into the man's gut unnoticed was an example of the same inattention to the physical that had let Lord Voldemort's allies enter the Ministry itself.
The flash of pure agony across the redhead's face; mouth opening in a soundless gasp, color draining away as bloodshot blue eyes opened comically wide; was a testament to what physical stimulus on top of magical did to a Cruciatus-abused system. Lucius waited for the exact moment when the searing pain of the one began to yield to the other, and jerked the slim stiletto in and up that tiny bit that made the agony new all over again. His smile became beatific.
Gasping, writhing between the stoic Death Eaters who held him aloft, Weasley choked out, "W- why…? I d-don't know… anything… of value."
Purring, Lucius echoed, "Don't know anything of value? Whatever gave you the idea that I would torture you for the sake of information? I already know as much as I wish to – that you're one of that fool Dumbledore's supporters."
"Then… why?" The man's breath bubbled stickily, suggesting that a rib broken during his convulsions had pierced a lung. The defiance was still there, but now it was tinged with desperation, as the realization sank in that it was going to be difficult to get out of this relatively intact and sane. Smirking, Lucius passed behind him, gloved hand trailing from the hilt of the dagger. It was always so much more effective when a victim was unsure of one's precise location, when uncertainty preyed on the mind's imagination to conjure possibilities.
Leaning in close, the blond wizard whispered intimately, "There's nothing that you can tell me that I wish to know. Nothing…" Leather caressed wool as his fingers ghosted down the man's back, wringing a shudder from his aching form. "In fact, it's my intent to tell you things that your Order would give their wands to know… So that you can experience the singular despair of knowing that you possess it – and that you will never have a chance to pass it on. What do you think of that?"
"Y- you're insane." the wizard choked out. He struggled weakly, now fighting the effects of the slow poison melting from the blade sunk into his belly, as well as the debilitation of blood-loss and the after-effects of the spell-induced seizures. Lucius judged that the drama would be over just as it would be time for them to leave; his faithful minions were nearly finished collecting what they'd come for from the shattered offices. Slowly, he drew the gloves from his misshapen hands.
"How does it feel, to be aware, on so… visceral… a level that you're helpless? That all of you, the Order, the Forces of Good and Light, are nothing to us? We shall prevail…" His bared fingers slid into the short cropped red hair, cradling the skull within. Lucius shuddered faintly; it was the first time since his escape from Azkaban that he'd touched the flesh of another without the barrier in place. To his raw, sensitized skin, it felt like an elixir of constant pleasure pouring over the damaged muscles and bone. His thumbs caressed the delicate hollows behind each ear, where subtle pressure could pierce the bone and bring death. He leaned in close, lips brushing the outer edge of an ear, "There's a secret to the bomb we sent to Hogwarts inside that pretty boy… Arthur. I'm going to tell you what it is-" A tremor rocked the skull in his hands on its fragile stem, and Lucius' grip tightened. "Defusing it is the trigger. Ka-boom." And at the in-drawn gasp of understanding, at the instant that his messenger knew, the Dark wizard's hands gave a final wrench, and bone splintered with an audible, wet crack.
Lucius stepped back as the Death Eaters let the body drop into a heap on the soiled carpet. A slip of parchment, prepared in advance, crackled as he tugged it from his pocket, and let it flutter down. It landed, half unfolded, revealing a crude drawing of a phoenix in its immolation, and the words 'We know.' Whistling softly, the Dark wizard turned and gestured imperiously for his followers to move out.
To be continued
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