Chapter One - Imperio
The smoke hung heavy and thick on the air, churned up into sky and street alike by the newest factory in Hogwarts. Nurmengard was a beast of a building; a hulking block of grey bricks set against the grey expanse of cloud and smog already being emitted by Malfoy & Sons on the other side of the city. It glowed red in the evening, lit by a thousand lightbulbs, ignited by a million sparks as the assembly lines powered on into the night. During the war, it had popped up quite suddenly, dwarfing what had once been miles of valley in shadow, regurgitating shells and guns and armoured cars for the British war effort. In the few years it had existed, Nurmengard had grown to match and even out-scale the traditional Malfoy & Sons that had been standing for decades, a bicycle firm that had moved with the times. Now, both factories leered and loomed over separate ends of the city of Hogwarts, producing the two best-selling car models in the entirety of the United Kingdom.
The motors were perfectly sound. The chassis of both Malfoy and Nurmen Cars were streamlined and bold, finished with slick black paint and engines that revved like the roar of thunder. Together, the two companies dominated the car industry in what appeared an entirely above board fashion.
The residents of Hogwarts knew that was anything but the case.
They could tell you a few things about who really ran the Malfoy & Sons Motor Company, for example, despite the clear and brazen emblazoning of the Hogwarts Member of Parliament's name, one Lucius Malfoy, across the front of the factory doors. For it was not Mr Malfoy at all, nor his father for that matter, that wielded the power. If you looked close enough, closer even still- you'd see the skull and snake emblem in the circular caress of the 'o' in 'sons.' You would know exactly who owned Mr Malfoy and his company.
The Death Eaters were subtle and shameless. They pissed all over the city of Hogwarts as though it was their playground. The smoke hung heavy and thick on the air, but only with The Death Eaters' permission, only because they had decided that the factory could be built and fed workers, and develop into a hive of activity. Nobody did anything without The Death Eaters' permission; move in, move out, marry, divorce, create life, end it-
And Thomas Riddle had the overriding say on the lot.
He cut a fine figure through the mist, a black shadow sat astride an equally dark horse. The sound of the mare's hooves against the cobbled street warned the residents of his passing, and they diverted their eyes once he got close enough to see the whites of them, bowing their heads until he once more disappeared into the fog. His cap was flat, his collars rounded, suit a dark, expensive tweed. The horse wasn't saddled, but she rode beautifully under him, commanded to submission, dutiful to every twitch of his leg.
The women had always said he was a good looking man, ever since the day he appeared a few years before war broke out, wearing a similar expensive-looking suit and flat cap, a single dark curl against his pale forehead, shoes shining and shirt the colour of untouched snow. He had appeared out of the blue with his unnerving charm and disarming smile, bearing nothing but his name and a fortune that favoured the bold. There wasn't a man alive that knew who he was or where he came from back then; now, there wasn't a soul around that hadn't heard the name Thomas Riddle.
He dug his ankle into the horse's side when he saw the girl walking towards him. She emerged from the smoke, hair shining like a golden beacon, skin the colour of pale moonlight.
"You're the fortune teller," he stated.
His voice was melodious, as sinful as the snake that had tempted Eve. It echoed off the cobbles.
"Aye, that I am, sir," she replied. She sounded like a fortune teller as well, whimsical and dazed, away with the fairies.
"You know why I'm here then."
The fortune teller bowed her head, raising her hands high into the air to reveal a small, porcelain bowl filled with lily-white ash. She began mumbling, singing some fairy song he recognised the gypsies as singing for good luck to be bestowed upon them, and from the corner of his eye, Tom noticed the workers on the street edge closer, peer from doors and windows to watch the scene. A small smirk curled his lips.
She continued to sing, growing louder and higher, swaying from side to side, eyes closed, face serene. He watched her and wondered if she truly believed in her magic. Then watched as she stopped her song and blew the powder onto the mare's face and thought that it made no difference either way, so long as the people were foolish enough to believe it.
The horse reared, and Thomas tangled his fingers in her mane to stop himself from slipping, digging his heels into her ribs so she would calm down. She did so, landing back on the cobbles, huffing, the whiteness of the ash powder stark against her black coat. He tugged her mane and turned her round, not before tossing a coin to the fortune teller.
"Imperio," he called, walking the horse back the way he came, keeping her pace tempered and disciplined and looking around at the crowd of workers and mothers and dirty children that had assembled. He disappeared into the fog just as he had appeared from nowhere all those years ago, his voice rising above the smoke. "If you want to know which horse to bet on for this week's race."
~O~
He was late to the meeting, though it hardly mattered and the knowledge did little to speed up his pace. The factory was not the only building still lit this late at night, and Nurmengard towered over the city, visible from its position on the opposite hill. Thomas paused before he entered Malfoy's, eyes narrowing as he took it in. It had appeared quite out of nowhere, popping up before the businessman had ever even deigned to ask him for permission. But then war broke out and examples to be made were lost in the sudden relocation to France and the urgency of rearmament. He had never forgotten the slight against him, but war had only just ended, and 1919 had proved that the Death Eaters' biggest job was getting the city under their control again before it could descend into chaos, before the Communists and outsider gangs could scuttle in like rats and infect what Tom had worked so hard to perfect.
The factory was in full swing when he entered, walking down the centre aisle and nodding in acknowledgement to the workers who doffed their caps at his passing. He swung himself up the stairs and entered the main office, taking his time in shutting the door behind him.
"You're late."
"I'm aware, Lestrange. But I had business."
Rodolphus Lestrange was a hulking brute of a man, dark hair, thick beard and black eyes. His shoulders were broad and square, chest expansive, and so tall he had to duck to pass through most doorways. He didn't look amused, sitting behind his desk, tapping his rough, gold ring-laden fingers against the wood.
"What business?"
"What I discussed with you," replied Tom, easily leaning against the window overlooking the factory floor.
Lestrange's face twitched. He closed his eyes for a moment before slamming his fist onto the desk, causing it to splinter. The other men in the room braced their shoulders, one of them flinching outright. Tom raised his eyebrows, lips curling slightly.
"Fuck's sake, Thomas! We discussed nothing!" He clenched his fist tighter, leaning across the desk, and snarled, "I told you we can't go making enemies of The Wolves. Not when we have Nurmengard on our doorstep."
"We've already made enemies of The Wolves," Tom pointed out boredly, never once blinking. "We have to maintain influence over this city, Lestrange. Nurmengard have made their intentions perfectly clear with that big, fuck-off factory of theirs."
"We don't know what Nurmengard want," said Rabastan, Rodolphus' younger brother. He was just as big and broad as his brother, though clean shaven and more gaunt-looking in the face. He had been a Prisoner of War for two years and still twitched at loud noises.
Tom smiled grimly. "We do. The only way they could be more explicit was if they put Malfoy's out of business by pissing all over the assembly lines. They want Hogwarts. They want our city."
"Well, they're not getting it," growled Rodolphus.
Tom's eyes cut to him. "Clearly."
They stared at one another for a few moments longer, neither one wavering. Eventually, Rodolphus said, "Leave us." There were a few protests at the meeting being cut short, but he silenced them with a, "Leave me with my lieutenant."
They loitered still. Tom barely glanced at them, arms still folded across his chest, ankles crossed, shoulder leaning against the glass. "Go on," he nodded.
Rodolphus waited until the door clicked shut behind the last of the men before he leaned back in his chair and surveyed Tom carefully. Then, he stood, moving around the desk, quietly, even gracefully for such a large man and Tom remembered he had been a sniper during the war. It made sense he would be so silent. Lethal. He was the official head of The Death Eaters after all, the eldest of the Lestrange crime family.
Rodolphus pushed open the lid of the globe in the corner of the room, revealing an array of fine malt whiskeys and rums. Tom's eyes followed every move until he gestured for him to take a seat and began pouring them both a drink.
"What's this business I should know about then?"
Tom reclined in the chair, accepting the glass of whiskey and swirling it in his hand. "I don't suppose you should know about it if you want to keep on good terms with The Wolves."
A muscle clenched in Rodolphus' jaw. Once. Twice. His black eyes narrowed. Finally, he settled on saying, "I give you a lot of liberties as my lieutenant, Thomas, but you shouldn't push that. You may find I can be short-tempered."
Tom's head inclined to one side and he smiled. "You? Never, Lestrange, you must be having me on."
"Don't push me, Tom," he gritted out, holding his finger up in warning, before clenching his fist against the desk. "Who'd have thought the war would have given you a sense of humour."
Tom smirked behind his glass, knocking it back, before slamming it down and leaning his head back. "We need to get the city back on our side-"
Rodolphus paused in taking a drink, frowning. "I wasn't aware they weren't on our side."
"War changes things," said Tom. "Makes people forget how things were. How things are. A lot of the men on our side never returned from France, and even the ones that did came back with a pain in their heads."
Rodolphus licked his lips. "So how do you propose we jog their memories?"
Tom smirked. "I took a racing horse along Ravenclaw Alley this evening to see a fortune teller. She sang a gypsy song, blew some magic powder on the beast, imbued it with good fortune. I made sure to tell the street the horse's name, just in case they were wanting to bet on the races this week."
Rodolphus took a deep breath, nostrils flaring. He shook his head, but the savage grin broke out anyway. "You're playing with fire, Tommy. There ain't no way The Wolves are gonna let you rig their races."
Tom's lips parted and he leaned forward in his chair, arms flat against the armrests. "I already have, Rolph." He ran his tongue along the front of his teeth and leaned back again. "You see, the horse will win this week, when a single street bets on it. And she'll win next week as well, when a borough bets on her. And by the time we have the entire city of Hogwarts believing she's a magical mare, blessed by gypsy magic, and thousands betting, that- that is when she will lose."
Rodolphus inhaled greedily, eyes alight and vicious. He let out a bark of laughter. "You're scamming the folk. I know you've always had trouble making friends but that's not going to get us onside, Tommy."
"And then," Thomas continued, as if he hadn't just spoken. "And then we return half of the bets to all of our workers, in a show of good faith, because after all, we couldn't possibly have rigged The Wolves' horse race, they would have never let us get so close to their business. And next time, they'll bet more money on the next magic horse, and more still, until we have the whole city resting in the palm of our hands."
Rodolphus grinned, grasp tightening on his glass in anticipation. "Tommy, you fucking genius."
He laughed sharply, a boisterous sound that rattled the windows in their frames and made their empty glasses tinkle, before he cut off, grimacing. Leaning across the desk, Rodolphus suddenly looked anxious, eyes darkening and widening. "And what about our other problem?"
Tom scowled slightly, waving his hand in dismissal and looking out at the factory floor.
"I've already told you, I'll deal with Nurmengard."
Rodolphus frowned. He shook his head and said, "Not them, Tom. Haven't you heard?"
Tom's eyes cut to him. "Heard what?"
Rodolphus grimaced and leaned back, resting his arms flat against his chair. Tom repeated the question, entire body laced with tension.
"Lucius Malfoy wrote from London," he began, retrieving an envelope from his top drawer and passing it to Tom. "Letter came this morning. Our old friend the Chief Inspector is back in town."
Tom's eyes scanned the letter, face deceptively blank, before he slammed it down on the desk and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Fuck."
~O~
Hermione skirted around the corner of the police department and made it to her desk just as the clock ticked seven, all but collapsing into her chair, clutching her chest to try and slow her racing heart down. She had set off early enough, but the workers on their way to the two factories had crowded the streets, and she was determined to wait until Lavender returned home to make sure she was safe before she left their house. Her mother had always said she was plagued with being late, that she would be late even to her own wedding and funeral.
Taking a few deep breaths to compose herself, Hermione flattened down her hair, smoothing her blouse and skirt, and took the first handwritten file on her desk, flipping it open and glancing through it before she began her typing. She had always believed herself to be more than a typist, despite the dexterity with which her fingers could work a typewriter. Her mother had been a secretary at the factory her father was a board member at, so it wasn't that she looked down on the job role. It was rare women were allowed many jobs at all, especially of her mother's class, but the war had made her hungry for more. Hermione longed for the thrill of freedom, for the long-desired taste of independence. Alas, she shared a house with three other girls and they only just managed to make their rent each week, unless Lavender managed to snag a rich client, and there was the undeniable circumstance that she was born the wrong sex.
That was what had her quitting her job at the post office and applying for the secretary position at the Hogwarts Police Department, working under a new Chief Inspector sent in just lately from London. The wage was nearly double that she received at her old work. Admittedly, it had been more of a thrill applying than Hermione had anticipated, including a typing test (which she had expected) and a numerical test which allowed her to stretch her maths abilities, something her father had made sure to nurture when she was younger. Although, the current report she was typing up on a dead horse being hauled from the river Monday morning was more macabre than she had hoped for on her first day.
She had just finished her second report, her fingers aching from the constant typing, the clicking of the buttons close to driving her mad, when the door across from her opened and an older man stepped out into the hallway.
Hermione glanced up at him, then back down at her hands. His hair was auburn, laced with silver threads, and matched a neatly trimmed moustache and beard. He was impossibly tall and slim, dark blue suit fitted, if a little baggy around his torso and a little short on his ankles. Blue eyes watched her.
"Good morning, Miss Granger," he said, clasping his hands behind his back. He smiled. His lips were thin and the smile was really nothing more than the stretching of his face. Regardless, his eyes crinkled and Hermione found herself smiling back.
"Morning, sir."
"I do not believe we have been formally introduced," he continued. "I am Chief Inspector Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, but you can call me Dumbledore or Chief Inspector."
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Chief Inspector," said Hermione, fingers still suspended over the typewriter.
He watched her for a moment longer before he bowed his head. "I do believe the pleasure is all mine, Miss Granger." Glancing down the hallway, he smiled once more. "I don't think a corridor is the best place for us to get acquainted since we shall be working closely together. Would you like to come in for a spot of tea?"
Hermione's lips parted. She closed her mouth quickly before tidying her desk area, shoving the papers into a pile, and said, "Of course, sir."
Dumbledore led her into his office and her eyes widened momentarily as she took in the clutter. The far wall was covered in a thick, black curtain, but there was no simplicity anywhere else in the room. A desk was shoved in one corner, covered in documents and files and leather bound notebooks. The other walls were lined with shelves, bookshelves with glass doors and padlocks, with not one empty space, shelves of varying heights lined with plants spilling out of pots and old antiques and strange objects Hermione had never seen before. There was a bird cage holding a golden and scarlet macaw in the corner of the room and the bird watched her as she passed.
She tried not to stare at anything in particular, instead following him over and taking the seat in front of his desk as Dumbledore poured them both some tea.
"Sugar?" he questioned, gesturing the tongs and sugar cubes.
Hermione shook her head. "No, thank you."
Dumbledore helped himself to several cubes of sugar before he gave her the teacup and took his seat behind his desk. They sat in silence for a few seconds, only the clink of china audible.
"How are you finding your new work?" he asked, setting his tea down.
Hermione nodded quickly. "Very good, sir. It's a lot more interesting than work at the post office."
She neglected to mention that she had quite liked Mr Ollivander, and missed his rambling tales and recollections of his youth quite dearly.
Dumbledore smiled at her, and Hermione felt like he could read her mind. He stood and began walking round his desk. His tea remained untouched behind him.
"Miss Granger," he said finally, stopping in front of her. "What do you know about the Durmstrang Gang?"
Hermione tensed. Her entire body seized up before she could stop herself. She glanced away, breaths shallow and painful, and said instinctively, "Moved from Eastern Europe to Britain some time before the war, sir. Nobody really knows much about their methods or operation. They seem to attack without provocation. They just seem to like wreaking havoc."
Dumbledore's eyes remained on her face. She noticed now that the blue was a little bit too blue to be reassuring; it was cold and bright like ice was.
"Do you know why I picked you as my secretary when I was relocated to Hogwarts, Miss Granger?" he asked instead, and Hermione frowned.
"Because I… performed well in the numerical and typing tests? Sir?"
She diverted her gaze at his silence. Shifted in her seat, smoothing down the wrinkles in her skirt, fixing the buttons of her cardigan which she had done in a hurry and were now all done up wrong.
"Your parents were killed by the Durmstrang Gang, is that correct?"
Hermione's hands froze. She bit at her lip and looked up at him. His voice had dropped softer, gentler, but his face remained impassive and she vaguely wondered if this was worth it. Then, she thought about Lavender on the streets, risking her life each night to put some bread on their table, and how meagre the wage at the post office had become since the war. Hermione thought of money and she pushed past the sound of her mother's screams still ricocheting in her head.
"Yes, sir."
"This is not a simple secretary job, Miss Granger," continued Dumbledore, hands clasped in front of him. He was incredibly calm, composed and unerring. Hermione felt like a tangled bag of nerves in comparison. She twisted her fingers together on her lap and squeezed them until her knuckles had turned white. "You are free to leave at any point, though I ask that you remain quiet on what I am about to inform you on, should you accept the role. Am I being clear?"
Her voice was hoarse. "Yes, sir."
Dumbledore nodded and he turned on his heel and strode to the wall, where he wrenched the curtain down. Hermione sat up a little straighter in her chair. She felt her heart quicken.
The wall, though it was not so much a wall as a floor-to-ceiling board, was covered in sketches and photographs, written notes and typed reports, all of it connected by green string. Hermione felt herself rising, and before she knew it, she was in front of the board, fingers brushing the string, following it to the three separate branches. In the top left corner was a newspaper cut out of one Fenrir Greyback, so large he took up the whole photograph frame, grin savage and eyes shining even through the ink. He was connected to other names and other people and other events, most notably The Hogsmeade Races, though Hermione's attention was drawn to a stamp in red ink in the ripped off corner of a piece of paper; a blood-red howling wolf.
"The Wolves," supplied Dumbledore. She swung round to face him, recoiling her arm as though chastised. He was leaning against the side of his desk, ankles crossed, fingers interlocked, staring at the board with some avid fascination that resembled hunger. "One of the smaller gangs in Hogwarts. They've been fixing the horse racing for years now but the police are quite unable to prove it."
Hermione chewed at her lip, eyes trailing back to the board. The largest section, and by far, the most comprehensive, took over the right side of the board. She had lived in Hogwarts for some time, near enough since the turn of the century, moving from London when she was only a girl after the deaths of her parents. That meant that though she hadn't been born here, she'd been here long enough to recognise the black skull and snake emblem that signalled The Death Eaters.
The newspaper reports here were frequent, though none of them explicitly mentioned The Death Eaters by name, she noticed; bodies found in rivers, shoved in bins, fires started in the middle of the night, gambling dens, bar brawls. Most likely, The Daily Prophet had been bought off by them, much like the other major businesses in the city. It was no secret how they operated, who their members were, walking the streets of Hogwarts in groups, each member donning a flat cap that glistened silver in the streetlight; Hermione had heard rumours that they had razor blades sewn into their hats, that they preferred a physical, intimate fight any day to a gun showdown. Their strength was their numbers and their brutality and they knew it.
"You've no doubt heard of those," said Dumbledore behind her.
Hermione nodded, fingers trailing the green string that ran from their mark to a photograph of a man with a thick, dark beard, wearing an impeccable black suit. "Rodolphus Lestrange," she read the inscription underneath. "Is he their leader?"
Dumbledore chuckled and she frowned at him. He shook his head. "Head of the Lestrange crime family. He reckons himself in charge but he's only really the brawn." He pushed himself off the desk and came to stand next to her. "The brain of the operation, the rancid heart of it, is this man."
His finger tapped a picture just above Lestrange's.
Hermione swallowed. The man photographed was without a shadow of doubt, the most beautiful man she had ever laid eyes on. Even through the grain of the photograph, there was something elegant about him, something beautiful and something unutterably deadly. He had dark hair, curled against his forehead, and dark eyes, framed by long lashes. His lips were full, curling at the edges into a cross between a smirk and a smile. She couldn't look away from his eyes. They seemed to be staring back at her, piercing her chest, sussing out her soul.
She diverted her focus to what he was holding and realised with sudden surprise that the photograph was a mugshot, dated back to way before the war. Hermione opened her mouth to ask a question, turning to look at Dumbledore, only to find he was already watching her.
Swallowing, she shook her head and asked carefully, "What was he arrested for?"
"Stealing a loaf of bread."
Hermione's eyes widened. "That's absurd," she said. "He's a gang leader."
Dumbledore inhaled deeply. "Indeed."
"He seems too clever to get nicked stealing a loaf of bread," she said, before hastily adding, "Sir."
The Chief Inspector nodded and said, "Oh, he is." She looked at him. "Put it this way, Miss Granger. Your assessment of Thomas Riddle is quite correct, except for one thing. You should never assume he was anywhere but the place he wanted to be at that precise moment in time."
She narrowed her eyes, looking back at the mugshot. "He got himself arrested on purpose," she realised slowly. "But- why would he put himself on the police radar like that?"
"The Death Eaters have never made it their mission to hide. They are not subtle. They want the police and the politicians to know that it is truly they who run the city, not the other way round. No. When Thomas Riddle got himself arrested, he was not putting himself on the police radar, he was putting the police on his."
Hermione shook her head. "I'm not sure I understand, sir."
Dumbledore's eyes never wavered from the picture. "By spending just one night in police custody, Tom Riddle had every police officer in that station sussed. He knew just who to grease to get them onside and the ones who would bend to a few extra coins each week and the ones that would never bend at all."
She felt something cold trickle down her chest, pooling into her stomach. "You're telling me the police department is in kahoots with The Death Eaters?"
The Chief Inspector looked down at her. "There is a reason the government sent me from London, Miss Granger. There are a few reasons, in fact, but yes, that is one of them. This is why it is imperative that you do not reveal to another soul the true nature of your job. You never know where Tom Riddle has his eyes and ears."
Hermione swallowed thickly, glancing at his photograph one last time. He was still hauntingly beautiful, there was no denying that, but she found his beauty struck her in the way the scales of the most venomous snakes were also the brightest. His beauty was a warning.
"And what is the true nature of my job, sir?"
Instinctively, her eyes fell on the empty space of the board, in the bottom left corner. The thread was red here- uncertainty?- connecting only a few loose newspaper clippings that derived from newspapers all over Britain and Europe. Hermione recognised French, German, and what she thought might be Russian. There were fewer photographs here, and the ones that were pinned had question marks besides them or crosses through. She was drawn to the mark, the symbol, the one that was painted over the smouldering factory doors of her parents' place of work; a triangle, a circle within it, and a line dissecting the two. She didn't know what it was but she knew what it meant. The Durmstrang Gang.
"Hogwarts is rife with gangs, Miss Granger," said Dumbledore gravely. "It is infected. The police department is inept. The only way to take them down is from the inside."
Hermione knew what he was going to say before he said it and her stomach coiled with anticipation, fear, regret, excitement. She forced herself to take a deep breath and keep her face blank. His eyes watched her closely.
"I need you to infiltrate The Death Eaters, and get close to Thomas Riddle."
~O~
The Knights of Walpurgis was busy tonight, teeming with the day-shift workers from the factory, still freshly grimed with soot and oil. Abraxas wiped his rag along the bar, before slinging it over his shoulder and taking the order of the next patron that had managed to barge his way to the front of the crowd. He craned his neck to look over at the doorway but the man of the night, of every night, in fact, was late. Again.
Someone hollered his name from the other end of the bar, banging their empty glass down repeatedly. Abraxas dragged the sleeve of his shirt across his forehead. "Fuck, I gotta get myself a barmaid."
The hour was late, but the pub showed no signs of emptying or slowing down but time still seemed to stop when the door opened suddenly, clanging against the wall, scraping along the floor. The patrons closer to the entrance cheered and grinned, toasting their drinks high and doffing their hats, for those who still wore them. Tom smiled, nodding his acknowledgments, slapping a man on the back who greeted him, shaking hands with another, weaving his way through the crowd until he made it to the bar.
Abraxas had spotted him the moment he'd arrived, waiting for him in the corner of the bar.
"Do you want me to clear out?" he asked, leaning across the counter, tipping his head towards the rowdy room.
Tom rapped his knuckles once, eyes scanning the crowd. "No. There's no intimacy in an empty pub." His eyes cut back to Abraxas and he jerked his head to the front saloon room, reserved for The Death Eaters. "Do you have anyone to cover the bar?"
Abraxas nodded, whistling at a young man in the back corner of the pub. He clasped his shoulder, and said, "Watch the bar for me, will you, Reggie?"
Regulus glanced at Tom, ducking his head in a jerky nod, before trading places with Abraxas, wrapping the apron round his waist.
"Saloon room is free," said Abraxas. Tom nodded once, leading the way then stepping back to let Abraxas in before him, so he could turn and pause in the doorway to look back out over the pub, eyes perusing his people, running his tongue along the front of his teeth and smiling.
The doors to the front room clicked shut and the two men took their seats across from one another. Tom reclined back, leaning his head against the wall, watching as Abraxas poured them both a glass of rum.
"Who's the lad?" asked Tom, taking out a cigarette and placing it between his teeth. "Looks like a Black."
Abraxas huffed a laugh. "Perceptive. He is. Bella and Rolph's cousin. Only a young lad. His mum asked me if I'd take him on part-time just to give him something to do. Came back from the war changed."
Tom paused in lighting up, eyes flicking to his friend. "We all came back changed."
Abraxas pressed his lips together but kept quiet, letting Tom take a long drag before he spoke again.
"I hear you jinxed a horse last night," said Abraxas, taking a sip of his drink, lips quirking behind the rim of his glass.
Tom shrugged, stretching one arm along the top of the leather seats. The golden ring on his thumb glinted, set deep with a cracked black stone. He tapped his fingers.
"Jinx, bless, call it what you will," he said. "Point is, the street knows her name now."
"How'd Rolph take your proposition then?"
Tom smirked. "I never gave him one."
The rum sloshed over the rim of his glass, spilling down his chin. Abraxas leapt forward to stop it from staining his shirt. Tom whipped his handkerchief out of his suit pocket and slung it at his friend.
"You're telling me you just rigged the race anyway?" demanded Abraxas, dabbing at his face.
Tom smiled, amused. "I've had the race rigged since the end of the last one. Don't presume I'm getting lax, Brax"
Abraxas let out a long whistle. He scratched at his neck. "You like playing with fire, Tommy."
Tom laughed, and the smoke billowed from his mouth. "The Wolves aren't fire. They're all bark and no bite."
"I don't know," said Abraxas. "I've heard stories about Greyback. Stories that'll make even your blood turn. He was the only surviving soldier in his battalion, you know. Rumours are he survived because he ate the bodies of his men."
Tom scoffed, blowing his smoke to the side, stretching his other arm out, the cigarette balanced between his nimble fingers. "You always liked listening to rumours, Brax. You're like an old housewife. Greyback might be vicious but he's not an animal. He's just a man. They all are."
Abraxas watched him for a few seconds longer, before nodding and glancing away. "If you say so, Tommy. What about Nurmengard? Have you figured out what's going on behind factory doors?"
Tom leaned forward to put his cigarette out, swapping it for his glass. He swirled his drink, watching the dark liquid whirlpool. His lips tightened. "It's Durmstrang," he said and let out a deep breath. Abraxas shifted across from him and he met his gaze. "The Great War may have postponed my interest in them but that war is over. The current war is between us and them and they know it. That's why they're biding their time."
"War's been over a year," said Brax. "What're they waiting for?"
Tom licked his lips. "I don't know. I haven't figured that one out yet."
"How did you know it was definitely them?"
His face twisted and he knocked back the rest of his drink, nose wrinkling, jaw tensing.
"I've had my suspicions for a while," he admitted. "And then I found out an old friend of ours is back in town and Chief Inspector Dumbledore confirmed them for me."
Abraxas sat up. "Dumbledore's back in Hogwarts?"
"Yeah, found out last night. Tony sent a letter from London."
"Fuck me," said Abraxas, leaning back and closing his eyes briefly. An impish grin lit up his face. "You get back from the war and think you're safe from the enemy only to find that the enemy is waiting on your doorstep and he's multiplied!"
"We're firing on all cylinders again, Brax," said Tom, grinning. His holster was snug over his shoulders, gun heavy and cold in his waistband. He swore he could feel the ghost of the razor blades in the seam of his cap. The rum and tobacco tasted like home, the din of the pub from behind the saloon doors and the sound of Abraxas' triumphant laugh made things feel like they had done before the war. Tom felt like things were looking up again, like he was finally in control. He took another cigarette out of his pocket, lit it, and closed his eyes.
~O~
The moonlight pooled onto the pub floor, exploding outwards, escaping under the vacant tables where the chairs had been placed upside down. The patrons had cleared out under an hour ago, and Abraxas had been left to mop up the sticky floors and puddles of booze and spots of blood. The bar was still lined with empty glasses that needed washing.
Suddenly, the door swung open, scraping along the floor. Abraxas sighed, throwing his towel over his shoulder and coming around the front of the bar. "We're closed."
"Oh, I'm sorry."
His head shot up, eyes widening.
The girl in the doorway was small, even in her smart brown heels. The skirt fell to her calves and her cream cardigan was buttoned all the way up her chest. She had chestnut coloured curls that fell around her shoulders, sparking and frizzing like electricity, or the mane of a lion. Though not conventionally pretty, there was something undeniably appealing about her, from the dusting of freckles across her cheeks and the cupid bow of her lips. Her dark eyes were large and doe-like, blinking nervously at him.
She held something in her hand higher for him to see and said, "I came for the barmaid job."
Stepping further into the pub, the light fell on her face and she smiled slightly. "My name is Hermione. Hermione Granger."