The cobbles glistened through the slashing rain. A cloaked figure strode through the streets of the London, glancing around to spot a patrol of Death Eaters. Contact with such a group could prove lethal, as they patrolled in large numbers, and often didn't require a reason to kill a passerby other than the fact that they had the power to.
The second wizard war had been raging for all of five years now, and the Dark Lord had covered the entire world in darkness. One of the Dark Lord's servants had slain Albus Dumbledore, his greatest rival, early into the fight, and the Dark Lord since had won victory after victory, slaughtering all who stood in his way.
Soon after claiming Britain, the Dark Lord had turned to the rest of the world. All of Europe was now under his rule, and the far Eastern nations were now all but conquered. His armies were fought to a standstill in the New World, but it was only a matter of time before he gained his victory in the East and could turn all of his might onto this last obstacle to his rule.
The muggles had put up a valiant effort to resist the Dark Lord, as soon as they grasped the fact that magic did in fact exist. It was all to naught however, as they could not compare to the power of magic. Bullets were deflected by spells, vehicles of war ground to a halt as their engines were magically exploded, their missiles turned back on their origins through this magic. The muggles' newscasts were full of reports of wizards appearing out of thin air and killing all in the area, of soldiers suddenly compelled to kill their fellows, and of cloaked monsters that turned day into screaming night. The muggles now only lived as long as they served the purposes of the Dark Lord or amused his minions.
In spite of this darkness enclosing the world, there were still some who resisted. These secret underground resistance movements were nothing more than pinpricks of light in the encompassing blackness, but they were there nonetheless – glittering stars in a moonless sky. The brightest of these stars was at the heart of the Dark Lord's domain, a group of desperate, defeated people clinging to the hope of a lost prophecy that one would live to defeat the Dark Lord.
The cloaked figure passed under the dim orange glow of a streetlight, one hand clutching at a hidden wand near his chest, not standing out, as everyone who went out these days kept their identities hidden as much as possible. The anonymous figure slowed in front of a pub, and after taking one final look at the surrounding street through the falling rain, walked in.
The cloaked man blinked to adjust to the dim lighting in the pub, his eyes lingering on door in the back wall and the stairs in the corner leading up to rooms of the inn that the pub was a part of. With such a large number of Muggles slain, and the rest doing the bidding of the Death Eaters, there remained too few to keep the various services operational. Electricity was a thing of the past, and the pub was lit with flickering torches ensconced in the walls, candle chandeliers, and a blazing fire from a hearth.
Shaking the rain from his cloak, the unknown man reached a kept one hand in the folds of his robe, clutching his wand, and with the other pulled back his hood. He was tall and tanned dark. Walking purposefully up to the tables near the fire, sat across from a grizzled bear of a man. He looked up from his food with his one good eye, the other milky-white, in the middle of a scar reaching down to his mouth, giving him a permanent sneer.
"About time you showed up, Garivald," he scarred man leered across the table; in his attempt to grin, the skin around his scar turned white and stretched taut, the shadows the fire cast upon his face added to the impression of a demon from some hellish world.
"This damned storm slowed me down," Garivald said unconcernedly. "Don't look like you've had it too bad waiting for me anyway Macnair," gesturing down at the scarred man's plate of food. The lighting in the pub was poor enough to disguise the appearance of the food, masking the fact that the meat was most likely rotten, and also the large amount of spice added to hide the taste of the meat.
Garivald signaled the serving wench to bring him a drink as Macnair reached for the loaf of bread by his elbow. Macnair looked back up from his plate, and his neck bulged as he forced down a large chunk of bread. "I need some information. This damned resistance movement has caused a lot of headache in the past couple of months." Macnair picked up his mug of ale, drained it, and signaled for another. "Do you have anything for us?" He reached one hand down to his robe and jangled a pocket full of gold. "Of course, you'll be well compensated for your troubles," he said with a glint in his eye. "We need to stamp out this cursed rebellion before it gets any worse."
Garivald leaned back in his chair comfortably and gestured for Macnair to continue. "That damned mudblood general led a team of resistance fighters to attack the Academy a couple months ago, and killed thirty of our students and several teachers. They escaped, and then attacked here in London only a few weeks ago, sneaking around and taking out several of our patrols. We need to find out where they're based in," he said, leaning forward.
Garivald merely yawned and held out a hand across the table. Macnair frowned and thrust a satchel full of gold across the table. "A hundred galleons. Now tell me what you know!" he said irritably. Garivald counted the gold in the satchel and looked up when he was satisfied. "They're hidden up in Kent, using one of the old farmhouses," he said. The serving wench came back at this point with the drinks, but didn't seem to want to interrupt their business dealings once she saw the gold on the table. Macnair looked up and nodded for her to continue; she placed the drinks in front of the two men and left to serve another table.
Macnair's scarred brow furrowed as he spoke again. "A more pressing problem is this latest bout of assassinations. Our officers keep getting killed, and we can't find hide or hair of the bastards! Even if we spot the killers, we never see them again. I need you to tell me what you know about their methods," he said as he leaned back and took a long draw on his ale. Garivald reached down and drank his as well; he noticed a strange yet familiar odor, dismissed it as a sign of the cheapness and dirtiness of the pub, and took another gulp, and laid out his hand across the table again.
Macnair growled as he pulled out another bag of gold to pay the outrageously expensive informant. Shoving the bag across the table, he leaned forward and glared at Garivald, his eye staring intently. Garivald opened the bag and glanced at the contents, and straightened in his chair. "It appears that they are using an advanced disillusionment charm, one that can fool most forms of magical detection." Garivald's voice had become slightly smoother, and had an edge to it. For and instant, he looked disconcerted, then cleared his throat and continued. "The easiest way to break this charm is through the use of a potion…" His voice trailed off as he noticed McNair's eye boring into his face. He suddenly remembered the smell of the ale, and the look that Macnair had sent the serving wench, and as he mentioned potions, his mind made a quick connection. A chill ran up his spine, matching the one that had started on his head as the Disillusionment charm wore was dispelled. He felt his body tingling, felt his nose grow slightly longer and crooked, felt long black hair sprouting from his head, and felt his tanned skin turn pale and sallow. He looked up with fear in his eyes, to see McNair with a triumphant smile on his lips, and his wand pointed right in between Garivald's eyes.
"A very clever way to catch such an assassin, and I'm certain that it works… So very nice to see you again, Severus!"