The Past…
Gone. Too Young. Just like her mother. It wasn't supposed to be like this. The Nargles said so.
Luna kept reminding herself of this, repeating it as a refrain within her head as she moved through the battle flittering as she pleased. Many on both sides sometimes got caught just watching her, before returning to their fights.
Gone. Too young. Just like her mother. It wasn't supposed to be like this. The Nargles said so.
Her tranquil fury was complemented by a ominously beatific smile that seemed disturbing to many, intimidating to most.
There were those who stepped up any way, who tried her. Who failed, then fell.
None could hit her, but her aim always proved true. And down they went, falling like wet leaves during a rainy autumn. Less and less she felled could even get back up.
The few that did quickly wished they didn't if she was made to turn back to them.
Gone. Too young. Just like her mother. It wasn't supposed to be like this. The Nargles said so.
Luna might have danced through enemy spells much like a giggling fairy on a sugar rush but she had a certain look in her uncanny blues that would give a devil nightmares and frighten an imp into submission.
And if every time she caught a mere glance of her good friend's bloodied corpse strewn about like debris in the center of the courtyard, her spells seemed to get a little more precise? A little more fierce, more vicious, even cruel?
That wasn't her problem. Not one iota.
Gone. Too young. Just like her mother. It wasn't supposed to be like this. The Nargles said so.
This was supposed to be a triumphant day, the final victory. But something, somewhere went wrong.
Now, her friend was gone, callously cut down by festering pus droppings in human shaped suits.
Gone. Too young. Just like her mother. It wasn't supposed to be like this. The Nargles said so.
Another thug stepped forward, mask askew, spitting curses and insults. She said nothing but kept the same eerie smile. It was when he was thrown into shock while watching his kneecaps and wand arm suddenly dissolve into bananas foster that she saw him seem to regret his choices in life.
She let that moment linger until she grew tired of him, of this. A piercing hex perfectly dead center in his asymmetrical face ended things and she flowed onward and past, before the body ever touched grass.
Gone. Too young. Just like her mother. It wasn't supposed to be like this. The Nargles said so.
Luna saw Dean, in the distance. He has a couple of bottom feeder thugs of his own to deal with.
A snarl ripped itself from her throat. Dean was… a friend. They shared something. Been through something. Together. Plus, he loved art like she did. He promised her movies too, whatever those were. Sounded fun, though.
She had lost enough today, she decided.
Her fairy dance became a reaper's scythe as she cut and sliced her way to Dean. She would not be stopped, she would not even be delayed, she would not be impeded.
Not again
More blood spilled, none hers.
Gone. Too young. Just like her mother. It wasn't supposed to be like this. The Nargles said so.
A wailing scream reverberated through the corridor. A body soon follows, wearing student robes. Ravenclaw colors.
Luna deflects one junior Death Eater's spells directly at his comrade's back, killing him instantly and saving some younger students. As the junior thug freezes at his horrid mistake, Luna takes the opportunity to end his misery with a point blank piercing hex behind his ear, exposed beneath the mask.
She turns away from the still falling body to see a fellow Ravenclaw strewn on the stone floor, rapidly bleeding out in front of her. Luna deftly avoids an enemy spell while sliding next to the dying witch. Luna was already too late to save her but just in time to watch her die.
As the life left her schoolmate, Luna took a shuddering breath, deflected a curse, and grasped the reaching hand, as if provide one last moment of comfort before the end.
As the witch passed away, Luna bowed her head, avoiding another curse and sighed. She looked at the young Death Eater wannabe, stewing in his frustration. "You're going to pay for that."
The Death Eater scornfully laughed. "Why, was that your friend?"
Luna tilted her head sideways. "No. Her name was Hortense Cooper. Hortense bullied me, terribly, for years. She stole my socks. She stole my homework. She tried to steal a portrait of my mother, which she ended up regretting later. And a number of things not worth mentioning. Still doesn't give you the right to murder her senselessly like a slashing humbledangler."
The Death Eater goggled beneath his fright mask. "Wait- what… but- Then… why-?"
"Besides, you stole from me too."
The Death Eater reared back, the rest of the area went silent, just listening.
"You stole from me. You did. Because, some day, after some time and distance apart, Hortense and I could've had a random meetup. Started a dialogue, resolved differences, gained understanding. Healed one another, even became friends, after a fashion."
"But you stole that." Luna's glare was white hot, though her tone never changed. "You stole that future from me. From us." Her look seemed to delve into the Death Eater's soul. "You stole Him too. You stole My Friend."
Gone. Too young. Just like her mother. It wasn't supposed to be like this. The Nargles said so.
Luna gritted her teeth briefly. She waved her wand, without a word. "So, now, you must pay." The death eater collapsed bonelessly, unsure of what just happened, but knowing he was somehow over, ended, as if he were a spell to be once was yet now "finite".
"The Nargles said so."
Luna watched him die with a look of terrified bewilderment on his face, that chillingly beatific smile returned to hers. A dark satisfaction glimmered in her gaze.
Gone. Too young. Just like her mother. It wasn't supposed to be like this. The Nargles said so.
Her smile slipped for a moment, her eyes briefly shimmered with unshed tears. Then she blanked, for a beat. Took in a long, deep breath. Her face closed. Then she exhaled.
The eerily beatific smile returned, it's edged frost emanating from her wide blue eyes, viscerally unnerving all those who witnessed her in action.
Then, Luna looked about before merrily skipped away, flowing on toward her next victim.
…. The Present
Once Tracy Davis had reestablished some grace and dignity for herself after narrowly avoiding a histrionic breakdown of epic proportions upon being rescued by Granger, she silently began a frank assessment of her situation, both past and future.
She watched Granger thoughtfully, her leading rescuer whose next action was to summon perhaps the most bizarre corporeal Patronus Tracy had ever seen.
It was, for lack of a better definition, some sort of feral bloodthirsty Doe, looking like a partner in crime quite capable of murder and mayhem of needs must.
Even more odd, it's entire being radiated an oddly comforting sort of berserker ferocity, a vibe that she might've ordinarily found disconcerting at another time or place, but right now? Tracy was happily basking in it as if it were her favorite blanket.
She felt safe, for the first time in a long time.
Granger looked at her sideways with the slightest of smirks, before silently formulating messages to Potter Army leadership, though Tracy could only guess.
Granger turned to her then, regarding her with a sort of empathetic stoicism that Tracy was quite familiar with. Her Daphne was much the same, after a fashion. "I let some people know where we are, they can help you, treat you if need be." Tracy nodded gratefully.
Granger's voice was different, Tracy noted absently. It was sort of raspy, even rough somehow. Like she was unused to speaking aloud much. Like far too many of her interactions were carried out via silently casted Patronus communiques.
The picture being painted of her heroine's life since the Battle was cause for disquiet. Tracy sighed internally and let it go for now, her Slytherin cunning reminding her about time and place for such idle ruminations.
Tracy peered carefully out of the doorway, checking for any potential enemies and/or justified targets for her to vent her bubbling cauldron of rage upon.
Her face, once washed out and flushed from her aforementioned bawling fit, was now carved granite. She had stopped being just upset and going straight to enraged.
Tracy found herself using her better than decent Occlumency to willingly suppress some memories of liberties taken against her person. Fortunately they didn't get far, but they had done enough to definitely earn a burning.
She had the distinct feeling that neither a breakdown or a fiendfyre frenzy would be all that helpful. Cathartic, but not very helpful.
Still, if any of those cretinous jackasses crossed in front of her right now, they would learn that Tracy Davis was more than just a piece of eye candy fluff; no she was a pissed off viper on the hunt for some serious payback.
There was a seriously long list of deserving targets, some long overdue. In fact, any misguided or naive past exceptions she had made that were due to blood or kinship have been throughly revoked. After all, there was a reason she'd ended up in this mess, people that she would see turned into ashes so that not only could they never do such ever again, any thought of a repeat would make the plotter break out in night terrors at the memory of what she was about to do.
But now isn't the moment to indulge in revenge fantasies.
Time and place.
Tracy exhaled and refocused. Granger was in front, methodically leading them toward the exit with a practiced ease that was apparent. Tracy followed behind as requested, without even a trifle of complaint. It was the very least she could do for her fair rescuer, after all.
Both were quiet, Granger even unnaturally so.
If it wasn't for the fact that Tracy could actually see that the girl was in front of her, she wouldn't been able to tell at all by sound. And it wasn't like she cast any anti-detection spells or anything. This was just naturally Granger now.
Silent as the grave.
Amazing. Creepy, but amazing.
She was reassured and thankful to have a wand, her wand, in her hand again. Very glad that Granger was able to successfully summon both it and the rest of her things. With her wand back and her clothes, Tracy felt almost normal.
Almost.
Still, their trip thus far and been both uninterrupted and uneventful. That surprised Tracy; she recalled the house being much more populated and lively when she was dragged in. Yet, it felt empty. Unsettlingly so. Especially when contrasted to her experiences upon arrival.
But there seemed to be no one here now but her and Granger.
Vexing.
Speaking of which. "Granger?" Tracy's voice cracked slightly, she was still somewhat hoarse from all that undignified yelling and crying.
Granger slightly turned toward her as they moved toward the exit. "Yes, Davis?"
Davis looked around "Umm, where's everybody else."
Granger looked puzzled. "Everybody else?"
Tracy tilted her head. "Um, the rest of Potter's Army, I guess. Whatever team that helped you hit this place and rescue me, thanks again by the way."
She'd assumed that Potter's Army had led a raid on the compound, that maybe Daphne had somehow reached out and gotten in touch and arranged for an assault that she'd missed due to being bloody 'damseled' in a silenced boudoir. Though if that were the case, Tracy frowned in thought, she half-expected Daffy would've already shown herself, for both their sakes.
Granger's face showed a tiny flicker of a smile. "It's fine. It was only right. But there was no one else. Just me."
Tracy goggled. "What? But- what about all the snatchers and stuff?"
Granger shrugged. "Oh, it was just the 2 guards downstairs. Got the drop on them, and that was that." She shrugged again. "The rest you already know."
Tracy blinked, then shook her head. "Don't we need to hurry then?" When Granger looked at her again blankly, Tracy sighed. "If you need to take out two guards downstairs, that means there's an entire squad of them due back any time from a raid or some such." Tracy felt the beginnings of trauma induced panic trying to surface despite her intensely active occlusion. "We need to leave, now, right?"
Granger was nonplussed, eyes cooled. "Oh, I already ran into that Snatchers team earlier. It's how I found out you were here, actually." She looked at Tracy stoically, but there was a look in Granger's eyes. A dark sparkle of vengeful reckoning, perhaps. "They won't be coming back."
Tracy knew then what Granger had done, what she had become now. She just couldn't understand the how. Tracy doubted that the Princess of Gryffindor she had known of for years in Hogwarts could have summarily executed a vicious gang of violent dark wizards while dismissing it so cavalierly after the fact.
As if it were an afterthought. As if it weren't the first time.
Tracy still remembered SPEW, after all.
She could guess that war really does change everyone, loss as well.
She looked at Granger again then, she saw almost no hint of the little bushy haired girl she once knew, who sought to overachieve and always overshared. Who tried to see the best in everything and everyone.
"Thank you." Tracy could only croak out, silently grieving both her own harrowing experience and for that of her savior, apparently another lost innocent in this mess.
Granger nodded as they crossed the threshold. Waiting for them outside was Neville Longbottom, Susan Bones as well Senior Auror Shacklebolt, all were feared persons of interest for the new Regime.
"Hey Hermione." Neville and Susan both hugged Hermione, who seemed briefly taken aback before clutching them tightly for the merest of moments.
Tracy could see the briefest vapors of a melancholic smile that ghosted across her face in that moment. Like she had forgotten how to do that too. Or it was only really meant for the one person who could never see it ever again.
She stepped back relatively quickly before nodding at Shacklebolt, seeming to withdraw into herself.
Granger then turned to Tracy and regarded her evenly. "These fine folk will take good care of you; get you where you need to go, okay?"
"Sure, okay." Tracy walked over to Granger, who blinked up at her. She slowly embraced Granger, letting her have time to adjust or reconcile herself, to reject it if need be. She could feel Granger's live wire tension, but beneath was this disquieting fear that cut Tracy deep.
"Saying thank you is woefully inadequate for what you've done for me, both tonight and long before now. Just, whatever you need, yeah?"
She felt Granger nod. "Yeah, okay. Yeah."
Tracy released her, both shuddering into a deep exhalation. They regarded each other silently yet honestly, as fellow survivors. A moment past, then two. Finally Tracy smiled ruefully, shaking her head.
"Are you going to be okay, Granger?"
"Oh. Oh." Granger looked surprised at the question. She looked at Tracy, as if judging both her and the question. Her stare broke then. "Yeah. I will. Yeah." Granger ran a nervous hand through her chestnut hair. "Thanks for asking. Call me Hermione" her smile was brief but present.
Tracy counted it as another win.
Hermione casually waved at the group before apparating away with nary a sound. Tracy goggles at the display before regrouping. She turned toward the rescue party.
"Umm, hello Neville, Susan. Been a long time. Greetings Mr Shacklebolt, sir." She gave the expected curtsy for her station, which they all waved off.
Susan stepped forward, warm blanket in hand. "Tracy, it's okay. You're okay. Let's get you taken care of."
Tracy dropped her pureblood veneer as well as her battle mindset and nodded gratefully. Susan wrapped the blanket around her snugly, the feel of it on her shoulders was comforting. With that, she saw Neville cast his Patronus. The super large bear prowled the area while emanating such a feeling of genuine warmth and compassion that her eyes misted.
"Is there anything else you might need right now?" Susan gestured at Shacklebolt and Neville, who had moved away while preparing to investigate the site for possible intelligence.
"Can you subtly contact Daphne Greengrass for me, I know she's worried absolutely sick. Just- just let her know I'm okay, somehow, maybe?"
Susan looked at her and nodded. "Let's take care of that right now." Susan raised her wand and conjured her own Patronus, the overly large yet friendly German shepherd briefly frolicked about, bringing a surprised giggle out of Tracy that made her flush briefly.
Susan grinned at her. "Yeah, she's cute, I know." Susan took a moment to refocus herself. "'Start message: Daphne Greengrass, this is Susan Bones, we've found Tracy Davis. Repeat, we've found Tracy. She is safe at the moment and will be in touch soon. End message'."
With that, Tracy watched the glowing shepherd dash off into the night. She turned back to Susan. "That's a neat trick. Wish I could learn it."
Susan pinked for a beat. "Yeah it is." She ran her hand through her flowing red hair. "Neville taught me, said Hermione taught him after the Battle."
Tracy turned to look at Susan then. Then came to a decision. There was a list of folk she needed to put down, but even more importantly, there was a heroine she needed to help.
"Listen, You guys, Potter's Army, you need capable people, right?"
Susan looked mildly taken aback at the subject change, but rallied quickly. "Ah- yes. Definitely yes. All the help you can get."
"After tonight, I can say that I know of at least two people who would do whatever it takes to join Potter's Army, right now.
"Two?"
"Two, Susan. Yes." Tracy took a breath, having never said this out loud before now. "It's a secret, but I'll trust you with it." At Susan's resolute nod, Tracy exhaled. "My wife and I…" She gainfully disregarded Susan's raised eyebrow.
Tracy did note that it was the full extent of the reaction. Good sign, that. "My wife and I, we have some unfinished business with some common enemies of yours who happen to be the reason why we are where we are tonight." Susan gaped before her gaze sharpened, nodding in agreement. Tracy reciprocated then shrugged., "though tonight I might've gained a new friend or two as well."
Susan regarded Tracy evenly, who didn't waver under that forebodingly stern look. Part of Tracy wondered Susan had learned that look from her legendary Auntie Amelia or Professor Sprout? The answer was likely both, with her own twist just for kicks.
Susan extended a hand that Tracy shook enthusiastically. "Deal."
There were still a few stragglers running behind at the scheduled start for the meeting, Corbin Yaxley noticed.
He settled into his appointed seat, parchment waiting and organized in his folio, while gathering his thoughts. It seems Directors Rookwood and MacNair, not to mention both Malfoy and the esteemed Minister Thicknesse himself have all yet to arrive.
Rookwood is a mild concern. Anything that delays the head of the Unspeakables could be an issue worth being proactive about. It could be nothing but he made a note in his folio, to check in with some contacts just to be sure.
MacNair, Yaxley scoffed, probably got so caught up in his "hobby" that he lost track of time. Wouldn't be the first time. Not like his Magical Creatures department actually matters anymore.
For that matter, the Minister likely isn't actually late, just making a power play to forcing every one to wait for the boss. Let's the underlings know who's in control. Thicknesse did the same when he ran the Department of Magical Law Enforcement after Bonesy's assassination.
Funny what traits one retains while under the Imperious.
Actually Yaxley realized that he hasn't been asked to "refresh" Pius's leash in some time, especially since their Lord applied one personally before the battle. He wondered if Pius's curse had broken or whether they had finally broken him. Their Lord's version was both so powerful and yet so insidious that it had warped victims like that before. The Dark Lord was such an accomplished master of mind magic too.
As if his thoughts had summoned them, Yaxley saw Rookwood stride into the room briskly, followed shortly by Malfoy and the Minister both displaying varying degrees of anxiety. Curious, he tapped his jaw while looking for any tells.
"So sorry I'm late everyone," Pius strode into the room, looking tense and ruffled. "Our lord was briefing me on some pertinent issues which required my personal attention."
Yaxley internally balked at the ambiguous slight, before choosing to let it go. Better to pick your battles after all.
"Certainly understandable, there. My dear Minister. Duty calls and all that."
"Yes, quite." Pius rustled some parchment before him into a neat arrangement before looking up at everyone. Yaxley watched him notice MacNair's still vacant seat. "Well, since we cannot officially begin as of yet, does anyone have any, shall we say, unofficial concerns they wish to voice first?"
Yaxley cleared his throat then, commanding the attention of the room. "Since you are mentioning it, I am not fully sure why this emergency meeting was even called in the first place, or why the full executive staff was deemed necessary."
Before Pius could respond, Scabior slammed a fist on the table, startling a few of their number. "You're bloody right it's necessary, Minister." Somehow, Yaxley noted, Scabior made the title sound like an epithet.
Yaxley instinctively recoiled. He was never all that found of Scabior or the Snatchers in general. They were more of a necessary evil, doing gauche scullery work that keeps the lowly riff raft content so others could be freed up for more important pursuits.
Still, they had their purpose. Yaxley leaned in. "What do you mean, Scabior?"
Scabior turned from glaring at the Minister to regarding Yaxley with a steady look. He glanced back to the Minister to see a matching gaze of curious concern. He visibly calmed, now that he could see he wasn't being disregarded by his fellow senior officials. "There was-was…" his lips tightened, grimacing. "Was yet another incident yesterday evening."
Scabior drummed his fingers absently on the oaken table top, gathering his thoughts. "Another one of my- my teams was-," he looked, fumbling for the words, "just brutally murdered- no- massacred by that-that, that damned she-demon." He slammed his hand on the table, causing many to rear back in shock and dismay. "She even had the gall to liberate the night's prize as well."
Yaxley frowned, kept his gaze professionally assessing while he watched Pius engage Scabior as his superior. "Well, that is quite troubling news, I'm sure we can all agree. We can certainly look into this, get this handled tout suite." Pius made an absent gesture to his attaché, who made a note on some parchment. "Now, let's get some more details, if you don't mind?" Scabior nodded calmly. "What happened."
Scabior scowled, then looked semi-apologetic toward Pius who waved it off with unaffected ease. "Well, from what we could tell. There was a taboo alert. We mobilized, thinking it might some Potter's Army scum that could fetch a pretty penny."
Scabior glanced at Yaxley then, before moving his eyes back on Pius. "You might not know or understand. We've- we've been really- just- really getting so… pressed." Scabior glared at the table, gritting his teeth for a bit. "A lot. Just more requests.. for more, just more." He shook his head; Yaxley watched him gaze at the Dark Lord's empty throne seat in the center of the room. "Our lord wants more subjects, for his… experiments. The more, the merrier, for him." Scabior glanced toward Rookwood briefly, who tacitly affirmed Scabior's statement, seemingly rather focused on his parchment work instead of the conversation.
Scabior sighed, then paused for a beat. "Same with Greyback, in a way. What he wants… are prospects. Recruits. Of a certain type, especially age." He shuddered, as if to ward off a bad memory. "The bottom line is that they both want numbers. Numbers we can't meet if we keep getting hammered by rogue elements without any reinforcements."
Yaxley raised an eyebrow at this unsubtle digression.
Scabior huffed but resettled. "As I said, from what we could tell later; they mobilized a taboo response team that didn't survive their encounter with whomever tripped the alert. From what we can tell, the entire squad was murdered by someone of extreme strength but didn't need to cast magic at all. A singular someone, at that." Scabior glared at Yaxley. "Ought to limit the suspect pool, huh?"
Yaxley watched Pius steeple his hands beneath his chin, running through the scenarios. Pius turned toward Yaxley then. "Corbin, I'd appreciate you taking point on this personally. Given the complexities involved, I think it best we manage this from the Senior level. Don't you agree?"
Yaxley dipped his head in affirmation. "Understood, Minister. I'll start the process once we're done here; if that's okay Scabior?" He kept his tone professionally polite, with just enough elitist vibes to permeate the area.
Scabior nodded back, seemingly collapsing into a destressed puddle of goo once he was promised competent help.
Yaxley nodded back then reconsidered all he had heard before putting it into some sort of coherent narrative about everyone in question. This was bad, and risky besides. And getting worse and more complicated by the minute. Overly demanding production quotas leading to sloppy snatchers leading to dead snatchers and lost prizes, likely resulting in major blowback from one of his two masters.
It wasn't like there was much they could do. If it were so easy to find that damnable Thrice, her head would be a trophy for one of the Inner Circle already. Especially MacNair, with his perversely macabre idea of what collectibles are supposed to be.
Just as Yaxley started to truly ruminate on the problem at hand, one of his senior aurors dashed into the room, on a beeline directly to him. Yaxley narrowed his eyes. "This had better be important." He hated when anyone made him break his train of thought. He especially hated it when it was for a problem they could've and should've handled on their own.
"We've a problem, sir." It was Dawlish. Pureblood. The Right Sort. A bit too uptight and quite "by the book", but that wasn't a problem, as long as one simply changes the book.
Dawlish pulled out a folio. "There's something… odd about the signals off the Wards at the MacNair compound?"
Yaxley cocked his head. "Odd, Dawlish?"
Dawlish stayed firm. "Yes, sir. The odd thing is that there is no signal."
Yaxley groaned. Dawlish was conscientious but had a tendency to be overzealous. "What, MacNair had a bit too much fun during his little hunt and tripped something or other?"
Rookwood smirked. "Not like that has not happened before."
Yaxley grins into his hand, but Dawlish shook his head resolutely "Unlikely sir. We've checked for that possibility. The signal isn't reacting in a way consistent with damage. Once we delved into it, It's as if it were the signal is reading just fine but the ward itself has been disabled, even turned off."
Yaxley blinked, and now Rookwood scoffed, raising his head from his parchments. "Impossible. I personally redesigned our systems myself, with some advice from our Master." He stared at them with brisk seriousness. Few wizards possess the power and skill to overwhelm the system, and doing so would trigger a failsafe and a critical alert, not a mere malfunction."
Dawlish dipped his head in acknowledgement. "I did receive that briefing, which is why I'm bringing this to the Director's attention." Dawlish exhaled. "I see what you're saying but it's just- my gut feels like there's something off-…"
A suddenly flashing klaxon in Dawlish's Cloak went off, shocking the room into silence. Yaxley and Rookward glanced at one another. Dawlish swallowed then pulled it out while muting the alarm, his eyes widening in transparent concern as he read the display.
As did Yaxley. He recognized that device and its purpose too, though he rarely had cause to use it himself.
It was something else that Rookwood used his funhouse budget for, cooked up after the War, inspired by something that the obnoxiously nosy Weasley bint had in her ridiculous house. If memory serves, she used it to keep better track of the health status of her ginger tribe of blood traitors. A family clock or whatever.
With their Lord's increasingly frequent absences, the Inner Circle was mostly left alone to govern and protect themselves even while they focused on winning the peace.
The resulting innovation has thusly proved quite useful for the Inner Circle, already foiling its fair share of assassination plots and other dastardly schemes to undermine, usurp, exploit or overthrow the Dark Lord's Regime, both from the outside and from within.
Yaxley shook his head clear; he licked his lips nervously, knowing and fearing what that sound likely meant. But Pius hadn't been fully appraised yet, not being truly Inner Circle. "What is it Dawlish?"
"Umm… sir. I- um brought the DMLE's relay of Director MacNair's personal Beacon, sir. Just in case." Dawlish swallowed. "It's flashing red, sir.."
Yaxley could see the moment Pius gaped in remembrance. He watched Rookwood and Pius both paled considerably, then looked at one another. Pius looked back, refocusing himself into his command face. "Flashing Red? That means what exactly?"
"Yes, Minister. It's flashing Red." Dawlish turned his hand to show them the device's display. He looked Pius directly in the eye with utmost conviction. "Director MacNair is in grave danger."
It wasn't supposed to be like this.
MacNair thought he knew what to expect, but he was so wrong. No, this is so much better than he'd imagined. He never believed that the mudbloods might challenge him in any way.
And yet, somehow, they had gotten out of the paddock near his hunting lodge much earlier than he planned. He cursorily examined the enclosure, but couldn't see how the lock was beaten.
Quite resourceful that. Impressive, even.
Granted, there's no escaping the wards out here but still. He pulled out the relay rune for the prey's collars, thankful for such a good investment. They were totally tamper proof and keyed to just his and only his magical signature once activated, or else.
They kept the prey contained within his territory while also communicating with his wards, with both a guaranteed tracker rune and a remote destruct rune as emergency failsafes if need be.
MacNair checked his tools. Per the collars data, the prey is still trapped somewhere in the killing fields, but just somehow escaped early. He smirked, wondering what other interesting tricks might be up their sleeves.
Tonight's hunt could actually be fun. Can't say he doesn't like surprises.
He heard the floo in his office activate, trying to demand his time and his attention away from such a promising hunt. Without a word, he disengaged it remotely. Lame meetings can wait. The hunt has begun.
MacNair's smile shined sinisterly. He'd been convinced it was to be a simple catch and release, followed by a easy rundown towards the killing field.
Nothing special, a simple game of Hunter/Prey, just enough to get the blood pumping before being stuck in lame meetings for the rest of the day.
He sighed. Some days he truly regretted before Director of the Department of Magical Creatures.
It's the cursed life of a senior bureaucrat; just because he's long accustomed to the cushy posh job doesn't mean he can't dislike some aspects of it all the same.
The perks help, though. The job makes finding decent targets far easier than it once was, for one thing. Human or otherwise. Disappearing any trace of them became not a problem almost overnight too.
MacNair smirked. Once he and his were done, the only proof and reminder of their existence would be his trophies up in the lodge. The better challenges get plum placement, while the run of the mill prey get relegated to the spare room.
Tonight's muddies might make the wall of fame, if they can keep it up.
MacNair moved into the open. Cast a few tracing spells, a couple of basic trackers too. He was shocked to come up empty. Hmmm… this is getting good, he felt a cackling grin bubbling up, giddy with anticipation.
He recast his spells, adding a couple of more sophisticated ones. Still got nothing. MacNair frowned then redoubled his output on the last tracker spell. Finally, he got a faint hit off to the northwest sector. MacNair pursed his face; that's an odd reading, as if it were being blocked somehow.
No matter, MacNair immediately apparated near the expected target area, performing a magical sweep that again turned up nothing. A feeling of disquiet began to settle in MacNair's spine, not that he would ever acknowledge it. He recast his spells again, really maximizing the power draw of his casting, but came up empty again.
Then he felt eyes on him. Strange eyes. Malicious eyes. That disquiet shifted toward outright uneasiness.
An eerie caw sounded in the distance. MacNair looked around and saw an unnaturally large yet solitary crow gliding down to land in an old tree, seemingly signaling something.
Then the crow just glanced at him, eyes flashing, with an unsettlingly sly look. It felt oddly portentous, disdainfully foreboding even, like someone just mocked him while dancing over his grave.
MacNair shuddered then shook it off; he swept his zone again, this time casting detection spells as well, wondering who might have had the audacity to enter his blood-claimed territory, where he was the Apex.
He grabbed his wand in one hand and his favorite axe in the other, no longer hunting but instead preparing for a turf war.
MacNair smirked. "I'll admit, it took some real big brass ones to come face me out here."
There was no response, but that didn't matter one iota. "Let me guess, you got a problem with me? A vendetta maybe? Some old prey of mine was kin of yours, perhaps? A lover, even? Both?" He guffawed but heard nothing but silence.
MacNair frowned then. "Oh come on there, boyo." MacNair kept up the antics with a bravado he no longer fully felt. "You do owe me some response, just out of sheer politeness." MacNair scoffed. "Or, are you so afraid of the infamous Walden MacNair, the Dark Lord's Executioner, that you're struck dumb. Realize you've bitten far more than you can chew?"
At last, he heard something. A disdainfully amused snort, as if MacNair's reputation was a joke. As if MacNair himself were a joke. MacNair clenched his hand tightly around his weapons. "You dare mock me, you filth! Don't you know who I am?"
"Didn't you just tell me that?" A voice, male, youngish, drolly echoed all around the space. "Or did you forget just that quickly?" MacNair heard a dismissive sigh. "Mind like that, it's no wonder old Snake face relegated you to axe duty, probably to keep you from blasting what's left of his nose off his face, am I right? I mean, even Crabbe and Goyle get to use their wands, right?"
"How dare you!" MacNair seethed, whirling. He fired spells indiscriminately, but heard no sign of success. He did hear a resonant sigh of utter exasperation followed by a sound resembling a face palm.
"Is this the best you can do? A vaunted Inner Circle Death Eater and all you can do is frantically fire off random nonsense spells like a panicky 1st year surprised by a rat in their room."
MacNair roared, fired off more lethally potent area of effect Magic but to no avail. It as if he were facing a ghost, or worse. He screamed, bellowing out his frustration and his rage as well as the underpinnings of fear festering in his gut.
"Come out!" MacNair repeated, constantly moving in irregular circles while sweeping for his enemy. "I demand you come out and face me! Or have you no honor?" MacNair smirked. "That must be it, you craven bastard, you gutless puke. Not man enough to face me, is that it? Just going to Hide! Hide behind your cheap tricks, mask the inferiority of your obviously lesser blood. No, I demand satisfaction!Duel me like a proper wizard!"
"I would, I mean, really. It might even be fun." The voice paused, then snickered for a beat. "It's just, honor duels? Really?"
MacNair could practically hear his enemy shaking his head dismissively. "Honor Duels at daybreak or dusk is just so, i don't know, cliche maybe? Don't you think so, Walden?" The voice paused, as if giving him a moment to answer. "Oh, I'm going to call you Walden, from now on. No, Wally, yes. That's it, if you don't mind. Even if you do. So anyway Wally. Where were we? Oh. Yes. Cliches. Especially since you have no honor to speak of, anyway. So, if it's all the same to you, Wally, Id rather just run you down and exterminate you like the jumped up filthy prey vermin you actually are."
With that, a large glowing shape emerged from the wood. It was a beast of some sort, MacNair could see that. It radiated power and menace to an otherworldly degree. The size made identification difficult however. As it moved closer, MacNair could finally tell what it was. He was paralyzed in appalled wonder, his heart seemingly stopped then dropped.
It was a stag. Yet, calling it a mere stag would be akin with calling a basilisk just a snake. It was godlike, awesomely awful, standing proudly several paces away yet dwarfing him all the same. The beast radiated overwhelming preternatural power, all of it seemingly directed at him with a vindictively murderous intent, especially with the cold contempt in those killing curse green eyes.
As if it would happily murder him where he stood then tread all over his corpse until he was barely a memory.
MacNair could feel his knees shake, his hands become clammy. He swallowed, gulped, utterly rattled in bone deep terror.
"What's the matter, Wally, Stag got your tongue." It was the same mocking voice, now coming solely from the monster before him. It blew him a raspberry.
MacNair goggled.
The Stag snickered.
MacNair snarled.
He rapidly fired every bit of attack and hunting magic in a wild panic blitz, including every Unforgivable, many times over. At the end, he was standing there, heaving heavily, looking at a thick cloud of smoke and dust.
MacNair wiped his suddenly sweaty brow, struggling to catch his breath. He knew he got that monster. He had to have. There's no way anything could've survived that head on. He watched carefully though, as that cloud dissipated, clearing to show the Stag.
Unharmed, unmoved, unruffled even. Then it yawned.
MacNair gaped, head shaking in gobsmacked disbelief
The Stag just looked at him for a beat, snorted then blew him another raspberry.
MacNair knew it then, he was far out of his league. He paled, he panicked. He floundered, desperately trying to find a way out, seeking any leverage that might help him regain the upper hand. "If you don't let me go- I'm- I'm going to kill some hostages, I swear to Merlin I will!" He blurted out
The stag cocked its head, bemused. "Now, even though I don't have my copy of the script, I got a feeling of what you're likely expecting me to say here," the stag wriggled his brow wryly then sat back on his haunches. "so I'll play: 'what hostages'?"
MacNair regained his steam. "What hostages? The-the- the mudbloods I-I got stashed up on the hill." He fumbled his axe, trying to find his control stone for the collars. He felt some confidence flooding back into him, like he could turn things back around. "You wanna play hero so bad, huh? Bastard, yeah. I'm going to blow their bloody heads off if you don't give up, surrender to me right now."
The Stag rolled his eyes. "This again? Is that a Deja Vu or just a lack of originality from Noseless Nimrod and his band of slave-branded killer sheeple."
MacNair fumed impotently while the Stag cocked his head breezily. " By the way, those 'hostages'? That Muggleborn and their family you had penned up like pigs? I freed them ages ago. While you were in the loo, I think." the Stag smirked. "Try and keep up."
MacNair sneered. "Oh yeah, hero, what about now?" He trigger the remote destruct on the control stone and laughed. He kept laughing until he noticed the only sound was his laughter. And some crickets. The Stag gave him the most singularly unimpressed look he'd seen aimed at him this side of Old McGonagall.
MacNair goggled. "But, I've runic collars… my magical signature… kill switch...". He heard a heavy thud at his feet. He looked down only to see his very expensive, specially made, custom designed runic collars, completely intact, sans captive prey, who were apparently long gone and perfectly safe.
It was maddeningly mindboggling.
"But… impossible- how-?" MacNair's mouth flapped open like a beached fish.
The stag winked. "Magic." Then blew another raspberry.
MacNair screamed then, filled with panicked fury and enfeebled fear. He refused to be killed here, not alone at least. He closed his eyes for a beat, focusing all that turmoil into so much raging hate he could feel his very magic twisting in response. When it happened, he open his eyes in a blink, firing the most powerful killing curse he ever had.
The spell roared toward the Stag like a runaway Express train, the wake actually knocked MacNair off his feet. As he fell, he saw the curse strike the Stag perfectly, triggering a tremendous explosion that blasted him back some distance.
MacNair looked about, seeing no trace of his foe. His ears ringing, MacNair struggled his way back to his feet, feeling a full body tremor that made him wobble a bit. As he stood, he checked around again, seeing, hearing, feeling nothing but silence and himself, utterly victorious.
MacNair tilted his head back to laugh in celebration and relief, when he heard that strange caw once more. He looked at that same tree, where that same crow sat perched, cawing at him. No, laughing at him. Like it knew something he didn't.
Then it somehow blew a raspberry
MacNair snarled from deep in his almost ruined throat, "laugh at me, mock me, you bloody bird." He fumed. "I'll show you, you- you- bloody bird, bloody fucking-bloody- omen- omen of death, huh. Show you who Death really is out here!" he grabbed his wand so he could blast that damnable crow into feathers and dust, when his wand arm was suddenly grasped in an iron grip.
The grip intensified then brutally twisted three times, breaking several bones in his arm while crushing many others. MacNair could only crumble to his knees and whimper helplessly. A feeling increased when he heard a sound he was quite familiar with; a wand suddenly broken into shards of kindling. He would know, he'd done it himself many times to many others, in this very place as well. He resented the irony as much as the situation.
"Casting maxed out murder spells at my Patronus is one thing," that same hated voice cut in then, slicing through him to put fear in his heart. MacNair looked about, but couldn't see him anywhere. Further unease creeped up his spine. "A stupid thing, mind, but yeah, it's one thing. However, your wannabe barbarian wizard arse was trying to kill a lady for no reason, especially that lady?" A caw echoed from the tree, as if in full agreement, before a triple staccato followed. "Yes, I know Hed, you are absolutely right."
MacNair tried to use the moment of distraction to scramble away and escape, before a thunderous boot slammed into his arse and sent him flying into a tree.
He lay there dazed, holding onto consciousness by a thread. He could the silhouette of his foe some distance away. "Oh, you're not getting away that easily, Wally." The shadow stalked toward him, taking his time. "You already know how this will end don't you. Not like you don't already have it coming, after everything you've done."
MacNair somehow got to his feet and panicked. He instinctively tried to apparate back to his lodge but slammed up against an impossibly strong ward.
"Ah ah ah. No easy getaways here, Wally."
MacNair grabbed his head and gnarled. He tried to run off deeper into the woods. His woods. He'd be safer there. He can plan in there. He can win in there.
He turned back to see the silhouette still casually stalking towards him, hands in the pockets of his long coat. Like he were out for a leisurely stroll and not a murder death match. Yet, he was somehow gaining on him anyway.
As if he'd just noticed MacNair looking back at him, the silhouette blew out a raspberry. All MacNair could do was impotently growl.
Like he was prey.
He couldn't resist, he stopped then turned. "I'm not prey! "I'm-I'm the Hunter. The Dark Lord's favored! Not prey, never prey! All the mud bloods and half breeds and misfit creatures I've slaughtered, they're prey. They're my prey! How dare-!"
A sudden backhand slap across the face that felt more like a blasting curse sent MacNair careening into the woods. He landed on his broken arm, ripping an agonizing yowl from him, until he bit his tongue so hard he tasted blood. He almost passed out, seemingly losing time for a bit.
When MacNair finally came around, the silhouette was leaning calmly against a tree. The crow on his shoulder. They both were having a quiet talk while he recovered. Once he staggered to his feet, barely holding on, they both turned toward him.
MacNair could feel their glare on him, feel their judgment, finding him wanting, less than. He could feel the dark satisfaction in their look.
He was going to die tonight, he knew it now.
The silhouette raised a hand and made a shooing gesture. "Run, rabbit, run." The crow blew one last raspberry.
MacNair took all he had and ran for it. He didn't look back much anymore. Every time he did, he saw the same silhouette casually stalking him down, accursed bird on his shoulder.
So, he kept going. He dodged and darted. Moved and maneuvered. Tore off one sleeve to brace his arm with, keeping a stick in his teeth so he could bite down and muffle his pain.
He just ran away. Like the prey they said he was.
When MacNair began to reach the very edge of the woods. He realized he was almost to his hilltop lodge. There were wands, weapons, possibly backup if he can hurry up fast enough. He almost thought he might just get away. He allowed himself to feel the smallest glimmer of hope. He turned to look back, but was shocked to not see his pursuer anymore.
Did he lose him? Did he really get away?
He turned toward the lodge, readying himself to sprint as hard as he could.
The Stag suddenly came charging out of a shadow. It's impossibly powerful antlers gored him so quickly, so viciously, he never got the chance to scream. The Stag held him aloft, like he was a tribute to a dark god of a primeval era long past, forsaken and forgotten, just now finally received his due.
Especially since the mauling had somehow missed every vital instant kill spot, but he was going to bleed out soon anyway. All over his woods, his killing fields. The fields that killed him.
A small part of him knew this was his just reward. The rest of him resented every moment.
The silhouette approached, the shadows around the face clearing to show those infamous green eyes. Eyes shared by the Demon Stag that killed him. MacNair goggled speechless while choking on his own blood.
"Victims, aren't we all, eh Wally?" Potter shrugged. The crow blew one last raspberry. MacNair could do nothing but stare.
Potter stared back, in silence. Just watching him die like slaughterhouse prey, without mercy or remorse. Very unlike the Dumbledore disciple they had known and fought. "By the way, Wally, just so you know, all of this was for Grawp, and Buckbeak and every other body buried here, including the ones you didn't get to yet, and now, never will."
Potter shrugged again. "Plus, you made Hermione upset. Really upset. That was more than enough."
Potter raised an empty hand, MacNair was shocked but unsurprised to see no wand whatsoever. A fitting end to a shit day. Potter closed it into a fist before extending his fingers at MacNair, his eyes aglow with raw power, his faces a promise of a quick yet painful death. "Rest in Pieces, Wally, you vermin prick."
MacNair closed his eyes.
He never saw the curse that took his head.
