Chapter 5 — Red
0o0o0
The Past…
Ron couldn't stop seeing Red.
Everywhere he looked was nothing but Red.
He told himself it was the red haze of his tumultuous temper, Merlin knows how common that was for him. But, deep down Ron knew better.
The Red made him even angrier.
At the enemy.
At the world.
At himself.
Red was Dead was Red was Dead.
Ron snarled again.
Took a moment to treat and cauterize a wound, likely from a piercer or a cutter.
He found the pain helped him somehow. He was glad for it, indulged in it, welcomed it even; the pain didn't begin to slow him, much less stop him.
Instead, it drove him. It infuriated him, it invigorated him. It made him fiercer, made him braver, made him deadlier, made him better.
Driven by some raw instinct, he pounded his wound, embracing the pain ripping through him.
Ron screamed, he scowled, he seethed. Yet he reveled in it all the same, seeking the hurt, clinging to the rage.
He reveled in it, fist punching his burned bruise again, his wild eyed clenched jaw screaming was part primal euphoria mixed with an ecstatic fury that sent him stalking off for more enemies to bleed, burn, kill.
Another masked pawn tried to creep up while he was amping up.
Big mistake.
Ron's return cutter took the muncher's wand hand while a flaming hex followed immediately by a blasting curse ensured his mask would be stuck to his stupid face forever.
The pawn rolled about, screaming and twitching and seizing, until he didn't.
Ron roared out his win, face flushed, eyes ablaze. There was no strategy for him right now, no plan. No sophisticated chess maneuvers or pattern traps.
"Blood traitors, yeah? Let's see whose blood betrays who, shall we?." Ron's grin was drenched in the infamous Weasley Red Haze twisting within the notorious Black Madness.
His spell choices were simple but brutal: just cutting, flaming, blasting hexes in rapidly cast spell chains, not even bothering with shields.
He hasn't remotely considered casting any disarms or stunners since he saw Harry's fallen body; the polite niceties of the Ministry Battle felt like 3 lifetimes ago.
Red was Dead was Red was Dead.
He wanted to hurt and to cause hurt.
He needed pain and to cause pain.
Not that it mattered, given that was seemingly no shortage of enemies. Part of him was okay with that. More endless pawns for the slaughter, like a Hogwarts Feast for his growing bloodlust.
Red was Dead was Red was Dead.
More reasons to stay angry.
Red was Dead was Red was Dead.
He punched his leg again, almost tasting blood, biting his tongue. Good. He dwelled in it, let it fill him until he practically frothed at the mouth, then moved out, seeking more potential kills.
Ron saw two more slimy Death eater pawns moving about the castle carelessly, but they hadn't seen him yet.
Too busy gloating.
They'd just killed some fleeing midgets. Wearing red.
Like the big men they were.
Before he could blink, Ron charged forward with a lion's battle cry filled with his fury, the sudden barrage ended things way too quickly for his taste.
He huffed like a frustrated bull, firing some fire hexes at each cooling corpse out of multiple levels of disdainful spite.
Ron was just so very angry.
Being Angry was good.
Being Angry was familiar.
Being Angry was easier.
Being Angry was clearer.
Being Angry was simple.
Being Angry was much preferable to the alternative.
Ron shook his head again, banged his throbbing leg once more, and desperately seeking more red. Easier, simpler, familiar Red.
Red was Dead was Red was Dead.
Once, Ron believed there was nothing worse than feeling like he's second best, right now he would kill for something so petty, so juvenile.
In fact, he had been trying to kill for it all day long. It was no use. No matter which masked face fell before him, nothing changed. Nothing would ever change.
Red was Dead was Red was Dead.
Ron banged his wound once more, but this time, the pain brought more tears than temper, more fears than fury. This time, his cry was more grief than growl.
Red was Dead was Red was Dead.
He collapsed in the hallway, ducked into an old classroom. A torment of enraged tears and barely stifled wails threatening to break through. He fought it down as best he could, gasping and gulping, sobbing and screaming into a fist.
He saw Red.
Red was Dead was Red was Dead.
It was the red of the Burrow, where his heart always was.
It was the red of Gryffindor tower, where he lived, loved and laughed.
It was the red of his mother's traumatized face as she cradled her injured eldest, praying for a miracle.
It was the red of his prankster brother's hair, as his body lay still in death as it never was in life.
It was the red of his best mate's blood, leaking from his brutalized body as his killers laughed and jeered like rabidly baying monkeys.
Red was Dead was Red was Dead.
He knew giving in now was dangerous, that there was still plenty of pawns to bleed, to kill, but he was drowning anyway, suffocating in a maelstrom of misery and grief.
There was a noise in the hall, Ron glanced around the corner spotting three more muncher thugs.
The big one looked part troll, even proudly carried a war club, dripping in blood.
They were just moving about. Idly, carelessly, mockingly.
Living. Breathing. Existing.
He heard it then. They had just casually cut down some more midgets, who begged, pleaded for someone, anyone, but only got him, far too late once again, useless as usual.
The thugs simply cackled, savoring their fear, their pain, their death.
Red was Dead was Red was Dead.
It was too much.
All of a sudden, that overwhelming grief morphed into an overpowering wrath that utterly consumed him. The red haze was back.
With nary a thought, Ron rushed out of the classroom to obliterate the middle one into chunks with a siege level blasting hex.
Driving them all into the loo, somehow.
He followed that up with a rapidly casted mosaic of cutters and piercers, bracketing both survivors. They attempted to respond with dark curses but his hyper aggressive assault left them no time to muster a counter.
The room was flooding, spells shattered sinks and stalls. Ron remained in the doorway, spiting spell chains seeking death and destruction.
The pawns tried to defend but were stuck on the back foot. One pawn's cutter nicked Ron's shoulder despite his slight evasion while maintaining his rapidly Cast blitz
Ron roared again, unable to articulate much in his escalating rage. Another odd memory reared up in his head. Ron, without hesitation, fell into it darkly. "Eat slugs!"
His magic intuitively got his lethal intent despite the prankster's spell choice, twisting the casting with deadly effect. The resulting mutated slugs that emerged from their rapidly dying victim seemed corrosively toxic, radiating a noxious miasma as they burrowed their way out of the pawn's masked face from every available orifice to simply melt into the ether.
The victim collapsed, writhing. Both Ron and the Brute looked on silently as his muffled screams soon became whimpers became twitches became nothing at all.
The brute goggled in stunned shock transforming into mounting horror.
Ron grinned, staring at his wand in gleeful anticipation of a suddenly more interesting near future.
Now, the Brute panicked. He screamed and fired an unforgivable directly at Ron, who automatically responded by lifting a broken basin in its path with a textbook perfect swish and flick.
Suddenly, it was too much.
The moment threatened to overwhelm him.
The dark spell exploded Ron's improvised sink barrier into thousands of jagged shards but Ron barely noticed beyond reflexively shielding.
He was lost in time.
Somehow, all he could see was the last time, when he faced a club wielding brute in a flooded bathroom.
He could see the girl he might love screaming yet teaching.
He could see his best mate charging toward danger, as he was wont to do.
He could see himself, like now, lurking in a door, not acting, not doing, just waiting, useless, worthless.
Not enough, never enough.
Red was Dead was Red was Dead.
Ron snarled. Now, back in the now. He gritted his teeth and glared at his trembling enemy. He swished and flicked and then some, sending a wave of flaming jagged shrapnel toward the big pawn.
The Brute screeched, covering his breaking mask while dropping his wand, receiving numerous cuts and gouges all over his body, blood gushing from multiple places.
The Brute screamed a challenge, pulling a club from some form of special pocket and charged at tremendous speed.
Ron kept his wits though, blasting a hole on the floor right where the brute Pawn was about to bound toward him from. The crack gave way, causing the Troll to be stuck with one leg through the floor, in severe pain.
Interestingly, the club was dropped. Ron was never good at resisting temptation; he levitated the club and proceeded to repeatedly smash the Troll Wizard's head in without pause or regret. Long after the Troll Wizard had been killed, the smashing continued.
Soon, the only sounds were pulverizing thuds mixed with bullish snorts that turned into laughter that turned into sobs.
Red was Dead was Red was Dead.
0o0o0
…The Present
"Stay with me," her voice was low but insistent.
They were in the woods, in their woods. Where nothing or no one could touch them. Where it was safe. Where they were always safe. Together.
"I would love to," he returned. His emerald eyes sparkling yet sad, but you know I can't."
Her heart broke just a little. "…Please? Don't go. Not-not again. Just… please?" Her eyes were wide, beseeching him. He sighed, caressing her cheek so softly.
She closed her eyes at the contact, reveling at the feel of his strong hands, worn from years of labor and broom flights and wand fights, yet still so caring.
His touch suddenly disappearing made her open her eyes, but he was already gone. She looked around frantically, desperately calling his name.
No answer, no sound, just stillness.
Then she heard a faint voice, his faint voice, carried by a foreboding wind. "Forgive me," he whispered. "Forget me."
She shook her head, silently screaming no over and over. She tried to move to him.
Using all her ridiculous powers, her anomalous gifts.
The world slowed to a crawl just for her.
But not nearly slow enough.
He was close enough to touch but too far too reach. He turned to her, his eyes accusingly sad. "Your fault." They seemed to say.
She tried to deny it. To reach him. To save him. To die with him at least.
But she failed, on all counts.
Like always, as usual.
She heard that hated demon's voice utter that hated evil phrase.
"AVADA KEDEVRA!"
"No!" Hermione practically punched the ceiling as she woke up. She fell back, gasping, reddish tears streaming down her face.
As usual.
Another nightmare. She sighed, casting a spell to cleanse her pillows and bedding of the evidence.
Crying fits were bad enough, but bloodied tears were just insult to injury.
She reached for the water she keeps by her bed, only to find that her night terrors have once again caused her to utterly smash the glass.
As well as the night table. As usual.
Mumbling curses, Hermione grabbed her wand, casting a casual repair spell and some reinforcement magic for good measure.
She checked the time, cursed again. She slept later than she wanted. Lunar cycles can be an absolute bitch.
She stretched out, shook out her limbs then headed to the loo, feeling like an icy shower might help her shake free from the dream, somewhat.
She hoped. As usual.
It's not like coffee or tea does anything anymore anyway.
She sighed. Yet another thing lost to her.
There was comfort to be found in routine, after all. She sighed again, shook her head.
She stepped into the spray, gasped at the frigidly brisk temperature, as usual. She scrubbed herself pink, nearly raw, as usual. She ignored the streaming river of tears cascading down her face, as usual.
Not much comfort for her anymore.
She loved that dream, she hated that dream. She adored that dream, she abhorred that dream.
For the exact same reason: she can see him, be with him, again. But then, she eventually wakes up, and for a moment, she's unsure which existence is the true nightmare.
Hermione had been confronted with Harry's mortality on several occasions. She'd believed life without him would be hard, but she'd never imagined just how hard it proved to be.
Losing the war as well just made it worse.
Still, she'd rather dream about him than her parents.
Hermione sighed, exasperated. She cannot keep dwelling on any of this. Part of her knows this, clinically speaking. But she also knows she needs to grieve. Yet, Magical Britain refuses to let her.
So, she takes it out on those who took them away or support the ones who did. It's the best she can do for now.
Blood for Blood. Their lives for her tears.
Red for Red.
Finally, Hermione finished her grooming. Clothed herself quickly, grabbing her favorite Potter jersey and some worn jeans. She really needed to dig into those files she acquired from the Snatchers lair, now is as good a time as any.
With any luck, there will be some decent clues in regards to one of Them, especially activities or sightings, but she won't hold her breath.
She might find a link in the chain at least. A minion's minion with a big nose and bigger mouth, maybe? Who knows.
She warmed a thermos of her butcher's fresh red using a spell, slowly bringing it to perfect. A part of her still grimaced but the rest of her savored it like a cat with milk.
She cleaned the thermos with healer grade sanitation spells before washing it by hand with dish soap.
She sipped, read and made notes on what she found and where to go next.
Nothing on Them, unfortunately. Cannot say she was surprised. Have barely heard a hint or rumor in weeks. There were some other interesting nuggets worth delving into deeper. There was something regarding stashes and caches that might prove valuable.
If there is any gold, it could really help Potter's Army. Or the Phoenix Remnants for that matter.
More raw ingredients and materials for potions and enchantments wouldn't hurt either. Between herself, George, Luna, Dean and Padma, they could design a nice amount of nasty force multipliers, especially for those on her side who lack her sheer preternatural advantages. She patted her first beaded bag absently.
She cleaned the thermos with healer grade sanitation spells before washing it by hand with dish soap.
As she was finishing her cleanup, a glowing bark made her look up, already knowing what she'd find.
Susan's police dog Patronus, named Edgar, happily sitting, wagging it's tail. Against her will, Hermione felt a smile ghost across her face. "Hey Hermione," Susan's warm den mother voice flowed from the dog's mouth. "You probably already guessed, but we just wanted to let you there's a meeting tonight, you already know why of course, but there's a couple of juicy rumors too, so, we'll be waiting for you. Same time as always. See you then."
Hermione smiled, she reached out and pet Edgar, who barked excitedly before fading away.
Hermione sighed, casting a spell to check the time. She paused, pondering then grabbed her black long coat. If she moved quickly enough, she might be able to hit some haunts and roust some rats in before the meet.
She also needed to hit the butcher's for a refill as well.
If she got really lucky, one of the rats might have a lead on something with a bit more bite.
Or someone.
Red for red.
0o0o0
Yaxley was antsy. They've already been here for hours and the situation appeared to be getting worse, not better.
It was one thing when MacNair was simply late, another thing when his life stone indicated he was in danger. Grave danger at that.
But it was a completely different, whole other thing for MacNair's estate to be have somehow rendered impenetrable to them by some impossible foreign magic.
A foreign Magic that was, from all available readings, was fully subjugating MacNair's ancient familial wards with chillingly disturbing ease.
A foreign Magic that was only put into place yesterday at dusk, at the same time that MacNair's beacon lit with his peril
Yaxley could only shake his head. This entire scenario bends if not breaks several fundamental rules of magic, especially warding. Specifically the part where a guest cannot cast wards without the host's say so.
Not simply dominate it like a conquering invader.
The first set of Auror Grade ward breakers completely disintegrated. Rookwood went back to the Department of Mysteries to research alternatives.
If there were any.
Jugson meandered over to him, his nervous tension very clear. He and MacNair were close, Yaxley remembered. They were inducted together on the same revel. Yaxley leaned over subtly. "We both know Walden's a tough bastard, right."
Jugson gulped, nodding while panting slightly. "Yeah, yeah, you're right, there Yax," he took out a flask, making a perfunctory offer to Yaxley which was nonchalantly waved off, then took a long deep pull.
Yaxley kept an eye on Jugson, who sighed as the liquor warmed his throat. "Wish we could get in there, though. Whole thing is a bad turn." Yaxley grimaced. "That's our comrade in there. If the worst happens, we get our due. You know our way. Debts incurred in blood are paid back with interest, yeah?" Yaxley looked Jugson in the eye: "Sooner or Later."
Jugson stared up the hill toward the estate blocked by the impossible. He looked toward Yaxley, affirming the vow. "Sooner or Later. Jugson shook his head. "Wish our Lord were here, maybe we'd be in there already." He took another pull off his flask.
Yaxley nodded noncommittal. Part of him wished their Lord were here, he likely would know something, something that could save MacNair maybe.
Part of him was glad the Dark Lord was not there with them.
"True, but if not?" Yaxley looked at Jugson evenly. They both paused for a beat before simultaneously shuddering in remembrance.
Their mutual fear was warranted, after all. If, as Yaxley expected, the Dark Lord were to be so stymied, he'd take out the shame on everyone here for having the audacity to witness it.
And that was if he were in one of his better moods. The last time Yaxley remembered their Master approaching pleasant was when Potter lay dead at his feet.
If Yaxley were being honest, the Dark Lord has been frightfully mercurial especially since they failed to hold Hogwarts. The look on his face when he realized the Old Lady had beaten him made him twitch in anticipation of the hellish night to come.
And, he wasn't wrong about that, was he? Stuff of nightmares that was. He still badly ached on rough weather days. Pain potions were a blessing of magic.
Yaxley had more than his share of punishment time under his Lord's wand for failures and slights he bore some responsibility for, he had no wish to be tortured like that, or worse even, all because someone or something outshone his Master.
Again
Yaxley snorted grimly. "That would be absolutely sucky way to end a day."
Fortunately, Dawlish came up just then, accompanied by the long awaited Rookwood.
Yaxley exhaled in relief, on multiple levels. "Took you long enough."
Rookwood smirked knowingly. "A wizard is never late, nor is he early, he arrives precisely when he is meant to." Rookwood chuckled at Yaxley's exasperated eye-roll. Not the first time Rookwood had said that, especially since the Battle. Always seemingly inappropriately pleased with himself when he did too, for some reason.
Come to think of it, that bastard Snape used to say that thing as well.
Yaxley shook it off. "Do you have it?"
Rookwood looked at him. "Well, we have something. But if it will work?" He shrugged nonchalantly.
Yaxley bobbed his head and shoulders, gesturing for him to get on with it. Rookwood rolled his eyes. "Everyone's a critic." He pulled out his satchel. "Let's get started then"
He placed a set of 13 stones down, given directions to his minions and drones. Yaxley peered at one of them and shook his head. He'd gotten a Runes NEWT but the sophisticated mastery level of the designed arrays and runic scripting on the displayed side was quite beyond him.
Rookwood caught a look at his face. "And that was just one stone, the rest are just as complicated. Hence why it took so long." Yaxley goggled then nodded.
Rookwood accepted the silent commendation. "If this doesn't work, we might have to call the Master." Both shuddered at the thought.
Rookwood stood and backed away, checking with his subordinates. "Places everyone, places." Each minion raced to their assigned spot, arranged in some odd formation that Yaxley couldn't make heads or tails of.
Rookwood raised his wand. "Be ready to initiate on my signal." He looked around, receiving the confirmation he sought. "On three, gentlemen." Rookwood lit his wand. "I… 2… 3!"
Each party simultaneously cast a potent spell in perfect sync. The spell seemed to pour serious energy into those rune stones, causing them to blaze like the bonfires at a Death Eater's initiation revel.
Yaxley didn't recognize the incantation, likely one of Rookwood's design. He could hear Rookwood's Worker Bees gasping desperately as if they swam underwater for hours, he saw one even beginning to shrivel.
And the screams… Yaxley can only shudder, they were making his skin crawl.
Yaxley could admit he was unsettled by whatever feat of dark magic Rookwood had concocted here, but if it works, it works.
The energy built up to an eerily eldritch crescendo. Yaxley could feel the foreign wards begin to tremble against the mounting pressure to bend, to break, to submit to their better.
The clash was evident, the pressure exploded outward. It drove the onlookers to their knees, as if gravity had increased tenfold. Yaxley could barely move, barely think. He looked around, Jugson was pressed flat on his back, looking just as unnerved as Yaxley felt.
Yaxley could see Rookwood, who was somehow still standing, grinning like a madman. He looked almost rapturous in his fervor, his face aglow in intellectual ecstasy. Yaxley could see this was not the work of single night for Rookwood, but something he'd been waiting for the time to use.
And this appeared to be the time.
The pressure increased again. Yaxley hoped this was it, the last clash, or else everyone here would just be liquified fertilizer for MacNair's border lawn. He heard Jugson whimper, saw blood stream from his nose. Now aware, Yaxley could feel the same from his. The pressure raised more. Yaxley was unable to withhold the scream that had been threatening to rip from him for what seemed like decades on this hill, in this damnable spot.
Bloody MacNair. Bloody Rookwood.
There was a crash, then a burst of raw magic thrust outward, sending the group tumbling down the hill. There was a chorus of groans echoing about when they all seemed to notice at once.
The pressure wave had just disappeared as if it never were.
Rookwood screamed then, not in pain but triumph. Yaxley stretched out with his magic, to confirmed. He marveled. They had done it.
The Wards were down. All of them. Even House MacNair's aged protections had fallen.
Rookwood was prancing about, grabbing an exhausted she-minion and forcing them to dance a very crude and lubberly unrhythmic failure of a waltz that was an abomination against every bit of courtly behavior Yaxley's parents had forced upon him.
That she-minion seemed fortunate; many of her colleagues couldn't even stand. A few seemed even worse. They were trying to triage the situation but Rookwood seemed uncaringly lost in his triumphant proof of concept to acknowledge the dire circumstances of his subordinates.
Much like his Master in that, Rookwood was; Yaxley buried that pointed observation down deep.
The celebratory revelry finally calmed. The seriously injured were portkeyed away to St Mungos. Yaxley checked MacNair's beacon, it registers him as alive though critically imperiled.
There were no other life signs detected on the Estate, sending a foreboding shiver up Yaxley's spine.
Yaxley took command of the area, this had just become a hostage rescue mission. "Everyone, prepare for unknown hostile elements, the Wards are down, yes, but that-…"
Rookwood chortled loudly, interrupting Yaxley's flow, who bristled at his fellow Inner Circle member. Rookwood, by contrast, seemed that he couldn't cared less, so giddy with his successful experiment that he wasn't reading the room at all.
"Come on, Yax?" Rookwood's tone dripped with smug condescension. "The wicked wards are down. Now it's time to rush the place and rescue our fairest Director Damsel from the clutches of those miscreant mischief makers."
Giggling like Puff firstie overdosed on butterbeer, Rookwood gestured toward the hilltop house ringed by trees. "I say we advance expeditiously, establish a perimeter and prepare to breach, blitz them before they can recover."
Before Yaxley could respond, one of Rookwood's still functional younger minions awkwardly stood up like a newborn colt. "Yes, Director Rookwood. I volunteer to lead the vanguard scout unit!"
Yaxley just barely remembered the boy, one of Rookwood's personal inductees into their Lord's service. Before Yaxley could get word in edgewise, Rookwood affirmed him with pretentious grace. "Good show. That's more than acceptable, carry on!"
Yaxley could see the Mark on the kid's arm was still show room fresh. Only reason the kid stood out from the rest of the rabble was his Bella levels of puppy love zealotry for Rookwood himself.
Oh. That doesn't bode well.
Yaxley watched as the minion took a deep swig of what was likely a custom pain potion. The effects hit so quickly that his entire posture changed.
Seemingly refreshed or just faking it well, the now galvanized minion gave both Rookwood and Yaxley an overly enthusiastic yet slapstick sloppy salute. It also was obvious to Yaxley that the pain potion must have hit the kid harder than expected.
Before Yaxley could even begin to corral him, the minion snapped off orders to those Unspeakables and Hit Wizards surrounding him with conviction and authority; the newly forming squad formed up and took off for the Estate in a struggling gallop.
Rookwood hopped up and down like a quidditch fanatic at the World Cup. "That's the spirit, you- um- Mc- Mac- something? MacBeth? Old McDonald? Yeah- wait- No- whatever, just- you. Yeah, you, Greenhorn. We will make a real unspeakable out of you yet." Greenhorn's back visibly straightened with prideful resolve.
Yaxley facepalmed, Rookwood couldn't be less helpful if he actually tried. "Wait, um…" Bloody hell, now he didn't remember the bloody name. "Um-uh- kid, you- Kid, wait, hold! Greenhorn, That's an order!" he lurched forward, manfully ignoring his own mounting aches. He moved toward the kid, still sluggish.
The kid kept going, further exhorted by his teammates' exhortations, basking in his superior's approval. Yaxley stumbled, hands on knees. "No, stop! Stop, kid. Rookwood, stop them! We don't know enough! Just- wait! Dammit!"
Rookwood turned toward Yaxley then. "We've beaten an impossible challenge and you worry about a greenhorn leading a scout team acros a threshold?"
The Greenhorn turned toward them both, a zealot's light burning in his eyes. "I'll lead the way."
Yaxley only could stare beseechingly at Rookwood, whose answering grin had maniacally paternal edge.
Bold as brass, the Greenhorn rushed the ward border before Yaxley could respond, his team right beside him, only to for them to utterly disintegrate into infinitesimal dust in a horrific blink.
Everyone gaped. Some screamed. Rookwood could only mouth syllables to words he'd never say.
The escalating fear was potently manifest.
Yaxley recovered his wits fastest, stretching out with his magic to confirm what he had already deduced: the foreign wards were up and even deadlier than before. He gulped, and looked toward the still flabbergasted Rookwood, Yaxley could see him covering his face, mumbling his incredulous denials into his hands.
Yaxley swallowed. He was all out of ideas and his resident genius was throwing a fit or having a breakdown or both. It was time to retreat.
Just as he was about to order the withdrawal, a titanic ghastly stag appeared in front of them. Everyone goggled up at it, not sure what to do with the new arrival.
Or, worse, whomever might be holding its leash.
The Stag peered at all of them, visibly judging them but the criteria wasn't obvious. Whatever it was, they must have been found wanting because then the Stag seemed to snort dismissively.
As if they don't matter.
Yaxley bristled. He'd always hated being simply dismissed. He knew it was a trigger but he didn't care. To Yaxley, openly dismissing him was an invitation to a violent reckoning sooner or later. It was a promise.
It was one reason he'd joined the Dark Lord.
Didn't matter if it were his father when he was barely a child or that Blood Traitor Marlene McKinnon or an apparently a vengeful nature spirit given form.
Sooner or later. A promise.
As if it could sense his rising rage, the Stag looked directly at him. Yaxley paused, made no sudden moves. Neither did the Stag. Everyone watched the micro standoff. Yaxley refused to back down, but the Stag only looked more amused.
Suddenly, a ridiculously overwhelming fearful weight began to crush him down. He bent over, then down to relieve it some, make it bearable. When he looked up, Yaxley recognized he was somehow prostrated on his knees, forehead kissing grass.
He snarled and tried to leap up, but the instant pressure was instantly released, causing him to flop around like a underdeveloped fish out of water.
Yaxley gasped and conceded, for now. Contenting himself with the promise carved in his bones.
Sooner or Later.
The Stag sniggered. "Well, that was rude." It blew a raspberry. The onlookers paled, utterly gobsmacked.
Yaxley had never felt like this. The power, the fear, the intimidation, the cunning. It was so much like the saner version of their Master, that Yaxley began to understand the bigger picture.
He calmed himself. Sooner or Later.
Later, they emerged to find out the victims well safe.
The ghastly stag turn to loom proudly, majestically before them and smirked, quite nonchalantly. "Sorry to have kept you. The master of the estate is unwell at the moment. You see, he's come down with a deadly case of Poetic Justice."
"As a general health precaution, the Wards will remain until daybreak, for your safety."
"Though," the Stag glanced at the spot of the vanished scout team before looking back at the onlookers with sardonic malice. His gaze seemed to focus especially upon those Inner Circle members as well as Umbridge herself "Some of you should be very wary indeed. I've heard it is highly contagious, especially for those diagnosed as too stupid to live." The Stag's smugness grated on them.
At that moment, Yaxley heard MacNair's life stone beacon sputter and die with a mourning wail that sent chills down everyone's spine..
Yaxley looked at it then back at the Stag who had the audacity to simply shrug. "And That's all, folks."
Yaxley saw Red. He stormed toward the Stag, heedless of danger or caution or patience. He screamed a battle cry then suddenly there was nothing.
Yaxley woke up, at the bottom of the Hill. His chest hurt so much, he looked down to see a overlarge hoof print stamped on his. He looked up, seeing everyone else down, the Stag gazing down its nose at him. "Ah ah. Wait your turn, Director Yaxley, proud member of Noseless's Inner Circle Jerk." The Stag sneered, sniggering. "Wait your turn. Your time, it will come, promise."
The Stag stared at him with a knowingly ominous gaze. Those uncanny killing curse eyes stared into him, before the Stag vanished without a sound. Yaxley heard it's voice chillingly whisper one last as it faded away.
"Sooner or later."