A/N: Thank you for the renewed support and reviews! Thank you for your patience!
After leaving Malfoy's Manor, Yaxley swiftly returned home. There was no doubt that Malfoy would try to engage him in a meeting sooner than later because they would know better than to reject his demands. After all, rejecting him would lead to two consequences that were favorable to him and terribly unfortunate to them – he would be absolved from the blood pact and free to kill them for their failure to uphold their bargain. Of course, that meant Narcissa would, most unfortunately, suffer the horrible consequences of blood magic. There was then, absolutely no way Malfoy would allow his wife, whom he proclaimed on plenty occasions to love most dearly, to die.
Yaxley sighed as he closed his eyes and continued mulling as he walked the ancient hallways of his home. There were plenty of things he wanted from Malfoy – from creating a safe and discreet passage to get in and out of Britain, to stealing Dolohov's magical weapons from the ministry, even if he did not truly need the Malfoy's help, to perhaps, something so trivial like getting a cupcake from Honeydukes. He shook his head and chided his indecision. If he was truthful, Yaxley had not truly decided what he wanted but securing Malfoy's authority was beneficial in any case. With Malfoy waiting and fretting on the wings and drawing all of the attention from society, there was less focus on him and more freedom for him to sit back, and orchestrate the chaos like a master puppeteer. Perhaps, this was a welcoming headache that could be dealt on another day. Right now, there was something more important. Someone far more important than London's golden family.
Antonin.
He stopped walking and stared at the door of the room his feet had instinctively stopped at. Breathing in deeply, he turned the knob gently and pushed the door open as softly as he could. He entered the sparsely furnished bedroom and closed the door lightly before he made a beeline and took residence on the seat by the bed. He looked around the familiar room and sighed quietly. Ceiling tall bookshelves lined the walls, and even then, there were rolled up parchments, dog-eared papers, tattered maps and books with frayed and old covers messily shoved into every corner of the shelves. A small square table with a chess board carved into it stood by a window and a pair of oddly matched chairs sandwiched it. There was a fireplace, and a large rug laid on the floor in front of it. There was no drawer, much less a walk-in wardrobe but a humble locked chest sat at the foot of the bed.
Yaxley shook his head as he noted all the worn-out furniture and leaned into his seat. How many times over the years had he visited this ghostly room and left it untouched? His deep loneliness had often paralyzed him whenever he found himself sitting by table and staring at the blank chess board. Five years of guilt and silence but it had finally ended. The winter of his life had passed. His eyes slid over as he watched the unconscious wizard in bed and he sighed heavily.
Five years ago, they had argued and fought for many days and nights until he had reluctantly and wholly unwillingly, agreed to the plan that the bastard would assume complete responsibility of everything. The bastard had brought up the most compelling point, a sucker punch and a low blow but one that he had almost been too willing to jump on – she would not be safe even after the fall of their leader. In any scenario where he were imprisoned with or without the bastard, they knew she would be fair game to anyone and her death would have been slow and painful. He was sure even his friendship with Dolohov would not guarantee her safety; at most, the bastard would have promised not to actively hunt her but that also meant the Russian would not interfere if a colleague of theirs threatened to kill her. It was this awareness and desperation that pushed him to agree on the plan of keeping him out of prison as the best option to safeguard their interests. They had practiced, over and over, every action, every word and every muscular twitch until they allowed themselves to believe the lie as the truth and then, surrendered themselves to the Wizengamot.
Withdrawing a wand from his inner pocket, he wrapped Dolohov's fingers around it and then he covered the bony hand with both his hands. "Just a little longer, brother," he promised as he stared at the sleeping sunken face and squeezed the hand before he released it and returned the wand into his coat pocket. He blinked furtively and rubbed the cold hand when he saw a drop of water splashed onto the clammy skin. "Hang on and don't you dare die on me, bastard," he whispered in a voice that trembled a little too much for his liking, "I didn't go through Hell just for you to die." Blowing a sigh that sounded too defeated and exhausted, he pressed his hands on his knees and slowly rose to his feet and left the room without a backward glance.
Once he was outside the room, Yaxley leaned his back against the closed door and dug into his breast pocket and pulled out a crumpled photograph that he carried everywhere with him. It was a picture of a girl with her arms around two boys who stood on either side of her, a man stood behind the trio, and the Eiffel Tower in Muggle Paris filled the background. He stared at the picture for a long time as his mind drifted. There was a time when murder and war were non-existent concepts in their minds but fate, the cruel mistress that she was, had rolled the dice and their lives took a sharp turn and derailed from the path of innocent ignorance. Boyish dreams of being an international sports superstars faded into nothingness and the sweet caress of promises whispered and cajoled them onto the path of becoming the wizards they were today.
Yaxley shut his eyes as he knocked the back of his head against the door and clenched the final remnant of a dream that would never be realized. Of the people in the picture, only one remained by his side. The one to have completely accepted him as he was and explored the great wonders and horrors of life with him. They stuck together through the highs and lows, and throughout their transformations and growth, constantly watching the back of the other, protecting and supporting until five years ago. Was it a mistake to have allowed Dolohov to convince him? No, the bastard would not have been convincing if he had not been grasping on straws for a plan to stay out of prison. Truly, his feelings for the woman should have died but time had proved that his affections for her seemed to be an immortal flame that continued to burn brightly. When it came to her, there was almost no price too high.
Yaxley chuckled bitterly as he shoved the picture into his pocket. What did it say of him? A creepy man shrouded by the shadows, watching a woman who had never and would never reciprocate his affections. To remain invisible to her, never mind talk to her, and made the center of jokes and rumors as a love's fool if only to safeguard her reputation; was he not worse than a muggle man? Even the weakest men of them, surely, would have walked on and ignored because was that not self-respect, pride and dignity? For a wizard as feared as he was to be reduced and mocked for being stood up at his own wedding, and refusing to tell the truth, he was truly pathetic. Why could he not take the ruthless and self-centered way, as his colleagues do, and speak the truth? Why was he even compelled to protect the interest of a woman who had scorned him and married a man who could not protect her and failed her plenty of times? Did his love for her truly paled in comparison to –
Let it go, it's over.
Yaxley shivered as the familiar voice advised him. How many times in his life has he heard the Russian bastard said that? He inhaled in deeply and released it in small shuddering gasps and repeated the breathing cycle until his heart calmed down and his mind returned to the present. Opening his eyes, he blinked multiple times before he rubbed his face in an attempt to physically urge himself to refocus. There were bigger things to do than remain in a vicious sea of questions without answers. "It doesn't matter," he whispered as he pushed himself from the door and lumbered towards his bedroom, "as long as she's happy and safe. That's all you can do for her… and that should be enough."
Entering his bedroom, he looked at his bookshelves and pushed one of them to reveal a small walk-in wardrobe. Crouching a little, he entered and inspected the rows of flasks that were type and alphabetically arranged. He moved a little deeper in his hidden treasure room and ran a lingering finger on the names of all the bottles until it hovered over the name Thomas Mills. Uncorking the flask, he took a deep whiff of the putrid smell, gagged and cursed the smell before he resealed and pocketed the flask. Upon exiting the hidden compartment, he paused to look at a black rectangular box and he had to restrain the urge to reach out for it. He smiled apologetically and whispered, "It's not time for you. There's still a few more things for me to do. When your time finally comes, I hope you will forgive me and be obedient."
Finally, he left the hidden chamber, waved the bookshelf to hide the room and left his bedroom. As he stopped momentarily by a set of stairs and stared at the door at the end of the stairs. It was the only set of stairs he had never thought to use since his grandfather's will was read to him – he was forbidden to open the door regardless of circumstance. In fact, he could not remember if he had ever ventured into the forbidden room even when his grandfather was still alive. Perhaps, now, almost three decades later, the curse his grandfather cast to lock the room had weakened or better yet, vanished. He was barely on the second step when he was interrupted.
"Master?"
Yaxley stopped and he slowly turned to look at the house elf that had been a faithful servant to his family for generations. Her tiny webbed fingers were clutching the hem of her little apron and her huge eyes stared at him in a mixture of dread and fear. "Master, do not," the house elf implored and Yaxley frowned at her, "Potsie cannot let door open. Potsie guards."
"You will defy me, your master?" Yaxley asked as he raised an eyebrow, "You will obey my grandfather and go against me?"
"Elder commands, Master," the elf answered pitifully as huge drops of tears filled the corners of her eyes, "Potsie cannot forget. Potsie begs Master."
As her huge eyes begged for him to understand, Yaxley frowned before he turned to look at the door. For the family's house elf to continue carrying the order of the previous master and that she would go as far as to hurt him if it meant the order was kept, it had to be a secret that needed the most opportune time to reveal. Yaxley sighed heavily. As much as she was not allowed to strike him because of a house elf law, there were still stronger laws, and Yaxley had no doubts that his grandfather must have invoked those stronger laws. Perhaps, if he killed her, he could uncover the secrets but… he would be patient.
"Oh, very well, have it your way then," Yaxley huffed as he returned to the ground floor of his home and strolled to the main entrance and watched the shadow of the elf following him, "What is it now?"
"Potsie be waiting here," the elf promised as she looked into her master's eyes.
Yaxley turned to look down at her huge determined doe eyes and allowed his lips to curl into a light amused smile, "Worried about me? You're adorable. No one who wants to trap your master is strong enough to trap him."
When Yaxley finally left his home, Potsie watched the back of her master disappear among the graves and her face turned mournful. His violet eyes had twinkled with dark malice and amusement but she could not help feeling as if she was staring into deep whirlpools of sorrow, guilt and loneliness. Whatever her master was doing, she hoped it would not burden his soul further. She might be naively loyal to him, but she believed that there lies a man in him who truly loved life. After all, his healthy secret garden – greenhouse, he had insisted she called it that – should be testament and proof that he was not the cold-blooded maniac that killed simply because he could. Someone whom unicorns and kelpies did not fear and, in fact, lived harmoniously and playfully with simply could not be evil.
"Potsie believes Master, always."
As always, should there be a question you want answered or something you want to read happening in the story, please leave me a review. Thanks! Until the next chapter!