A/N: Finally, it is ready! Here we go!
As soon as Potsie had deemed Grumpie Wizzie fit for society's eyes and she had watched him leave the Hall, she dimmed all the lights in the Hall and then, tiptoed towards her master's private chamber. She had taken a little longer than she had expected to wash and groom the little grumpy boy, and she wondered if her master had fallen asleep. After all, she had often seen her master cast a sleeping spell on himself if only to momentarily subdue the pain in his eyes and obtain some rest. Sometimes, the pain would be particularly terrible and invaded him even in his sleep, and she would wipe the trails of blood away. Those times, he would flail and thrash and scream but he would not wake until a long time after the horror period passed. It was strange to Potsie that her master would wake after that as if he had not had a frightful sleep. He would still have his breakfast, calm and smiling, and his violet eyes would twinkle. Everything would be as if nothing had happened.
"Potsie, come in."
The little house elf startled at her master's voice. She knew that voice and she swallowed a little. She had been lost in her thoughts and had been standing outside of his bedroom. Slowly, she pushed his bedroom doors open and entered the dark, candle-lit room with the softest footsteps. Bandages, surgical tools and opened salve bottles, and colour pencils, brushes, and coloured bottles and jars were laid orderly and precisely on the vanity. Her master was seated in the chair in front of his mirror, and the upper half of his face was being wrapped in a white cloth. As soon as she reached her master's side, she curtsied and cautiously asked him, "Master?"
"Has Antonin left?" her master asked softly as he finished wrapping the bandage around his eyes. His hands patted the bandages a little before his hands reached for a jar that contained white powder.
"Yes Master!" she answered as she watched his hands dabbed his face with white powder before squeezing out thick brown liquid from a tiny tube and smearing it around his face. It was strange watching her master's face turning into a different face by the second. Once, out of curiosity, she had asked her master what he was doing and he had simply told her it was muggle magic. This was not the first time she watched him use muggle magic and certainly not the last time she was impressed. Her master was truly gifted! He could utilize any magic!
"Did he take them with him?"
"Four!" Potsie exclaimed as she nodded her head vigorously and raised her webbed fingers. She watched him pout and dragged a red stick across his lips carefully. "Potsie make Grumpie Wizzie like Master order! Potsie cut Grumpie Wizzie!" she reported cheerfully and smiled widely when she saw the corners of her master's lips curled upwards. Silence stretched between the elf and her master as she watched with awe as her master continued performing his magic. He had picked a few different brushes and coloured pencils, and drawing and painting his face. When he was finally done, he had kept his things and arranged his vanity neatly. Then, he reached for a pair of slim, sharp scissors and slid them under the bandage on his face. As he snipped with a little too much carelessness, Potsie stared at the falling pieces of bandage with dread. Bit by bit, they were redder and redder as the innermost layers dropped. When the last layer finally fell away, she stared in horror at his eyes. He had stitched them close with a very complex but very neat stitch work.
"Master…" she whined softly.
Almost as if he enjoyed worrying her, he returned the scissors onto the table before fetching for a scalpel. "It's time for me to test your loyalty," he smiled ominously as he turned to her and handed her the thin silver blade, "remove the sutures."
Potsie stared from the blade to her master and then stared at his knitted eyes and then back to the tiny knife. Could she do it? What if something should happen to her master? What if she accidentally killed him? Were house elves even allowed to 'accidentally' hurt their masters and mistresses? How would she ever face her previous lords and ladies? As her panic began increasing rapidly, bile formed at the back of her throat. She covered her mouth as best as she could with her tiny webbed hands. Her eyes watered as her head began spinning and her body wheezing.
Before she knew it, a large hand fell onto the top of head and pushed her gently onto her master's legs. Her snot and tears soiled his pants as she cried hard. "Ah, I took my joke too far, huh," he laughed softly and awkwardly as he patted her head a little too roughly with his free hand, "come on, I was just kidding."
As she slowly calmed down from her panic, she began to hear the soft humming and the hand stroking her head comfortingly. Eventually, she released her grip on his pants and took a shaky step backward and avoided her master's face. His eyes might be sewed shut but she would not doubt that he could somehow see her expression. She kept her eyes on her webbed feet as her hands played on the hem of her dress as she stood before her humming master.
Potsie heard his tongue click and saw his shadow move before she dared to peek at him. He spun on his seat to face the vanity's mirror again. Resting his chin on his hand, he raised the scalpel and moved it close to his eyes. "I'd never put you in a difficult spot, Potsie," he murmured matter-of-factly as he effortlessly slid the scalpel through the first knot and cut it cleanly. As he continued slicing through the winding stitches, he continued calmly despite the gasps escaping her lips, "I'm not like most of them. I'll always take care of my own." When the final knot was cut, and the silk threads were removed, he slowly opened his eyes. He rolled his eyes and blinked a few times slowly, before he turned to look down at her. "And you're my little elf," he smiled widely, patted her head once before he rose to his feet and strolled past her.
She stared dazed at the empty space for a while, before her webbed feet scrambled after her master. "Master!" she panted as her lips wobbled into a shy smile and she curtsied clumsily, "Master! Potsie thanks Master! Potsie grateful!"
If he was surprised, he did not show but Potsie did not need her master to react. It was enough for her to know she was appreciated by him, and for her to thank him. Her master was truly kind just like those before him. He was truly the heir of the household!
When he went down onto one knee, Potsie's eyes widened. He rested his hand on her head and he smiled serenely. "I might stay out tonight," he said very pleasantly but she saw the dangerous glint in his eyes, "you might be required to host." This was the calm before the storm. She did not often see his eyes like this but when she did, it meant he had a very important task for her and failure was absolutely unacceptable. "Take care of the house," he ordered kindly as he rose to his feet and walked towards the main doors of his home, "use any means necessary."
Potsie blinked, saluted and nodded. 'Any means necessary' only confirmed her suspicions. Her master was anticipating intruders while he went out. Intruders who only dared to encroach on the compound when her master was out. Enemies who annoyed her master so much so she was not required to be polite and merciful. She no longer needed to fret about and remember the identities of the intruders, she could just erase them.
"Call me if they become too troublesome," he said absently as he paused mid-step on the threshold of his Hall, "do not hesitate."
Potsie stared at her master who sprinted and then leaped into the air. His human form transformed into a huge bird with huge brown wings and sharp, unforgiving talons. He looked down at her for a bit, sent her a small nod before his wings flapped powerfully and he flew east. Potsie retreated into the hall, closed the doors and breathed deeply. It seems tonight would not be quiet, and she had better start preparing a few new plots in the cemetery.
After a short flight from his home, Yaxley stood rigidly before a huge white building with an unreadable look on his face. He had known a young man who had a noble vision. In fact, Yaxley and Dolohov had been very well acquainted with him that it was a little hurtful when he read the news about the country's manhunt for the young doctor.
Only twenty-two years old, that young medi-wizard was chased out of the place he had spoken so highly of. That young man, barely a full-fledged man yet, had spent most of his early years devoting himself to follow and serve their vision. He had believed in their values and principles, and prided himself in emulating them in his daily life. Against Dolohov's advice, the young man had treated the hospital as his second home, defended and protected it from enemies – anyone who dared to threaten the code of Healers, respected everyone associated to the hospital as unique individuals regardless of their caste and class, and race and ethnicity… yet, all of his virtues meant nothing when the allegations first broke out.
Without any investigation, everyone immediately severed their ties with him. They had ended all associations with him. They wanted nothing to do with him. Within minutes of the first allegations, they had banished him, defamed him and condemned him… and suddenly, he was alone in a place where he had believed he found belonging. In the middle of the storm, the young doctor stood startled and lonely as society hurled abuses and insults on him. They dug every little dirty detail about him, and never in his life had Yaxley ever seen someone so vulnerable and exposed, and afraid and ashamed.
Although those allegations turned out to be true, and his actions were questionable, he had good and noble intentions. He had sworn under the name of Merlin and Circe that his motives were not evil. He had pleaded for everyone to listen before they judged his work as unethical. He implored for them to open their hearts and minds to what his research meant, the potentials it could bring. He had gone as far as to knock on every door in town to search for anyone who would listen yet he was faced with only rejection and humiliation. He was continuously sledged by the people who he had cured and saved, spurned by the same people who he had treated with respect, and terribly maligned by the people he had called peers. His superiors had not only revoked his license but they had banned him from ever practising in the country again.
Rejected and hunted by the people he had devoted himself to and swore to defend and protect, the young doctor fled to the North. Hurt and betrayed, and confused and terrified, Yaxley remembered the young man hiding in shame and humiliation. It was only when Dolohov found him and stretched out a welcoming palm to him that the young man finally raised his chin again. It was through the Russian bastard that he found a community where he would truly flourish in. It was in that small community that he would meet people who accepted his ideas, who encouraged him and gave him the place to exercise his limitless creativity. In the Dark Lord, he met a man who would encourage him to challenge the miracles and limits of life, and ultimately, defy and break free from the divine laws of life and death.
Where the condemned and cursed Dark Lord welcomed and appreciated his ideas of evolution, the people who championed for inclusivity and openness to innovation and new theories would besmirch him and accuse him of playing God. Where the supposedly evil wizard would encourage him to further his research, the supposedly righteous people would demand he stop his blasphemous deeds. Where Lord Voldemort would demand he presented his work to the world, those people would steal his unpublished papers and signed them as theirs.
It was too darkly poetic – that Yaxley had to laugh aloud – when he found out that the book entitled Phenomenon of Metamorphoses was one of St Mungo's Hospital's most prized asset. Of course, that book was signed off by someone from the hospital but it was no secret who was the true owner of the book. It was the worst kept secret in the whole of United Kingdom. Of course, Yaxley knew the young doctor would not be deterred, and under the protection of Lord Voldemort, he would go on to publish a book about Metamorphmagi as the next step of evolution for all living beings. That book explored the ideas of altering the genetics of all living things and manipulating them such that everyone and everything achieved invincibility by taking only the best of every species.
This had delighted the Dark Lord immensely and Yaxley knew the young man was not oblivious to the motives that belied the dark wizard's delight and grace. It was obvious he was being used as the key to spearhead a new world – where the dead never truly stayed dead, and the living no longer feared death – and the Dark Lord would be the God of the new world. A world where only the chosen would be immortal and invincible, and they would no longer be confined to the oppressing limits of life and death. The chosen ones would adopt the gifts and talents, and longevity of other creatures. Only they would be the immortal chimeras who could experience the continuous cycles of soul transmigration. He knew that this was a dangerous slippery slope but… was it wrong? Was it wrong to improve the members of an ecosystem? Was it wrong to make them immune to all aspects of death except for time? Was it wrong to keep them alive?
When his colleagues – the Death Eaters – confronted him about his revolutionary ideas and accused him of playing God, Yaxley knew the young wizard was once again confused. Never once had he ever hoped to be God-like. Unlike the dark lord, he had absolutely no intention to command a new world, to create a new system in his favour. He merely wanted to improve the world through the works of alchemy and biology, and what the muggles called, science and technology, philosophy and religion. He had no interest in defying the concepts of life by attempting to create new life from nothing, nor did he have any passion in taking over Death's job to reap the souls. He simply wanted to prolong life, improved it and maybe... just maybe, end the need for separations and segregations, and differences. If everyone had a good quality of life, would there be anyone who feared for their survival? Was there any need for greed and power if people felt their necessities were adequately provided? Would wars cease to exist and there would no longer be need for soldiers? Would the tears of children stop streaming? Will the idea of orphans and starving children finally end? Was it too much to ask for the screaming and crying to end? All he wanted was to –
"So selfish, and so very foolish, Altair," Yaxley chided with a faint smile as he shook his head. "For all your brilliance, you were nothing more than a naïve lost child." It was a pity that young doctor had his wings ripped before he could show them his true majesty. He was far too ahead of his time, far too innovative and sophisticated, and definitely too kind and gentle for the brutal world he lived in. Yaxley was sure that some of them who criticized and condemned him were envious of his revolutionary ideas and genius, and some simply could not tolerate his seemingly outlandish ideas. After all, Altair had truly put forward a theory that defied the society's orthodox views. He was a virus that needed to be purged. He was unwanted and feared by both sides, and Yaxley was certain that that was the reason Altair disappeared. Some said the Death Eaters had enough of his ludicrous ideas that they accidentally killed him, others said he committed suicide. There were people who claimed to have seen him living in another country under a pseudonym, and some even went as far to claim that Altair went mad when God had enough of him and smite him. Despite these gossips, nobody knew for sure. Nobody had any evidence for their claims, and no one bothered to look for concrete evidence. Everyone had seemed satisfied to run along with their gossip and Yaxley, too, had also chosen not to search for the man who had been someone very special to him.
"Oh Altair, do you remember where was that little entrance? Did they manage to close it?" Yaxley mused aloud as he walked a little around the back of the building, just grazing his finger tips on the bricks until he stopped abruptly with a sly smile. Drawing a complicated Slavic rune on it with his finger, his eyes lit up in amusement when the bricks rearranged themselves until they formed a small 3-step stairs. He climbed and crouched as he entered the child-sized hole in the wall. Once he was safely inside, the bricks immediately reformed and the hole disappeared as if it was never there. Yaxley frowned in the darkness before he held a finger up and blew on it. A tame but steady flame flared on his fingertip and he smiled thinly when he looked around the tunnel. It did not seem as if anyone had been in it for years if the lack of imprints were anything to go by, but Yaxley would not cheer. Not yet at least.
He began crawling through the tunnel and cursing under his breath every time his head knocked on the low ceiling-tunnel. When it seemed as if he had gone in circles for too long, his wandering hand brushed against a very deep fossilized symbol on the ground. Yaxley blinked as he crouched lower and brought his flame closer to inspect the symbol. It was a very familiar symbol and one he had seen many times in Altair's books. With a crooked, sheepish smile, he drew out his wand and warily traced the symbol with it. As soon as his wand's tip reached the tail of the symbol, the symbol lit up and a soft rumble echoed through the tunnel before light flittered at the end of it.
Triumphant, Yaxley grinned and crawled a little faster towards the end. When he noticed the rocks blocking his path, he held his wand in between his teeth while he moved the rocks with his free hand. He was about to push his hand through the last few obstacles out of his way so he could wriggle out of the tunnel, when he released a startled gasp and pulled back. He snarled and cursed as multiple shock waves rippled through his limb as he watched in anger as he quickly lost control of it. It was as if his brain no longer seemed to connect to that limb. Before he could react and seek a solution, his arm twisted painfully until he heard the bones in his elbow and wrist cracking loudly until they fractured. Then, the twisted arm flew forward and began squeezing his throat painfully and brutally.
Even as he was suffocating his fingers pressing mercilessly on his jugular, Yaxley smiled widely and a little too proudly, and his eyes twinkled with a strange mixture of mania and fondness. When he managed to find the secret entrance, he would have expected that the traps would still exist. "Good, Altair, very good," Yaxley choked and sputtered in admiration, "you've managed to make my own tools hurt me; as expected of one of St Mungo's Guardians."
Indeed, Altair was a gifted wizard; and certainly not simple even though he was young and impressionable. He was as tricky and guarded as any young Slytherin was. Yaxley waved his wand and ghostly wisps shot out of the tip. Swiftly, the phantom hands held on the traitorous limb and forcefully yanked it away from his bruised neck. With the hand held away, Yaxley tapped the wall just shy off the edge of the exit and smiled as a spider web revealed itself. On closer observation, each line was vibrating as if a continuous electrical current was passing through it. Had he crawled with his head ahead of his hands, there was no doubt he would have almost certainly died. Anyone would have died if they were not quick enough. Regardless of how powerful one was, to lose your brain's functions and have it attack you instead would spell the demise for anyone.
Yaxley drew a series of counter-runes and channelled his magic through them. His runes shined brightly and as each symbol faded, so did the web lines. When the final line disappeared, Yaxley closed his eyes as he hung his head. "They really should've gotten someone like Antonin to close this entrance. I know the bastard would've enjoyed dealing with this," he chuckled mirthlessly and healed his arm and neck. For reasons unknown to him, there was a strangeness in his heart that felt like a knot that had untied. It was a strange mixture of relief and strangeness that Yaxley had to force himself to breathe deeply and measuredly just to recompose himself.
When his usually cheerful smile finally returned on his face, Yaxley exited the small tunnel and found himself standing in a dusty and chaotic, but very familiar room. The bright orange couch – he remembered lying on many occasion – had turned dull, lumpy and dusty. The metal bookcases lining the entire left wall, once upon a time had been filled with books that were neatly arranged and shelved, were now empty. The small cabinet in the corner of the room had served as the refreshments' table, and even that had been ransacked and smashed. The rows of mason jars had been tipped over, emptied and shattered. The ceiling fan was missing two of its blades. Even the ceiling and floor tiles were not spared the demolition. It was obvious that the room had been searched completely and thoroughly as if someone had been desperate to look for something valuable. There was nothing left untouched. Almost with a heavy heart, Yaxley turned his attention to focus on the table beside him and felt a bitter taste on his tongue. Before he could understand, his hands had gathered the broken pieces of a glass name plaque and rearranged them to form a name. Most of it was gone but Yaxley did not need all of its pieces to know the name that was once engraved there.
He pressed his palms on the dusty table and stared mutely at the glass pieces for a long time. Even as his eyes lost their usual friendly twinkle, his lips remained curled in the most amused and gentlest smile. It was almost as if his smile and eyes belonged to two different people rather than being on the same face. "Altair," Yaxley finally breathed as his elbows and knees buckled and he collapsed on the table face-first. Turning his head just a little so his left cheek pressed on the dusty table, he picked a big shard and stared at it absent-mindedly. "Will you ever forgive me?" he whispered a little huskily as his eyes fluttered to a close.
Unconsciously, a few tears slipped past and trailed down his cheek as he breathed slowly. Somehow, for a moment, it felt a little too difficult to breathe in the dingy room. Altair, the ostracized and misunderstood doctor, had been someone so precious to him. Altair had big dreams, big noble dreams; that it was a little unfair how they had declared him missing and dead far too early. Yaxley felt it was premature and everyone – except Dolohov and himself – had given up far too quickly. It was as if nobody wanted the young man alive – not the Dark Lord and his legion, not Dumbledore and his Order, and certainly not anyone else in between. Perhaps, it would have been in Altair's best interest to be declared dead by the world that had no place for him. What good was it to live a life where no one wanted him? Why should he continue living if everyone wanted him dead?
Yaxley shuddered as he sniffed and slowly reopened his eyes when an annoying pain tingled in his hand. The strange feelings that had embraced him like a set of black wings quickly dispersed as he checked his clenched fist. A tiny sharp tip protruded out of the back of his palm, and a small circle of blood surrounded it. Yaxley stared curiously as his heart began beating more calmly and he slowly opened his fist. There, in his palm, the glass shard had jammed itself mercilessly and his blood was spilling clenched the broken piece tightly in his fist. Pulling it out swiftly, he looked at the blood-coated glass and closed his eyes with a heavy defeated sigh. "What am I doing?" Yaxley complained under his breath as he got up from his kneeling position and stared pitifully at his injury and the bloody mess. A quick Scourgify and healing saw his wound closed neatly and evidence of his blood vanished. Tossing the broken glass carelessly, he scourgified himself and huffed loudly without any real malice, "So many years later and I still hate this office. Nothing good ever happens in here." He strode towards the doctor and, he paused momentarily at the threshold and with a backward glance that defied the amusement in his face, he smiled gently, "Goodbye Altair."
When Yaxley closed the door, no matter how soft and slowly he tried to do it, it still sounded awfully deafening to him. Despite the serene toothy smile on his lips, and the undisguised laughing twinkles in his eyes, the sorrowful sound still shook his heart but he would not be moved. He would not be deterred. He came for one purpose and he would fulfil it by hook or by crook. He had been distracted enough. Had he been anyone with less ambition, he would have led a much quieter life in some godforsaken place or died a long time ago. He would never have been a Death Eater, or laughed fearlessly while the Dark Lord spoke. He would never have attempted to slip past Hogwarts' shields or even fought the war. He would never have been a trickster, or retrieved Dolohov's confiscated weapons from the Ministry. He would have never been the man he was today.
"Alright then, where are you, my little pet?" he sang as he drew a sigil on his palm and watched with delight as the white-lit rune twisted and transformed into an arrow. With a bounce in his steps, he left the haunting corridor, took a few turns as directed by his makeshift compass until he ended up in front of a wall. Frowning, he stared at his compass and frowned harder when the arrow pointed forward. Wiping his hands together, he scrutinized the wall. When his eyes could not figure it out, he guided his hands to feel the wall. There had to be something special about the wall if he was led to it. His compass was never wrong – how could it be? He might not be as skilled as the Russian bastard but he was still pretty good at Rune Magic if he was honest.
"Are you quite alright?"
Yaxley jolted as he slowly turned his head towards the voice and faced a concerned nurse. He blinked a few times and then smiled sheepishly when he realized she was truly concerned about him. He had pasted his entire body against the wall and feeling it a little too sensuously. He coughed hard a few times, and then backed away from the wall until he was a respectable distance away from the white empty wall. "Right… right," he laughed a little as he rubbed his nape, "is it too much if I ask you to keep my uh… let's call it, quirk, a secret?"
"I don't mind," the nurse replied easily and smiled kindly as if to abate his embarrassment, "but I must still ask, what were you hoping to achieve? I have never seen anyone do that."
"Ah… that…" Yaxley laughed softly as his eyes shifted nervously and his lips smiled sheepishly. When he was satisfied that there was no one near them, he walked towards her and leaned forward so that his lips were brushing lightly against the shell of her ear. "I want to know what's behind this high wall," he whispered softly. "What treasures it hides."
Immediately, the nurse took a few steps back as she clapped her hands on her cheeks. She stared at her shoes as she took a few deep breaths to steady her racing heart. It was not often for a handsome wizard to flirt so openly with her. She peeked at him from beneath her fringe to look at his face and the boyish smirk. His eyes, although strangely coloured, had looked at her in a strange way that made butterflies flutter uncontrollably inside her. Although he looked much older than her with the greyed-hair near his temples and the laughter lines around his eyes, his face still glowed with youthful mischief. With a hand over her heart, she raised her chin to stare squarely at the amused man. "That… that is very inappropriate, sir," she warned as sternly as she could, "this is a hospital not a… a… This isn't where you pick-up… uh… I'm not that sort of woman!"
She watched the handsome man's smile slipped as he nodded while he listened to her admonishment. As soon as she finished her short stuttering disapproval, he chuckled uneasily and looked at her apologetically. If she had found his voice smooth and deep, his chuckles had a soothing ring to it that it almost made her feel as if she had overreacted and overthought his words. "You are right, and I must apologize if I had made you feel uncomfortable," he apologized and his lips curled into a remorseful frown, "I am most regretful that my poor choice of words have caused you undue distress. Forgive me, miss. Please excuse me so we may save you from further embarrassment." He bowed deeply and turned on his heel.
The gentleman had not taken more than three steps when the nurse called out for him to wait. Surprised, he half turned to look at her and she stared at her shoes and stuttered, "Are you looking for someone? Maybe I can help you."
"I'm here to visit my…" he paused as he tapped his temple as if he was deliberating on an appropriate term. If the nurse had found the older wizard handsome and charming before, he was now certainly very, very attractive to her. She could possibly add cute to her already growing list of glowing adjectives for the beautiful man. It was not often she would meet someone as kind and well-mannered, and very humble as him. There was no mistaking it that this man came from a prestigious family if his clothes were any indication; but he was unlike most of them. He was not arrogant like the Malfoys and Blacks, neither was he loud and rowdy like the Weasleys and Goyles. He was very mellowed and grounded. "I'm here to visit my estranged daughter," he finally admitted softly as he smiled a little sadly and shyly, almost as if he was embarrassed about the frayed relationship.
The nurse blinked a few times as she stared shocked at him. Of course a man like him would be married, but what a pity he was alienated from his daughter. If she had a father like him, she would have never turned away from him. How could any daughter walk away from a father like him? There was no doubt in her mind that he had loved and pampered his daughter, and it had to be a classic tale of the spoilt daughter thinking she would have a better life away from her father. She hardly knew the man, yet, her heart hurt for him. Even though he was estranged from his daughter, he was still coming to see her. He was still concerned for her. It spoke volumes of his unconditional love for her.
"What's her name?" the nurse asked softly.
"I'm not certain," he sighed, utterly defeated. "I'm quite sure she changed her name. There is no way she would keep the name I gave her."
"Do you know when she was admitted? I can at least check the records…" the nurse offered helpfully.
"Maybe a couple hours ago…" he trailed as he looked at his watch and shrugged, "They said they found her battered in Wycombe Town. Maybe the aurors found her." She nodded and told him to wait for her, and she hurried to the reception desk to check the patient information.
As the nurse busied herself at the reception, Yaxley laughed softly. Did she really think the notorious heretic jester would have a daughter with some street whore? The nurse was far too naïve, but it was good for him. It was good she did not question too much, and bought his act wholeheartedly. Perhaps, she did not actually know who he was. Maybe she was that innocent and ignorant, or he was simply not as popular as he thought he was. Did he care though? Not at all, especially not when he was having the easy ride to finding his little lost pet.
Yaxley chuckled again before he turned to face the mystifying wall again. His runic compass could not be wrong. It did not make sense. His compass was meant to locate his own sigils unless someone had managed to remove it or move it somewhere else. Was his pet no longer branded? There were not many people who knew he branded his pets, and of the small handful of suspects, only one of them knew of his new pet and he was in Davenport. Could it be that the Russian bastard had decided to foil his plans? Why would Antonin irritate him when the bastard knew how protective and possessive he was of his pet projects? No, Antonin would not do something as pointless as making an enemy out of him, especially when the weak bastard was dependent on him. As annoying as Antonin could be, the bastard was not likely to be a hindrance. It was not like his best friend to stop him in a roundabout way – the Russian was no coward and was far too straightforward to be deviously sly.
Perhaps an auror or someone powerful noticed his branding and decided to interfere? Or maybe, it was simply a case of him getting rusty? When was the last time he had truly fought, or even used his runes? Since he had left London and returned to Scotland, and became a Death Eater, he had always relied on his flame and phantom magic. Oh Merlin, it was good his best friend was back by his side – finally, he had someone to practise runes and duel with again. Finally appeased that he had found a satisfactory answer to his curiosity, Yaxley stopped examining the wall and instead stood calmly as he waited patiently for the nurse.
When the nurse finally returned to him, armed with the information, Yaxley asked if she would be willing to lead him. Without further question, she led him away from the wall and down a few corridors until they reached the special ward just for aurors. "You've been very helpful," Yaxley nodded as he thanked the young nurse, "so I shall be merciful to you and keep you safe from troubles." She looked up at him surprise, he mouth opened but there was no sound. Cradling her head gently, he leaned over her and pressed his wand tip on her temple. "You'll forget Corban Yaxley the Violet-Eyed Jester. You have never met him. You have never talked to him." A white light glowed at his wand's tip and flowed gently into her head, as he watched her eyes turn glassy. He settled her gently on a seat in the waiting area and got a steaming cup of coffee that he left by her side with a note. Satisfied, Yaxley walked away and muttered, "Boom."
Within seconds, a surprised cry echoed in the relatively empty waiting area and a young nurse frantically and quizzically looked around her before she spotted a warm cup and a small note with very steady handwriting. Despite not understanding, she smiled widely as she read the note. She made a mental prayer to Merlin to protect whoever she seemed to have helped. It was not often people thanked her, never mind wrote a grateful note. In a much happier mood, the young woman scooped her cup and note and skipped away unbeknownst to the pair of eyes that watched her leave.
Yaxley chuckled lightly as he shook his head. He was about to walk out of his hiding when he heard a familiar calm voice, and his body froze momentarily. He did not dare to take a breath and his eyes darted to the sides as if he could check on the identity of the speaker. When it was silent, he retracted his steps as silently as he could and retreated back to his hiding. He pressed himself very deeply against the wall as his body remained tense and prepared to engage in a battle. He withdrew his wand and held it firmly in his dominant hand. Yaxley shut his eyes and focused all his attention to his ears to listen intently to the footsteps, voice and the breathing. Years spent living as his animagus form, trained his sight and hearing while lowering his smelling abilities but it was a trade-off he could live with – there could be no gain without some form of loss.
The steps were coming closer to him; could only mean that whoever called him had just left the special ward. There was nothing abnormal about their breathing – they were far too calm. Perhaps they had noticed him? Impossible-
"Good evening, Corban."
Immediately, all the tension bled out of him and Yaxley leaned his entire weight against the wall as he released a huge defeated sigh. Almost like a sheepish boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar, he opened his eyes and shrugged helplessly. "Good evening, Headmaster," he greeted as he smiled cheekily and came out of his corner. "What a surprise!"
A tall and thin wizard with long silver hair and beard smiled indulgently as he nodded at the sheepish younger man in front of him. "I'd never have thought you would still be playing Hide-and-Seek," he commented calmly as he twirled a few strands of his beard and observed the cold violet-coloured eyes. "Is there space for one more hider?"
"You're such a comedian!" Yaxley laughed heartily as he shook his head at the ridiculousness of the whole meeting. Who would have thought he would have been intercepted by the most powerful wizard? If this had been a game, he would have sworn it was an unfortunate glitch – what wretched luck was it to meet the final boss so early in the game? Unlike some of his colleagues, Yaxley felt no shame in surrendering when he recognized his defeat. It was akin to a child throwing half-hearted punches at a grown man. It was foolish and reckless, and very stupid and pointless. "Ah, is it too late for me to plead guilty and ask for an escape?" Yaxley asked tongue-in-cheek as he made a deliberate show of keeping his wand and then, he raised his arms to prove he was unarmed.
"Between you and me, there is only one funny person and that is not me," the older wizard countered without a beat as he smiled kindly. For a while, his soft blue eyes observed the face in front of him. While the cheerful smile stretched widely, and the laughter lines crumpled around the corners of the violet-coloured eyes, there was no hiding the emotions he saw in them. He closed his eyes momentarily and sighed heavily. "If you wish to leave, I won't stop you," he admitted softly and watched the younger wizard bow deeply and leave.
When he could no longer see the back of his former student, the old wizard sighed heavily, "Alastor, how much longer did you intend to stand there?"
A large man with a scarred face came forward and stood beside him. "Albus, you were right. He really grew up to look just like his father," he commented solemnly as he touched the scars on his face lightly. "That's why seeing him makes my blood – "
"Don't hate the boy who was continuously failed by the adults," Dumbledore interrupted as he turned away from the exit and walked slowly to the special ward.
"If you ask me, he had it coming. He should've known what would happen when he sought You-Know-Who," Moody snarled as he stormed ahead of his friend towards a room. "He's an unforgivable disgrace to his family! Nothing more than a deplorable scum."
Dumbledore paused momentarily in his steps as he watched his friend disappear into a room. Every day he had to make choices; some were harder than others but that did not mean he felt less responsible for the easier decisions. Many times in his life he had been entrusted precarious and heavy situations to make the best decision; and every time, he had to live with the regrets of his choices. Of course, he had always chosen the best option with the best interest in mind but whose interests did he choose to protect and sacrifice? Even if everyone had sworn they would forgive him – because they understood he made decisions for the greater good – that did not mean he was less guilty. How many lives had ended in the mission to stop Voldemort? How many hopes and dreams ended because of that? How many families suffered in the aftermath?
There were many times he had wished he did not have to carry the responsibilities and burdens, but did he wish for someone else to suffer this as well? No, he would never wish for anyone to be weighed down and their wings clipped. Voldemort and some of his followers, and some others had accused him of trying to consolidate power by keeping himself at the top but did they ever truly consider the alternate reality of it? He was powerful and he could have easily grown a few notches stronger if he had not chosen to hold back, limit himself and cared for the greater good. There was absolutely no doubt that if he had chosen to pursue power, he could very easily surpass Voldemort and then what would happen to the world? Who could stop him? Grindelwald? He had already been easily stronger than his best friend even when Grindelwald had the Elder Wand.
Indeed, this was truly his curse and blessing. He, who was born with the talent and gifts to be a frighteningly powerful wizard, and the intelligence to couple with it, had been entrusted the choice to care and protect, or to rule and dominate. Admittedly, if his younger brother had not interfered bravely, and his sister had not died that fateful day, there was a strong argument that he would have eventually joined Grindelwald, and ruled and dominated the world. In his grief for his deceased sister, and bearing the brunt of his younger brother's anger, Dumbledore knew his choice had been made. He would atone for his sins.
Since then, he would carry the burdens by himself to ensure he preserved and protected the ones who could not protect themselves. He would speak for the ones who could do, defend the ones who were too weak, seek justice for the innocent. It was all for the greater good. If he should be hated for it, chastised, mocked and ridiculed, then so be it. He could not hope for anyone to sympathize, never mind empathize with him, but that was alright. This was the consequences of his choices in life and he would live with them. To abandon the belief just because he was tiring out, would be the same as spitting on the graves of his fallen comrades. For them at least, he would continue trudging forward and championing for the greater good even if he were to be the only one left who sincerely believed in it.
"As I age, the more sentimental I am," Dumbledore chided himself as he finally entered the room.
Outside, on a tree branch, a man with blond hair and violet-coloured eyes, smiled gently as he stared at a room. "You're lucky that he interfered," he chuckled mockingly, "but he can't always protect you!" He stood up and fell backwards and transfigured. With a final lingering stare at the room, he glided mockingly close to the window before he flew away.
Until I come for you, I'll not allow to die, pet.
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