10
LINDEN Lestrange saw himself as a wizard who would go to any lengths to achieve his desired outcomes. However, at that moment, as he stood across the street from his detestable brother's former residence, where the Crouch boy had taken the witch, he felt a weariness beyond his years. His hair was graying rapidly, and his body, though still youthful, was beginning to experience increasing aches. The stress of not seizing the opportunity to take her away when he had the chance weighed on him, hindering his ability to think and scheme effectively. The sight of the Crouch boy with his brother's girl vexed him, stirring up a familiar mix of anger, betrayal, and devastation within his chest. The mere thought of it ignited these emotions, as he believed the boy would mistreat her, treating her like the monster she had become due to an unfortunate misunderstanding.
That night, as Christine made her way home from Flourish and Blotts, where she had sought solace within the pages of countless books, Linden trailed behind her. In the dim light, her dark curls stood out against her fair complexion and her raven tresses, reminding him of her mother Helena in her youth—a formidable yet noble witch.
Linden couldn't shake the conviction that it was Helena standing before him, her name on his lips.
However, when Christine turned and called out his name, the illusion shattered, replaced by the reality of Christine's presence.
This revelation ignited a fierce anger within him, and the subsequent events became a chaotic haze in his recollection.
Nevertheless, it was evident that Christine's mother, Helena, had passed away in recent years. Even if she had miraculously survived, she would have been elsewhere, far from him—perhaps residing in London or even back in Germany with her kin. Anywhere but by his side.
His lips curved downward into a feral snarl as he did not know how long he had stood outside his brother's small but modest cottage that was nestled comfortably within the wizarding village of Doveport. It took him a moment to realize the feeling warring within his chest now and causing a pit to form in his stomach, was, in fact, jealousy. He nearly growled with the effort to restrain himself from barging in through the home and slitting the wizard's throat as the boy dared to lay his hands over his niece.
Soon, he reminded himself as a warning bell chimed in the back of his mind. The timing was not yet right. There were other ways to draw Crouch's boy away, and then the problem would be rectified permanently.
He could not risk Christine ruining what he had worked so hard to build now that she had Crouch's boy wound around her pinky finger, he was certain she would persuade him to use his connections to reopen the case that he had tirelessly worked to build against his bastard of a brother. The dark-haired wizard frowned, lost in thought as he stared up at his brother's home.
Christine had not lived in the house since she had been whisked off the streets by unknown persons, though to the best of his knowledge, a few of Elias's neighbors came to tend the house faithfully each week, hoping his daughter would return, for he recalled Christine being well-liked by the residents of Doveport before her accident had irrevocably changed her.
Exhausted, he wearily closed his eyes, anticipating the shock that would ignite within Christine when he eventually confronted her. At that moment, he resolved to spare Crouch's son, at least for the time being. Perhaps keeping the boy alive would be more effective in compelling the witch's obedience than resorting to torture. Besides, he could manipulate the boy however he pleased if the boy still breathed as opposed to being buried so deep beneath the ground that no one would ever find him. With a wave of his wand, he could transform the wretched child into the deranged, uncontrollable beast that rumors claimed him to be. The thought brought a sinister smile to Linden Lestrange's face as he spun around on his heels, contemplating the insolent and sarcastic boy.
The wizard turned on his heels and Disapparated, leaving Doveport and his niece behind for the moment as he was called upon for other matters, the most important of which was waiting for him at the Hog's Head Tavern in Hogsmeade.
His boots thudded against the cobblestoned streets as he Apparated directly into the wizarding village, but the sound was drowned out by the sound of his pounding heart. His mouth was dry again and he licked his lips. He did not think he could take care of Crouch's boy fast enough and yet, he needed to see to this first. Then he could take his time.
The wizard pushed through the doors of the Hog's Head and scowled, feeling his face freeze and his anger swell as his gaze landed upon the sole figure seated in the furthermost corner of the tavern whom he'd come here to speak to. He stomped towards the table and slid effortlessly into the booth as he found himself staring directly into the delighted face of poison pen writer Rita Skeeter, who was looking at him expectantly and waiting for a remark on the fact he was ten minutes late.
"You're here," Rita purred, her voice dripping with smoothness, causing Linden's skin to crawl. "Considering your...unique circumstances, I didn't expect you to show up," she dryly remarked, glancing up at him while feigning interest in her manicured nails.
Linden's lips tightened at her condescending tone, his fists clenched as the urge to unleash his anger surged through his veins. He forced himself to maintain composure, though the desire to strike back was overwhelming. Before he could even offer a greeting in response, Rita smoothly interrupted, cutting off his next words.
"Mr. Lestrange, the past is irrelevant now; it will remain where it belongs. What matters is looking towards the future. We both know that we possess information the other desires and if we choose to cooperate and work together, this arrangement can benefit us both."
"Consider this an opportunity to alleviate the stain on your family's name, Mr. Lestrange, provided you willingly give me what I ask for," Rita spoke softly, carefully selecting her words as she leaned forward, resting her hands on the table's surface.
Rita glanced across the table at the composed wizard before her, exhaling with frustration as she absentmindedly twirled her Black Quick Quotes Quill between her fingers, contemplating her next words.
"I assume you possess some knowledge regarding Elias Lestrange's daughter, the intriguing Christine, the Obscurial?" Rita purred, casting a curious glance at the wizard from beneath lowered eyelids.
The witch was undoubtedly one of the most captivating subjects she had encountered in the past couple of years. Her editor was desperate for a book deal on the survivor-turned-recluse witch, a request Rita was more than willing to fulfill once she realized the immense demand such a book would generate.
For a fleeting moment, an air of stillness hung between the witch and the wizard. Then, Linden Lestrange briskly tapped his wand, extinguishing the silence like snuffing out a candle flame.
A worn black journal materialized mid-air in front of Rita, and she reached out with a slightly trembling hand to grasp it, inwardly elated at how easily such a treasure had been placed within her grasp.
"This account of our family's history that you will be penning, it will be favorable to us?" he snapped. Rita nodded in response, prompting him to continue with a hint of warning. "For your own sake, I hope so. You will find it most advantageous for your purposes, Miss Skeeter, but I demand its safe return, as it is the sole existing copy. Elias maintained a journal following Christine's ordeal, documenting the creature's assaults."
Rita nodded, struggling to contain her gratitude as triumph coursed through her veins. Blackmail was an art she had mastered over the years. She had harbored initial doubts about the success of her plan, but so far, it was yielding results.
"I assure you, Mr. Lestrange, that every stroke of my quill and keystroke will recount the truth," Rita replied, flashing the same innocent smile that masked her vendetta. She instinctively covered her mouth, noticing the wizard's furrowed brow.
Linden remained unsmiling, evidently unimpressed. The wizard made his stance clear.
"I have provided you with what you requested, Miss Skeeter, and in return for my...cooperation tonight, I expect you to honor your word. I shall receive a proof copy of your book before its delivery to your editor's desk. Should a single word depict the events in any other light than how I have recounted them, not even Merlin himself will be able to shield you from my wrath, witch," Linden snapped, surprising Rita as she looked up. He stood, eager to depart, his mind racing with countless possibilities.
Storming away from the table and out of the Hog's Head in a fit of rage, he left Rita alone to contemplate the last few moments. She nodded to herself, resolved to take matters into her own hands, regardless of the cost.
She would uncover the truth, by any means necessary.
BARTY lay in bed, entangled in the embrace of Christine Lestrange, his senses still intoxicated by their passionate night together. The dim light of the moon cast a soft glow on her peaceful face as she slept soundly, unaware of the inner conflict raging within him. Suddenly, a searing pain pierced through his left arm, the unmistakable sensation of the Dark Mark burning into his skin. Barty's eyes shot open, and he winced, his body instinctively tensing in response to the summoning call of Lord Voldemort.
Reluctantly, Barty gently extricated himself from Christine's arms, careful not to disturb her slumber. He leaned down and pressed a tender kiss upon her forehead, his lips lingering for a moment, savoring the warmth and sweetness of her presence.
"I must go, my love," he whispered, hoping that somewhere in her dreams, she would sense his affection and remember him fondly. As he straightened himself, Barty's conflicted gaze swept over the sleeping figure one last time. He longed to stay, to revel in the enchanting night they had shared. But duty called, and he knew the consequences of defying his master's direct order. With a heavy heart, Barty turned away, his footsteps growing faint as he made his way toward the door. He resisted the urge to look back, knowing it would only make leaving even more agonizing. Yet, his hope lingered, hoping that Christine would dream of him, that their connection would transcend the physical realm. The cool night air greeted Barty as he stepped outside, and the familiar darkness embraced him. He glanced down at his arm, where the pulsating mark reminded him of his loyalty to the Dark Lord.
Without hesitation, he Disapparated, leaving behind the tranquility of the night and the woman he desired, unknowing of how much danger Christine was in.
BEFORE the sun rose in the sky, Christine awakened, finding herself roused far too early for any reasonable person. Nestled beneath the covers, she had slept soundly, her mind replaying the sensual experiences she and Barty had shared last night.
The piece of herself that she had given to Barty, she had never thought the day would come when she would willingly want to lay with a wizard again. Even now, as her senses slowly awakened, she could still feel the lingering presence of Barty, unsure if the previous night had been a delightful dream. If it was, she never wanted to be jolted by its enchantment.
Stirring beside her, Christine reached out, only to grasp a handful of the blanket, realizing that her beloved Barty was not by her side. She sat up abruptly, clutching the blankets tightly around her, although she knew there was no need to preserve her modesty.
Her fingers traced the lines of her neck, eyes closed, as she imagined the way his lips would gently touch the sensitive skin below her ear. In her mind, she could almost hear the soft moans escaping her lips, accompanied by his name, each time he filled her with urgency and passion, their connection never causing her any pain.
She remembered how he whispered her name into her ear, his voice filled with longing and desire. A brief blush tinted her cheeks with embarrassment, but she quickly dismissed it, focusing on the cherished memories they had created together.
She hastily dressed in the clothes that Barty had conjured and left laying out for her and raced outside of her former house, hoping to spot him. A chill went down her spine the moment she stepped out into the yard, the sky was still dark, and she seemed to have this strong sense that she was being watched, much like the morning the giant had very nearly killed them and she'd sensed it.
As she gazed out at the landscape, a gentle rain began to fall, obscuring her view. To her surprise, there was no sign of any living beings, neither human nor animal. However, an unshakable feeling of being watched lingered within Christine.
The darkness of the surroundings made it seem impossible for anyone to hide or wait for her, but her unease grew. Frustrated, she shook her head and released a deep breath, causing a visible puff of cold air to escape her lips.
"This is ridiculous," she whispered to herself, hastily opening the front door of the house and hurrying inside to avoid lingering in the chilly atmosphere. She scolded herself for such irrational thoughts.
Surely, even after Barty's warning, Uncle Linden wouldn't dare to do anything foolish. She silently prayed that he wouldn't. Once inside the house, she sighed, feeling a sense of relief wash over her.
However, her relief quickly faded as she noticed the darkness engulfing the interior and the eerie silence that filled the air. She had left the fire burning in the hearth, so it should not have been extinguished so soon.
Determined to restore warmth and light to their home, Christine took a step forward to rekindle the fire.
Just as she did, she heard a creak to her right. Her body froze in place, and a sudden surge of heat rushed to her ears, while her stomach twisted into knots. A wave of nausea washed over her, and her heart thumped painfully in her throat.
Swallowing became a challenge as if swallowing sharp knives. With a shaky breath, she let her anxiety consume her.
Her eyes burned with anger and panic as she frantically scanned the room, searching for the exquisite goblin-made dagger that Barty had presented to her the previous night. Finally, her gaze landed upon it, resting innocently on the coffee table. Acting swiftly, she lunged forward on her heels and snatched the dagger with trembling fingers, almost losing her grip and dropping it in the process.
"Barty?" she called out in a harsh whisper, her voice filled with desperation. She nervously licked her dry lips and waited, but the silence that greeted her sent her stomach plummeting, and a familiar surge of bile rose in her throat. With the dagger firmly held in her right hand, raised menacingly before her face, she braced herself to strike whoever dared invade her home.
As she turned to the left, a sudden yelp escaped her lips as she felt a cold, gloved hand grip her elbow, forcefully pulling her backward and to the right.
A piercing scream erupted from her as she was violently jerked off balance, clumsily tumbling to the floor. Scrambling on her rear, she desperately tried to create distance from the intruder, her eyes fixated on the ominous figure now standing within her home.
At first, her mind struggled to comprehend what her eyes beheld. The dryness of her mouth intensified, and a sharp pain radiated through her limbs from the fall. As she looked up at the figure before her, fear gripped her so fiercely that she found herself incapable of even screaming. Her mouth opened, but only a strangled, hoarse croak escaped her lips. Linden loomed over her, his tall form exuding power, while a murderous glint danced in his dark eyes. He tilted his head to the side, intensifying her terror.
"Chrissy, Chrissy, my dear, what on earth do you think you're doing, running away from me as you did all those weeks ago? Did you honestly believe I wouldn't come for you?" Linden snarled, his voice filled with contempt, as he menacingly advanced toward her.
Christine continued to scramble backward, mustering every ounce of strength to rise to her feet. Finally regaining her balance, she found herself cornered by the table where she and her parents had shared countless meals. A cry of pain escaped her lips as she felt a bruise forming on her hip, but she held the knife tightly, her body trembling, prepared to defend herself if necessary.
"Do not think I am afraid of you," she managed to say, though her voice quivered, betraying her deep-rooted fear.
Linden merely grinned, a hint of malice in his smile, as he moved closer, playing a twisted game with her. She lunged at him repeatedly, attempting to strike, but he danced just out of her reach, taunting her with his proximity.
And then, finally, he drew near enough. With all her might, Christine thrust the knife towards him, narrowly missing his left eye. In response, Linden let out a feral growl, seizing her arm and twisting it behind her back.
The pain coursed through her, forcing her body to contort, and the knife slipped from her grasp, clattering onto the floor.
Tears welled up, blurring her vision, as Linden yanked a handful of her hair, his hand leaving the back of her neck to toy with the strands. A shiver ran down her spine at his touch.
"Hush..." he whispered. "It will all be over soon, my dear Chrissy. You shouldn't have run from me and gone to Dumbledore."
"Dumbledore?" she whispered, the name of the revered warlock escaping her lips before she could even comprehend her own words. Frantically, she shook her head, panic surging through her body, leaving her lightheaded and queasy. None of this made any sense. "I..." she began, her voice trembling, but her Uncle Linden's gaze only grew more intense as he tilted his head to peer at her. The wizard, however, fixed her with a menacing stare, his lips contorting into a twisted snarl. A wave of fear washed over her once again as the imposing figure loomed above her, exuding a threatening aura. Slowly, his eyes narrowed, as if studying her from head to toe, the warped smile on her uncle's face further unsettling her. The intensity in the wizard's eyes was suffocating.
A nauseating wave surged through her, bile rising in her throat, threatening to overpower her. She fought back the urge to retch, shutting her eyes tightly as tears streamed down her cheeks. With a trembling hand, she reached out to her side, desperately summoning the remnants of her feeble magic, anything that remained untouched by the Obscurus. There was a glimmer of hope that stirred within her chest as she sensed the faint echoes of magic resonating in her blood and pulsing through her veins.
A cry of astonishment nearly escaped her lips, but she swiftly stifled it, knowing it could betray her presence.
She could hardly believe her senses as she felt the familiar weight of the dagger of Ranrok the Third in her hands once more, summoned by sheer determination. Clutching the weapon tightly, she silently prayed that it would prove sufficient and that she could catch her Uncle Linden off-guard.
"Please," she pleaded, a desperate whimper escaping her lips as she shoved thoughts of Albus Dumbledore from her mind, not understanding what her uncle's words meant, but she suspected it was not about to matter anymore. "Please don't kill me."
"Silence!" he harshly silenced her, his voice laced with a twisted tenderness, mocking her.
His fingers gently traced her cheekbone before returning to her hair, gripping it tightly enough to cause pain.
Christine had no time to register the agony that consumed her body as he jerked her head back, using her hair as a cruel leverage. In one swift motion, without any warning, he forcefully slammed her forehead onto the unforgiving surface of the table with a sickening thud. The room spun, black spots clouding her vision, and a small cry of pain escaped her lips.
Warm and sticky liquid trickled down her cheek above her left eyebrow. Her blood. Before she could process the pain, the wizard yanked her back by her hair once more. This time, Christine felt no pain, heard no thud—only darkness enveloped her.
