Chapter 8:

Corban Yaxley is sitting in an armchair in his dimly lit living room, staring blankly at the punctum in his hand, the arrow whizzing in all directions. The room is decorated in dark, Gothic style with thick, heavy curtains covering the windows, blocking out any sunlight. The furniture is made of dark, polished wood, with intricate carvings on the legs and arms of the chairs and sofas. A fireplace crackles in the corner, casting flickering shadows, dancing on the walls. A thick layer of dust covers the surfaces of the tables and bookshelves, showing that the room has not been used in some time. Mrs. Yaxley has been away on business for nearly a month which gives the empty house an even more ominous aura.

Yaxley's mind is racing as he rethinks the events of the previous day. The memory of being embarrassed and confused in front of Malfoy and his inner circle is still fresh in his mind. He can still see Bellatrixes yellow smile as she cackles at his ignorance. He can't believe he had let his guard down like that, revealing his true vulnerabilities in front of them. He knows he can't let that happen again.

He looks down at the punctum in his hand, turning it over and over. Could Malfoy be right? Is his own paternal desire to be with his son causing the device to be confused? It seems the only logical explanation. In a moment of fury, he threw the punctum with all his might. It hit a large painting of a thestral that hung on the wall over the fireplace, tearing a small hole right in the center.

"Repairo," he muttered, pointing his wand at the newly damaged work of art. The canvas reshaped itself back to its original condition as Yaxley bent down to pick up the punctum, then falling back into his chair.

For a brief moment Yaxley considered a rather extreme option, and the thought of Durmstrang crossed his mind. The school was known for its strict and brutal curriculum, and it was said that the students who graduated from there were some of the toughest and most skilled wizards in the world. It would be a harsh environment for his son, but it would also make him a difficult target for the Dark Lord to find as his rule has yet to spread all the way to the far north of Europe, where the school is located.

He stands up from the armchair and starts pacing around the room, his mind still racing, nixing the Durmstrang idea after remembering Igor Kakorov was headmaster and held allegiance to the dark lord.

He knows he needs to figure out how to overcome this obstacle if he wants to find Slughorn, but every idea he comes up with, he almost immediately finds many ways it could go wrong. He knows he can't give up, he can't let his son be a victim of Voldemort's wrath.

He then sat back in his armchair, once again, this constant jumping in and out of the seat followed by pacing has led to the man's straw blonde hair to be matted with sweat. He now sat staring blankly at the now dying fireplace, the embers reflected back against his dark eyes. He couldn't stop thinking about his son, and how he needed to protect him. The thought of writing to Dumbledore was something that had been gnawing at him all night. He knew that the headmaster had always disliked him, and the feeling was certainly mutual. The thought of asking for help was humiliating. Not to mention it was risky; if Voldemort somehow found out that one of his most trusted men asked the Hogwarts headmaster, and for all intensive purposes, his arch rival, for help he and his family would surely be tortured and killed. But he couldn't shake off the feeling that his son's life was in danger, and this was a likely outcome if he did not complete his mission anyways.

He knew that if he were to ask for Dumbledore's help, his son would be safe. The wizard was powerful and respected and would no doubt do anything in his own abilities to protect an innocent sixteen year old, despite his personal feelings towards the boy's father. Voldemort would not risk going toe to toe with Dumbledore just to punish Yaxley. And of course, if Dumbeldore were to protect the boy surely Yaxley would no longer feel the urge to be with him, he reasoned. This would mean that the punctum would work, and he would finally be able to find Slughorn. But the thought of admitting defeat and asking for help was unbearable. He was a proud man, and the thought of being seen as weak was something he couldn't accept.

He sat there for hours, going back and forth in his mind. He knew that he needed to do something, but he couldn't bring himself to make a decision. His pride was at war with his love for his son, and he didn't know which one to listen to. He knew that time was running out, and he needed to act fast, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. He felt trapped in his own mind, unable to move forward.

After a sleepless night Yaxley finally resigned to the fact that he had no choice but to beg his former transfiguration professor for help. He migrates to his study where he must swallow his pride.

Yaxley's study is a dark and imposing room, clearly regularly cleaned vigorously by house elves. The walls are paneled in rich, dark wood, and the floor is covered in a thick, plush carpet in a deep shade of burgundy. The centerpiece of the room is a large black desk that dominates the space, made of gleaming ebony with intricate carvings along the edges. The desk is cluttered with papers, quills, and various other items scattered around, reflecting the chaos that is his mind.

There is a large, comfortable-looking couch pushed up against one wall, covered in dark leather. The couch is big enough for several people to sit on with an old black cat curled in the center. A small window is set high in the wall, letting in just enough light to see by, but not enough to disturb Yaxley's concentration. An owl perched on a stand next to the desk, its golden eyes following Yaxley's every move.

The room is dimly lit, and the only source of light comes from a couple of oil lamps that cast long shadows on the walls. On the wall behind the desk, there is a large painting of Voldemort, the dark lord himself, staring out of the frame with his cold, snake-like eyes. The painting is lit by a small lamp that casts an eerie glow on the face of the dark lord.

The room is quiet and still, with only the sound of the owl's soft hooting and the occasional rustle of papers. The air is thick with the smell of old books and parchment, and the faint scent of incense. It is a room that is both imposing and comfortable, a reflection of the man who occupies it.

Yaxley sat at his desk, staring blankly at the parchment before him. For the first time in his life, he was questioning his allegiance to Lord Voldemort. He had always believed in the pureblood supremacy cause, but now he had grown to hate the man he once thought of as a savior.

His thoughts drifted to his son, who was currently at school, protected by the very people he had been taught to hate. Yaxley couldn't shake the feeling of guilt that washed over him whenever he thought of his child. He had been willing to sacrifice his son for the sake of the greater cause, but now he realized that there was nothing greater than the love he had for his child.

He had seen the brutality of Voldemort's regime firsthand. The killings, the torture, the disregard for human life. He had been a part of it all, thinking that it was all for the greater good. But now, he couldn't ignore the truth any longer. Voldemort was a monster, and he was nothing more than a pawn in his game.

Yaxley struggled with conflicting emotions. On one hand, he felt a sense of duty and loyalty to Voldemort. On the other hand, he felt a deep sense of revulsion and disgust for the man who had taken so much from him.

He wondered what his colleagues would think of him if they knew what was going on in his head. Would they view him as a traitor? Would they kill him on the spot? He knew that the Death Eaters were not known for their compassion and understanding. But alas, he did not care, he knew what he had to do.

He sits in the tall chair behind his monstrous desk, grabs a quill and inkwell, and starts on a piece of parchment:

Dear Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore,

I am writing to you today with a heavy heart, as I am in a desperate situation that threatens the safety of my most precious possession: my son. The events that have led me to this point are complicated, and I cannot go into too much detail here, as the very act of putting my quill to parchment is a risk. But I beg of you, please understand that my son's life is in grave danger and I am reaching out to you as a last resort, in the hope that you may be able to provide some form of protection for him.

I understand that in asking for your help, I am putting myself in a vulnerable position. But I am willing to take that risk if it means ensuring the safety of my child. I ask that you keep this letter and its contents in strict confidence, for my son's sake. I beg of you, please do not let him become another victim of the dark forces that seek to destroy us all.

I am aware that you and I have had our differences in the past. But I beg of you, put aside any ill feelings you may have towards me and consider the life of an innocent child. I humbly ask for your assistance in this matter, for without it, I fear the worst.

I await your response with bated breath.

Sincerely,

Corban Yaxley

P.S.

It would be best if my boy does not know about any of this. I do not want to scare him. After all, he is just a child.

Yaxley folded the letter carefully into three equal segments and placed it in an envelope. He addressed the headmaster and then sealed it with green candle wax and stamped it with his family crest. He handed the mail to the owl that sat perched on the edge of the desk and with no further prompting the bird leaped up and out the window.

A calming sense of relief washed over the death eater, feeling as though a great weight had been lifted from him. He had done the right thing and he believed both he and his family would be better for it. Yaxley moved sluggishly over to the leather couch dragging his feet and collapsed on it, nearly crushing the cat who leaped away with a scratch. Within seconds of his head hitting the cushion he was in a deep, dreamless sleep. For on this night Corban Yaxley was not a death eater or a minister worker. He was not a tracker for Voldemort or a man from a very old pure blood family. Today, Corban Yaxley, was a father.

He slept on that couch for nearly 20 straight hours, so overtired and beaten from all the sleepless nights and stress of the past few months. He was only woken when his owl gently pecked at his cheek.

"Ouch, rutty bird," a dazed Yaxley muttered.

The owl had a new letter in his beak, this time addressed to Yaxley. He quickly jumped up and tore it open. It read just one line:

The boy is under my personal protection; he will be safe.

~ A