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8

Punishments and Revelations

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Once the trial in Geneva was concluded, the news spread swiftly; in every paper, from the shores of Egypt to the Great Hall of Hogwarts, it was right there, front page news:

LOCKHART GUILTY!
Receives Lifelong Sentence!

The moving image of his disbelieving face as two ICW Aurors frogmarched him into view of the press would have been amusing, to Lenore, were it not for the papers also listing the man's deeds; the Australian Mugwump had insisted on that one, after finding out just what Lockhart did in Wagga-Wagga. From the reactions of some of the older girls among the student population, she was not alone in her disgust.

Students were moving between House tables to discuss and debate the special issue of the Prophet; no violence, yet, but it was early, and a Saturday morning. Sooner or later, some feckless idiot might try to defend Lockhart and not back down in the face of all the angry witches – Ms. Granger in particular looked rather like an outraged badger, all red-faced and shaking despite the calming pats of Mr. Weasley, who looked none too pleased himself as he read the Prophet with her. Most of the Gryffindors were visibly mullish and grumbling, the house of the brave spoiling for a fight; Lenore made a mental note to have the Doll keep a closer eye on them during the Hogsmede trip next week.

The Slytherins were paging through the Prophet with the Ravenclaws, both houses clearly incensed at the details revealed within, though the Ravens were clearly also sourly ashamed, as Lockhart had been one of their own. As for the Hufflepuffs, they seemed content to form a barrier between the Gryffs and Ravens, doing their best to defuse arguments before they flared up into drawing of wands; the current crop of Ravens had nothing to do with Lockhart, of course, but without a clear opponent to vent their frustrations on, the Gryffs, true to brand, went to the nearest associated group for answers (and to pick a fight, which was also on-brand).

Lenore decided to try convincing Albus to instate a Fencing Class; learning the art from David Bradley, her Squib tutor, was how she got so good at wandwork, after all, so it could be couched as a constructive way of venting frustrations in a safe environment. Didn't the Japanese have some equivalent, kenda or some such? More reading…

And speaking of reading, the Prophet hadn't pulled any punches when describing the long list of charges that'd, ultimately, buried Lockhart. Given that one of his victims had been an assistant editor at that paper… understandable.

Abusing the Memory Charm to steal fame was one thing; also using it for more carnal purposes was another entirely, and the ICW had been meticulous in combing through Lockhart's memories, searching for each and every abuse of the spell.

Two-hundred-and-ten instances of using the Memory Charm on women with sexual intent, in some cases multiple times, for a grand total of one hundred and eighty-two rape charges. And that was if one discounted the other three thousand and change instances where Lockhart used the spell to either permanently disable an individual, or erase the knowledge of a person's deeds from the local lore.

In one instance, a whole village had been Obliviated, right down to the children, simply so Lockhart could have a story about triumphing over a Yeti; covering it up with a "tragic" avalanche was well within the bastard's MO, and was good enough for the ICW Auror team of the time to declare the case closed, but not enough to fool a determined investigation by the DoM. Meanwhile, the near-entirety of Wagga-Wagga's Magical community were still having memory issues, with a good number having filed for disability – Forgetfulness Flu… who was coming up with naming conventions these days?

In the case of that Yeti story, however, there had been no survivors. Over 200 people, dead, for a fecking book deal.

Bad enough, but an examination of some of the births in Wagga-Wagga had turned up no less than six children who had been sired by Lockhart; even now, after the conviction, the ICW Aurors were retracing his steps in the hope of finding out just how many bastards the asshole had left in his wake, their mothers, to a one married women, unknowing of their children's true father. And that was because the raking slug had targeted couples where at least one parent sported blonde hair, likely to cover his tracks, as it were.

It was sickening, even by Lenore's already low standards for humanity's worst; she was fairly sure even Godelot, monster though he was, would have tossed Lockhart from a high place rather than work with him; or, knowing how the bastard fought, squashed the Obliviating prick with a boulder.

"Ah, Lenore," Professor Flitwick piped up from further down the High Table, where the staff were having breakfast, reading the same issue of the Daily Prophet she was, and keeping one eye on the student body, in case the inter-House discussions became violent; nothing so far, but it seemed Ms. Edgecombe and Ms. Greengrass were becoming more fiery in their discourse, the former holding up Lockhart's home care guides as an example of his character, while the latter was of the (correct, in Lenore's mind) opinion that, though the guides were of high quality, Lockhart's other deeds called their authenticity as his sole works into question, nevermind that it didn't excuse his actions, but it seemed Ms. Edgecombe was hardly making excuses for him. It sounded more like she thought a life sentence was too extreme; the Prefects were watching, though, and Severus seemed calm, so it didn't seem like the Snakes would strike out… for the moment, at least.

So, Lenore looked over Filius' way, "Yes?"

He tapped his paper, which was propped up on a juice pitcher, "Looks like young Ms. Bones gave an account of the Pixie Incident, along with your gallant rescue. Page four."

Paging over to the relevant article- oh damn where the hells did they find an image of her bumping shoulders and grinning with her year-crop of Silver Crescent Hunters? Gods and demons, there was Gertrude, putting bunny ears over Uriel's head with that gap-toothed grin of hers, and Osmund, always trying to look stoic and serious but it was clear he was on the verge of laughter, and Martine, oh, he looked so young-

"Who are those other people in the picture?" Professor Vector asked with naked curiosity, "You seem quite close with them."

"They all became Hunters in the same year I did," Lenore replied tersely, getting a concerned look from Remus; shaking her head to dispel the old yet all too recent screams in her memories, she tapped the paper, "That bloke with the mustache and suspenders is Martine Bones, my partner."

"Handsome chap, he is," Professor Sprout quipped with a smile in her voice.

"Was," Lenore corrected the woman, and herself, with a wince; damn the Moon Presence, damn the Gaunts. Marty didn't deserve to die like that-

"I wonder where they'll be putting Gilderoy," Albus mused after swallowing some toast, his eyes sweeping across the Prophet's pages with none of his customary grandfatherly warmness. "None of the Mugwumps were informed…"

"You needn't worry about that, Albus," Lenore assured him with a tone of steel. "Gilderoy's final destination will be a fitting punishment, for all the grief he's caused."

Hums of acceptance were had, and breakfast continued without further incident… aside from Ms. Lovegood being tripped by a housemate on her way out of the Hall.

Ms. Weasley was there for her, but Lenore and Flitwick still shared a glance; one investigation had closed, but it seemed like there was something closer to home that needed looking into…

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Beauregard Selwyn – Barry to his mates – shuddered as he awoke; he was seated upright, and from the shuddering of his seat, he was in a carriage. It also felt like his wrists were shackled.

Quickly, without moving, he checked his memories.

His uncle, Archie Selwyn, calling him for a meeting after Lockhart's trial. The subject: Lenore Black, and the potential of Barry courting her. After informing his uncle that Hunters were rendered sterile – due to some initiation ritual, from what Barry had read, since that Nundu business in Africa – Uncle Archie suggested Barry become a Hunter himself; barring the significant increase in pay, there was also the prestige that came with the station.

Barry would be lying if he said the idea didn't appeal to him, even though he knew that all Hunters didn't exactly have a long life expectancy; being specialists in dealing with the worst threats to humanity there was didn't coincide with longevity. Also…

On the Nundu hunt, he'd met two Hunters of the Astral Clocktower, the only Hunter Order left that was worth the name; all the other Orders were either filled with fat nobles who rode on the coattails of their better ancestors and never killed more than an ant, if that, while the rest that could boast Hunters only had single-digit memberships. The Astral Clocktower was the most prolific, regularly sending Hunters to assist with Hit-Wizard and Auror operations; or, they did when there was a good chance of Dark or Infernal magics at play.

The two Barry had seen, faces covered by scarves even in the hot desert heat… there was something unnerving about them, the way they stared, how they walked steadily even while wearing heavy leathers… how, if you took your eyes off them for even a moment, they'd suddenly be somewhere else.

He eventually learned that every Hunter underwent a ritual that put them, physically and mentally, above even the best humanity had to offer; at the cost of the ability to sire or bear children (at least), a Hunter became the primary weapon humanity used against all the horrible things crawling in the Dark. Barry knew of a few of those things, had even fought a Gorgon once, not long after becoming a Hit-Wizard – the reason he'd been awarded an OoM Third Class – but Hunters were a whole different breed, engaged in combat on a different level than the other fraternities and groups in the Magical Law Enforcement community. The closest he'd heard anyone compare them to, on the Muggle side of things, was the Magical version of the Special Air Service.

After learning what that was, and reading the redacted version of the Hunter's mission to kill the Dark Lord Godelot, the young Pureblood had to agree with that assessment. Hit-Wizards were rank-and-file soldiers, if soldiers of fortune, Aurors were detectives and general police… and the Hunters were special forces.

And Barry's uncle had suggested he become one.

Given the choice between continuing his career as a Hit-Wizard, and joining the ranks of the elite… it wasn't really a choice, in the end. Fortune favors the bold, as they say.

Which led to him going to the International Hunter Embassy in Geneva, taking a test, sitting for an interview with a man in white robes who smelled faintly of gun oil – a scent Barry was only familiar with due to keeping a Colt 1911 on him, just in case he was disarmed – and, after apparently passing all the requirements for Hunter Selection…

Barry had been bound magically to the chair, and a rag had been pressed over his mouth.

And then he'd woken up in the carriage.

Someone to his right smacked their lips and made a stretching sound, while another person groaned on his left; a woman and man, respectively, going by the cadence of the sounds they made.

Barry opened his eyes.

The carriage interior was dark wood, and covered in gray canvas; two benches sat across from one another, both filled by five people each. Barry was second from the rear of the carriage, which was guarded by a Hunter, this one carrying a massive wheel; the hulking man looked Slavic, with stubble all over his cheeks and chin, while his blue eyes were like chips of ice as they swept over the stirring occupants of the carriage.

Barry looked at those across from him- and froze. Along with Gilderoy Lockhart – who was blinking stupidly and trying to shake the sleep from himself – there was also the Dark Wizard Mamba, the bastard who'd made the Nundu Barry had killed in the summer just past. There was also another Slavic man Barry didn't know, who appeared resigned to his fate, a shifty-looking man that Barry recognized as Enrico Sciipi, a notorious slaver and murderer from southern Italy who was known to work with the Barbary Coast pirates on occasion…

And, finally, a woman, Ophelia Yves, who was looking about in terror; justifiably so, as Barry knew she'd been convicted of a number of crimes that could fill a decent-sized novel, and could be summed up as 'I knowingly, and willingly, supplied a Demonic Cult to Baphomet with money, supplies, and human sacrifices, while running a child-themed brothel on the side, all while using my job with the Spanish Ministry of Magic to misinform and hide both my activities and those of the Cult'.

Ah, and she'd tried to plead innocence, even trying to blackmail government officials with the aid of the press, ignoring that some of her victims had parents in both circles.

"You fucking cunt," the woman on Barry's right snarled with an American accent, making Yves squeak in terror; the woman began to rise with a growl-

Only to have the barrel of a flintlock pressed against her forehead.

The pistol was just hovering in the air… no, there was a ripple; someone was invisible, or Disillusioned.

"Ah, what's this?" a woman's voice, so sweet it could rot the bone, melted out of the air, "One of our new sisters wishes to get ahead of herself? Deny the Devil his rightful due?"

The illusion dropped- and Barry gulped down a scream.

The gun's holder was another Hunter, this one wearing an over-exaggerated witch's hat, with silver armor contoured like bone forming a breastplate, gauntlets, and boots with greaves; she was clothed otherwise in tattered, burned robes, and a bloodstained saw was held in her right hand, close enough to Yves and Lockhart that both of them jerked back in fear. And her face…

It was a skull mask, with eight eyes, four a side, its glittering visage turning slowly to the woman next to Barry instilling enough fear to make the Yank sit back down in wide-eyed shock.

"A-um, er, pardon me, ah, miss," Lockhart began hesitantly, drawing the attention of the Hunter, who lowered her pistol as she turned to the rapist prick, "But, w-well, you wouldn't happen to know where we're going, would you? No one told me, you see-"

"We are on the road to the most secure prison on the planet."

The voice filled the carriage, feeling to Barry's ears like a cold ale on a hot day, and came from the very back; as the skull-faced Hunter moved toward the rear of the carriage with the wheel-bearer, the speaker was revealed.

A feathered tricorn hat set on bone-white hair, styled into a ponytail, which was draped over riding leathers, highlighting the green gemstone broach on her breast, her crossed legs encased in mud-stained traveling boots; an odd saber… or katana… with another blade as the pommel sat naked to her right, against the carriage wall, and a long-barreled pistol was hung, still in its holster, on a nail to her left.

A single red eye peeked out from beneath the hat.

And she spoke again, "That prison being the home of the Hunter Orders, the first field site of the Department of Mysteries, and birthplace of Herpo the Foul: the Cursed City of Yharnam."

The name of the city was wholly unfamiliar to Barry; from most of the expressions around him, save the Hunters, he wasn't alone in his ignorance. But that it was something to do with Herpo the Foul, the most infamous Dark Lord in history?

Whatever lay ahead, it couldn't be anything pleasant; not that Barry minded a little hardship, if it meant he'd come out stronger on the other side.

Mamba, on the other hand, paled rapidly at this information, "No. No."

A clatter came from the back of the carriage; the skull-masked Hunter had lowered the gate and opened the canvas, revealing a twisted, fog-choked forest, with a worn cobblestone road leading back the way they came.

The wheel-holder stepped to one side, flicked a hand- and everyone's shackles fell off, "Only way out is back the way you came, as a Hunter, or as an Unspeakable. Last chance to run."

Mamba bolted, letting out a frightened wail as he tore out of the carriage and booked it down the road.

Barry stood and barked, "Why'd you do that?!" Didn't they realize how much work had been done, how many people died, to bring that bastard in?!

Wheel was unimpressed, "Was his last chance to run. Everyone gets a chance."

"Do you realize what he's done?!"

"Yeah." Wheel nodded uncaringly, then looked out at the fleeing form of Mamba, chuckling darkly, "Mm, he's a fast runner."

"Doesn't matter," Skull giggled-

And then a snake head, larger than any Barry had ever seen before, shot out from behind a tree and closed over the top half of Mamba's body.

Barry watched, pale-faced and scared stiff, same as everyone save the Hunters, as Mamba's terrified screams came back to the carriage; the snake lifted him up- and then another snake struck from across the road, grabbing Mamba's waist, one of his legs dangling out of the mouth, kicking desperately at the beast that grabbed him. The would-be Dark Lord's screams intensified, until they cut off with a crunching, wet, tearing as he was ripped in half.

The snake with the top half quickly swallowed its meal, while the other snake was joined by smaller heads, tearing apart the dangling leg much like a piranha would.

Skull cackled louder, shouting gleefully, "Poor you! Poor you! Hahahahaha!"

"I said you could run, said you could try escaping," Wheel rumbled lowly to the prisoners, who, save the Ruskie, looked right proper terrified, and the cruel smile of Wheel probably didn't help. "Never said you'd make it."

Barry sat down numbly, and looked at the pair on either side of him; the big man – Spaniard, from the look of him – looked more than a little disturbed, while the Yank woman was biting her lip with a similar expression. There was another pair of men with them, another Yank and a Japanese, and both looked just as disturbed as Barry felt.

Fair, Mamba was a monster by any metric; even the Darkest Houses of Britain's Magical community would see he was no friend by any stretch of the imagination. But to see him done in so cruelly…

"Jorge. Eliza," Wheel and Skull both stopped their chuckling at the admonishing tone of Feather, who was still seated in the back; after a moment, she continued, "As no one else seems eager to risk the venomous serpent hydras and hagravens infesting these woods, here's what will happen next: when we arrive, those of you who've been convicted of crimes will form a line in the middle of the square. There, you will be given your final sentencing by the Grandmaster Hunter Oliver Swift, whose authority in this place is quite final. Those of you who are here as Hunter hopefuls will line up at the windows of Logarius' Rest, the tavern near the city gates."

The carriage clattered away in silence for a moment.

"Does this bitch," the Yankee woman jerked her head at Yves angrily, who whimpered in fear, "really need any sentencing? Should just toss 'er out with the snakes."

"You heard Lady Maria," Skull, or Hunter Eliza rather, replied in a voice lacking humor or warmth, her words feeling more like the icy whip of a Dementor's passing, "Grandmaster Swift's judgment is the final law here."

Barry nudged his carriage partner, who glared at him as he spoke up, "I'm sure if whatever punishment he lays down isn't to our tastes, we can take it up with him after."

"What do you know of it?" the woman challenged; her accent… well, he was no expert on American dialect, but maybe Boston?

Regardless, he turned his most unfriendly glare – most unpleasant to be on the receiving end of, especially when the glare-er was a Selwyn – on the right fucking cunt across the carriage from him, "Any Hit-Wizard or Witch worth their salt knows what she did." And he spat at her feet.

Yankee girl's expression was warmer, if still hard, after his declaration.

No further conversation was had, Yves' despairing whimpers the only sound, barring the grinding of the wheels on the cobblestone, for many long minutes.

Suddenly, a shout came from the front of the carriage, on the other side of the canvas; the carriage driver, no doubt, "Delivery! Open the gates!"

An answering voice came, faintly, from high above, "How many?"

"Five recruits! Would've been five guests, too, but one tried to leg it!"

After a barking laugh, there came a loud, grinding groan, followed by cracking bangs, as the gates of the city were presumably opened. The bangs, Barry realized as they passed a huge pair of iron doors set into gray stone, had come from the hinges, each and every one caked with streams of thick rust.

'Oil must be rare, 'round these parts,' he mused with a frown, wondering why magic wasn't used.

The carriage led them past a guardhouse, and what was probably a brothel, given the red lamp outside and the pair of women smoking cigarettes on its step. Turning into a square, Barry spotted a quartet of men, wearing top hats, rising from their game of dice next to a general store; that was when their transport came to a halt, and Jorge the Wheel Hunter hopped to the cobbles outside.

"Remember the arrangements I gave you," Lady Maria's voice echoed unnaturally in the carriage, reminding Barry of her earlier orders.

With one more glance at his fellows, he stood and hopped out after the Spaniard, and got his first look at Yharnam's town square.

It was a roundabout, lined with buildings. Tall, gothic stone buildings with slate roofs stood all around them, their spires seeming like jagged black teeth in the cold grey overcast sky; some bore wooden signs denoting businesses, others with clothes hanging on lines, or on balcony rails; where the Hunters lived, presumably. Behind Barry was the well-lit tavern, a large board above the leaded bay windows of the bar picturing a tall, robed man with a staff walking through golden fields toward a cottage, with black lettering spelling out Logarius' Rest to one side above the open door; upbeat jazz came faintly to the British Hit-Wizard's ears from within. And next door, closer to the gates and across the way from the general store and guardhouse, was a blacksmith, the proprietor in question, a slender blonde German with a bald head and thick beard, coming out of his shop to watch the prisoners line up in the middle of the square.

A click and the smell of tobacco drew his eye to the Yank woman, who'd lit a cigarette; at his glance, she offered her pack.

"Much obliged," he thanked her and lit the fag with his wand, before offering a hand, "Barry Selwyn, out of Britain."

Her eyebrows went up, "The Nundu guy?" At his nod, she smiled and shook his hand; strong grip, "Yeah, I could tell you were a limey by the accent. Annette Peterson, out of Boston."

Oh? He'd heard of this witch; specifically, "So, that story about the four manticores…?"

She scoffed, "Four starved manticores. That was barely a fight, unlike the shit that bitch," a disgusted nod at Yves, who was shivering between Sciipi and Lockhart, "put us through."

"Thought she was just an accomplice."

"Yeah, but taking down that cult she was supplying wouldn't have been so bad if not for all those people she helped kidnap."

"You two speak Japanese rather well," the Japanese man commented, suspicion in his eyes; also, what?

"It's the Linguim."

All five Hunter hopefuls jumped and spun at the sudden voice behind them. It'd come from a tomboyish young woman, her brown hair cropped short and wearing a man's shirt with trousers and suspenders, a cigarette dangling from her lips and dark circles under her eyes.

Utterly plain… if not for the unusual aura that seemed to embrace her, sending the hairs on Barry's neck standing up.

Taking a drag, she told them, through a haze of blue tobacco smoke, "Whole city's been placed under an enchantment called the Omni Linguim; anyone who enters has it harmlessly imprinted on their magic, and it stays with you after you leave. Anything you say gets translated into the listener's native tongue, and you can understand most any language spoken to you. Makes talkin' to people easier, spend less time learning a hundred languages."

"Jack, over here!" called a young man with some fellows, over by the general store.

The woman waved, and gave the five new Hunters a nasty grin, "Welcome to Hell, meat." And then she blurred-

Barry could hardly follow it, how the girl just moved, faster than anything he'd seen, and was suddenly on the other side of the square with the other youngsters; a few words later and the little group were laughing, though cut off when an older Hunter barked at them.

"Hell, huh?" the Spaniard spoke up uncertainly, looking around with a weak smile, "Thought there'd be more fire."

Barry only hummed, dragging on his smoke again while looking around.

One of the buildings opposite where Barry was stood, one that had a saw blade and a flintlock pistol carved above the door, had quite a few Hunters outside it.

And then, without preamble, its door banged open.

The whole square instantly went quiet, the gathered Hunters, young and old, giving their full attention.

Out of the building marched a large man in black leathers, with some kind of clockface medallion dangling from a chain on his neck. His graying hair was uncovered by any hat, but was neatly trimmed; yet his ruddy, weatherbeaten face was twisted into a sour look. At his heels came a clerk, carrying a small desk with five thick folders sitting on it – and it really underscored how strong Hunters were, that even a scrawny one could haul around heavy oak desks like that – along with another pair carrying a lit iron brazier…

And an Unspeakable.

Who was drinking liquor straight from the bottle while walking behind the grim-faced Hunter.

The party came to a stop directly across the four prisoners, who had mixed reactions to this apparent executioner's party.

Lockhart fidgeted, Yves tried to make herself seem as small as possible, Sciipi sneered and spat, and the Slav man just hung his head and looked thoroughly miserable.

Still, no one spoke, not even when a pair of big burly Hunters walked up behind the prisoners, each of the big men toting metal canes and a blunderbuss apiece.

Around a sniff, the gaunt lead Hunter growled, his rough voice enough to fill the crowded square, "Right. Hmph. Before we begin, is there any old business that needs clearing up?"

Other than the Unspeakable letting out a belch and sneezing, before pulling out another bottle from his robes, no one really spoke up.

"Good, let's get on with it," the Hunter rolled his shoulders and introduced himself, "To those new to these streets, I am Grandmaster Hunter Oliver Swift, the right honorable Master of the Orders, Acting Master of the Astral Clocktower, and Warden of the Cursed City of Yharnam. For those of you seeking to become Hunters, welcome, but be warned: the next few weeks of your lives will not be easy, and the following months may be your last, but should you overcome the trials before you, kinship awaits you, as a member of the Hunter Orders-"

Sciipi spat again, and added a scoff.

Swift ignored him, "-those noble heroes of humanity who are sworn to stand against the Dark, and all those who aid it, till their dying breath." Clicking his tongue, Swift turned to the prisoners, "As for you filth, welcome to the last place on Earth you will ever see. For your crimes against humanity or by simple admission of guilt before an ICW court, you have been sent here and placed before my nonexistent mercy, bereft of the privileges you once enjoyed as free men and woman. Here, my word is law, and my judgments are final."

"What a load of pig shit," Sciipi sneered, rolling his eyes.

"Ah, good, a volunteer," Swift made a hand gesture and the two toughs grabbed Sciipi by his arms and ("Get your filthy hands off m-oof," the moron was cut off by a large fist to his stomach) hauled him over within ten paces of Swift, before hurling him to his knees and stepping to either side.

While the Italian collected himself, Swift picked up a folder and began reading its contents; after a few minutes, he let out a low whistle, "Six times we've had an aider and abetter of the Barbary Pirates in this square, but none had a rap sheet as revolting as this, little Rico."

"Bootlicking faggot!" Sciipi snarled back, lifting his chin high even while on his knees, "I don't recognize this organization, nor its authority! By my rights as a member of the Noble, Sacred and Ancient house of Sciipi, I demand you release me to my family immediately!"

"Your family has disowned you and has, repeatedly, during your trial, disavowed any blood or casual relation to you, little Rico," Swift replied calmly, "In addition, the ICW has, as I already stated, given over the right of final punishment to the Hunter Orders, which, as the highest ranking member thereof, means that I have every authority to sentence you."

Sciipi spat on the Master Hunter's coat.

'Is he fucking suicidal?' Barry thought, looking at the other Hunters; they hadn't reacted. If anything, they seemed bored, as though this had happened many times already.

Barry supposed he understood Sciipi's idiocy; five months ago, he'd only heard of Hunters in the context of "if you see a bloke or bird in heavy leathers and carrying strange weapons, stand aside and let them work"... the Nundu hunt excepted. They'd been there as support and observation-

"All you are," Sciipi continued to sneer, looking about at the surrounding Hunters, while Swift examined the spit stain on his coat with dry interest, "and all those with you, just another kennel of dogs of the ICW, only barking at their master's bidding. My family are the ones who fund so-called Orders like yours, feed you dogs your gruel and ensure you're not left out in the rain. So, until I am released from prison by my country, you, and all your pathetic excuses for Hunters, can all continue to knot each other like the bastards and bitches you are."

Even the drunk Unspeakable was staring in shock at the complete idiot, by the end of that tirade. As for Master Hunter Swift…

He sighed, and reached into his jacket to pull out- Morganna's tits that was a big revolver.

"Smith and Wesson 500 Bone Collector. Master Hunter has some good taste," Ms. Peterson muttered with approval while Swift opened the gun to check the chamber and Sciipi continued to sneer.

"Oh, what? Are you going to shoot me, like some Mudblood?"

Click went the huge revolver as it was closed, the hammer cocked silently; Swift's expression was utterly humorless, as was his tone.

"I wasn't going to, but you kind-of talked me into it."

KLAM

Yves screamed shrilly as the back half of Sciipi's head exploded to decorate most of the square leading up to her shoes. Lockhart, for all his so-called experience, immediately vomited at the sight of someone's insides.

Weirdly, the Slav didn't react, beyond a flinch at the loud noise.

Turning to the brazier, Swift tossed Sciipi's file into the flames; as it burned, he said to one of the burly Hunters, "Errol, there's a corpse in the square. Get rid of it."

The big man nodded grimly, asking in a thick voice, "Feed 'em to the pigs, guv?"

"Good lad," after Sciipi's corpse was dragged away and the fragments of his skull and brains Vanished off the cobbles, Swift yawned and grabbed the next file off the pile, calling out, "Ophelia Yves."

She cried, she begged, she prostrated herself and said, over and over again, "Mercy, please, have mercy."

Swift said nothing for several long minutes, ignoring Yves in favor of perusing her file.

Just when the groveling was getting embarrassing – by Circe, the woman was trying to kiss Swift's boots – and Barry was considering shooting the pathetic wretch himself, Master Swift shut the file and turned his sour expression on Yves.

She squeaked like a stepped on mouse and quailed, only the remaining hulking Hunter behind her stopping her from shuffling out of reach.

"Ivanna!"

A tired-looking brown haired woman in gray, stained robes appeared next to Yves, who flinched; the new Hunter's accent was distinctly Polish, "At your service, sir."

Swift pointed a gloved finger at Yves, "Take this thing, kit it with five days' provisions, and abandon it in the deepest section of the Isz Gravestone you can safely reach without alerting the residents." To Yves, he said, practically spitting the words, "By my oaths and the laws set forth which govern this place, in addition to the ICW's wording of your sentence, I am obligated to give you the chance to earn redemption through deeds, and so I give you this chance: bring back five pearl slugs into the light of day, and I'll think about making you the newest street sweeper in Central Yharnam."

There were a few coughs and outright chuckles from the gathered Hunters; if there was a joke, however, it flew clear over Barry and his fellows' heads.

After Yves had been dragged away – by her hair no less, the Hunter Ivanna not caring for her charge's discomfort in the least – Swift didn't bother picking up the next file, instead leveling a sober look at the yet-named Slav.

"Valeri Petrovich."

The name wasn't familiar to Barry, and a glance at the other Hunter hopefuls revealed they didn't know of him either; as for the actual Hunters around them, their response seemed almost respectful. Hats were doffed, and more than a few of the men and women checked their drinking flasks or beer mugs.

As for Mr. Petrovich, he shuffled miserably up to Hunter Swift without the burly Hunters "assisting" him, falling to his knees roughly, never raising his head.

Frowning severely, Hunter Swift clicked his tongue-

pop

-and gave his Unspeakable shadow a dirty look as the man uncorked his bottle at last, "It's not even noon, Gregor."

"It's five o'clock somewhere, Ollie." The Unspeakable grinned and fastened his lips on the mouth of the bottle, gulping loudly as he drank.

Shaking his head, Swift turned back to the prisoner, Petrovich, saying in a soft voice that nonetheless carried all around the square, "Hundreds of men and women have stood where you now stand, Valeri; murderers, magic abusers, madmen, demon worshippers, rapists- to a one, irredeemable sacks of tissue masquerading as humans. I have no sympathy for a single one of them, for levying upon them their justly deserved punishments.

"You are the first decent man who has ever stood in that spot, Valeri Petrovich of Stalingrad."

"With respect, sir Hunter," Petrovich replied in a voice thick with restrained tears, "you have my quality mistaken. My deeds-"

"-do not unbalance the good you did, through those deeds," Swift cut the man off with a voice of iron surety, but with a tone that was still gentle.

Addressing the crowd, Swift went on, "For those not aware, two years ago, in Svalbard, Auror Trainee Petrovich here arrived with his tutor to that remote island, following a lead regarding a rash of disappearances in the Urals and surrounding areas, both Muggle and Magical. Mr. Petrovich here, an honorable graduate of Durmstrang, quickly recognized the signs of demonic activity in their search area; unfortunately, it turned out his mentor was in league with the responsible cult. The young man before us was nearly captured, and would have met the same fate as those who'd already been sacrificed; indeed, the Department of Mysteries have thoroughly investigated the site, physically and temporally, and have concluded that, by the time Valeri and his traitor mentor arrived on the island, not a single kidnapped person was still alive or uncorrupted.

"He cast Fiendfyre, desperately, to avoid capture when his mentor's 'friend' entered the fray… this 'friend' being a Living Saint of the Archdemon Moloch."

More than a few Hunters spat at the mention of the name. Barry, himself, felt a chill run down his spine; he'd studied the ancient past – nuts to Binns, the Selwyn library was a more accurate reference to Magical history than that goblin-obsessed ghost – and had read of Herpo the Foul, and the demons he'd courted.

One of his most notorious patrons had been Moloch, the Devourer of Innocence. According to the histories out of Greece, Xerxes, King of Persia, fought a Champion of that demon in Thebes, as he sought to liberate his Greek allies from Herpo's machinations. There were countless songs, poems, and accounts of the battle, which exhausted the Persian King so much that he needed to rest in Athens for a month to recover, during which time he sent word to the Centaurs, and their King, Ludwig, for aid; for the Centaurs were long known, even then, to be sworn enemies of demonkind in general, but Moloch in particular. Not long after, the Battle of Second Marathon, and the Fall of Herpo, happened.

It was said children were the monster's preferred sacrifice, and the rituals involved… the books never went into great detail, but even the vague suggestion of what they involved was enough to make even a Selwyn's stomach twist.

And this man, Petrovich, had slain a Living Saint of that monster? Had destroyed an entire cult?

What was he doing here?

"Yet, no matter what evidence was brought to trial, no matter the accounts of all his friends and family, attesting to your character," Swift continued, silencing the quiet muttering of the crowd, "still you pled guilty, asking for the maximum punishment that could be brought against you, insisting, in spite of everything, that you were a murderer, that what you did constituted as a crime.

"Mr. Petrovich, I can say with complete confidence that not a single man or woman in this crowd, killers to a one, think your actions as anything other than that of a hero."

But, despite those warmly-delivered words, Valeri only shook his head, replying mournfully, "I can't do it! I can't use the greater good to justify my actions. Even now, I can hear their screams, their pleading… no matter what you say, I know what I heard; there were still children alive in those pens. And I burned them…"

"They were already marked by Moloch," Swift pointed out gently, "They were already dead, their souls devoured and replaced by the Dark."

"But their bodies still deserved to be delivered back to their mothers, if they had them still, if they weren't already…" Valeri shook his head again, denying the forgiveness offered, shaking away the nightmares of what he'd faced and lived to tell of, "and their screams still haunt me…"

"...you did what many others tried and failed to do," Swift went on, still quietly, still gruffly, but not unkindly, "You did what you had to do, not as an Auror, but as a human.

"Long ago, a madman said he'd kill us all, that his curses would endure and slaughter all of humanity. Those like him, who came after, said much the same, created spells that cannot be forgiven, rituals that should have never existed, left behind mountains of dead men, women and children, each victim a thousand thousand times their quality. Emeric the Evil, Godelot the Reviled, Grindelwald the Sinister. The first two, I have viewed the memories of those who fought them; the third, I fought personally, spoke with. They all said the same thing: that the Dark would win. That good and honest men weren't enough to stop them. That we are weak.

"And yet, we are still here."

Silence followed, only the sound of wind blowing over the roofs of the building lending ambience to Hunter Swift's declaration.

"You do not belong here as a prisoner, Valeri Petrovich, no matter what you, yourself, may think," Swift's jaw shifted from side to side as the Hunter thought to himself. "Nonetheless, as someone delivered as a prisoner, you must do as others have done, and earn your keep. Hunter Urien!"

Another Hunter, this one a bald African man wearing heavy leathers with a big hammer resting on his shoulder, appeared at Petrovich's side, "Sir?"

"Kit Valeri here properly for expedition, then take him to the Upper Hintertombs, see if you can find some buds," to Valeri, he said, "The Hintertombs aren't as rough as the other ruins under these streets, but you should still treat it as walking into a cult's base; don't let your guard down, listen to Urien's advice, and for the love of God, man, come back to the sun once you have a few flowerbuds."

With a wave from the Grandmaster, Hunter Urien clapped Valeri on the shoulder and led him away, talking quietly as they passed through a gap in the crowd.

As good a result as any, Barry figured, sharing a hopeful smile with Annette, who commented, "Figured he was either a decent guy, or knew he'd fucked up royally."

"Gilderoy Lockhart," Swift said the name like he was unused to it, flipping through the man's file quickly with a curled lip, "Mother Mary, you're a piece of work."

"Ah, all baseless accusations, I assure you," Lockhart began as he pranced forward to take Petrovich's place, his slimy demeanor making Barry want to jinx the poofter, "Claims made by jealous rivals-"

KLAM

-only for Swift to draw his Smith & Wesson once more, and shoot Lockhart in the privates.

The blonde ponce's mouth fell wide open in a silent scream as he went to the pavement, clutching his ruined, bleeding groin.

Tossing the man's file into the brazier, Swift looked Lockhart dead in the eyes and snarled, "We don't accommodate rapists in this city, you sack of shit. No matter what the ICW orders, my oaths as a Hunter take precedence in this: suffer no rapist, whether their practice be on body, mind, or soul. And you, you pretentious turnip, are all three. Errol, throw this waste of life into the most beast-infested pit of Loran you can find."

"Right away, guv," the hulking Hunter smirked while dragging Lockhart's away, the bleeding man letting out gasping screams as he went.

Barry just stared, shocked at what was an obvious execution, of someone with no small amount of fame, at that!

…fair enough, Uncle Archibald had been rather… colorful, in expressing what he'd like to do to the rapist filth. But still, the suddenness of the execution had struck Barry speechless, and the other hopefuls, too.

Swift snapped his fingers, making one of the secretaries near him look up from his notes, "Are Lockhart's parents still among the living?"

"Yes, sir. They live in Salem."

"Innocent?"

"They never aided him, save at the start of his career, and only financially, sir."

"Hm. Send his mother a letter, expressing condolences, on my behalf, for having to go through the agony of carrying and delivering that scourge into this world. Throw in one of those Belgian gift baskets, too; the one with wine and chocolates."

"Yessir," the secretary replied distractedly, scribbling away at his ledger.

Swift then gestured at Barry and his fellows, "You five! Get over here."

Walking into the middle of the square, with dozens of Hunters watching his every move, made Barry feel like he was squaring off with that Nundu in the hot African sun again.

Truth be told, he felt like he was safter fighting the Nundu.

After examining each of the five Hunter hopefuls for a long moment, Swift barked at them, "Five! Out of ten thousand, two hundred and three Magical law enforcement officers, Unspeakables, Hit Wizards and Aurors, they send us five! Tch." The aged Hunter shook his head disappointedly, "Then again, I shouldn't expect much, with half the world in a constant state of recovery from local conflicts in progress or recently resolved, while the rest is still repopulating from the war brought by that piss-drinker, Grindelwald.

"Regardless, each of you are about to embark on the most brutal training course of your lives; each of you will be assigned a Hunter tutor, who will be closer to you in the next two months than that bitch of a mother who brought you screaming into this world. During these next months, any weakness that can be found in civilization will be sweated out of your body and burned out of your mind, as you are honed into the finest and deadliest weapon humanity has in its possession: a Hunter. At the end of those two months, if your tutor deems you worthy of it, you will receive the Transfusion, descend into the tombs beneath the streets and, once you emerge with a trophy proving your worth, you will be given your badge, your tools, and your first assignment.

"You are here because the recruitment offices believe you will survive the training, the tombs, that you can be the bane of the Dark, the things each one of you knows claw at the roots of life." The look on Swift's face turned from sour to challenging, "Do you think failure is an option you can entertain?"

Barry remembered the Nundu, its claws, its teeth, the disease pouring from its maw, the screams of the dead and dying…

His hands balled into fists, and he declared, quietly, "No."

Each of the other prospective Hunters said the same, in the same quiet and sober tone.

Swift only nodded, the sour expression returning, "Then don't." And, turning on his heel, without another word, Swift and his entourage left the square back to their office.

tap

Barry started; the Skull Hunter – Eliza, he reminded himself – was suddenly in front of him, that hideous mask grinning up at him.

"Beauregard Selwyn," the voice seemed to echo from somewhere deeper inside the mask.

He gulped, steeled himself, and nodded at the Hunter, "Hunter Eliza."

Reaching up with a glittering gauntlet, the Hunter removed her mask… revealing a freckled, heart-shaped face with a round nose; overall, a very plain-looking woman- ah, wait, her grin revealed a gap in her front teeth, and there were bags beneath her hazel eyes.

"Do you scare easily, Pureblood?" she asked, still grinning in a way that, on anyone else, would look coquettish; on her, it gave the impression of a butcher examining a prime cut of meat.

"I fought a Nundu and won, so," he shrugged; fair, he'd been scared shitless of the thing, but he'd shown it in the end.

"Hmm, in that case," the unsettling Hunter chuckled slowly, her laughing eyes glassy and seemingly dead, "I'll have to teach you true horror."

.

.

.

It had been a week since the paper had come out; the world turned, as it ever had, and Lockhart's fate fled the spotlight rather quickly.

That his final prison was classified helped the papers move on to other topics; not much of a story when there wasn't one to follow.

Lenore focused on her classes, and her family issues. Sirius was coming along nicely, but, forced she was to admit, he would never have the social graces of a right proper Lord of the Blacks. Too much time in prison, too much time being exposed to the rock-bottom end of their House's decline, to want to be a true part of that world.

Which was why she'd left a pamphlet about acting classes on his bedside desk; that motorcycle was a fine hobby toy, but some learning in public speaking would help him integrate better, once the time came for him to formally retake the Black's Wizengamot seat.

Party lines were something she was less concerned about. Between Lucius' "Dark" bloc and Longbottom's "Light", both Lenore and Sirius found Greengrass' Neutrals more appealing. Sure, Lucius only entertained the radicals so he would have fall men in case a proposal was ill-received, but that didn't excuse letting obviously deranged slugs like Nott continue to sit near him. As for Augusta… the Statute was all well and good, no matter how Lenore felt about it personally, but becoming more insular was counterintuitive to the reason the Statute existed in the first place: to limit Magical influence on the world, and give the Mundanes time and space to develop technologies that didn't involve magic.

…and, yes, stop the Catholic Church from exacting undeserved genocide upon anyone who disagreed with them, or was Magical, but that wasn't the point.

The point was: at some point in the future, the enchantment supporting the Statute would weaken, and then collapse, and when that day came, a smooth integration was a better alternative to having Mundane humanity suddenly find the ruins of a strange civilization that'd been hidden from them, populated only by inbred wretches.

Lord Greengrass had read the writing on the wall, before Lenore had woken, and was already making inroads with the Mundanes; funding projects, speaking in boardrooms with wealthy CEOs, and generally giving his family every advantage they could have. All under the table and out of sight of the rest of the Wizengamot, of course, but Lenore was a Hunter, trained in the old ways.

It had been simplicity itself to find the paper trail; all she had to do was bribe a goblin.

…she'd have to tell Greengrass about that chink in his armor, someday. But not today.

Today, she was trudging up toward Dumbledore's office, heart heavy and mind whirling with rage and consideration, the left shoulder of her shirt, next to her black suspenders, still wet with Sirius' tears.

A wave of a hand moved the gargoyle, and up the revolving staircase she went, still thinking.

Three hours ago, she'd been visiting Grimmauld Place, telling Sirius about the Horcruxes – but keeping it vague; that kind of knowledge was dangerous – when Kreacher appeared before them.

In his hands, a bundle of rags… containing a silver necklace…

And the locket Salazar Slytherin gave to his youngest daughter, on her wedding day.

Lenore sighed heavily, and let herself into Albus' office without knocking- and paused.

Severus Snape made his shot, gently sending the 9 ball into the corner pocket. As for Albus, he was also standing by the billiard table, dressed much as Lenore was, except his shirt was yellow, and his pants and suspenders were red; he'd also trimmed his beard short. Interesting…

"Ah, Lenore," Albus smiled, while Severus gave her a suspicious look, "Care to play a round before we begin the meeting? Severus is rather too good at this game."

"I thought you said this was the first time you-"

"Quite good indeed," Albus nodded cheerfully, ignoring Severus' grumbling.

So, the old Wizard had brought the former Death Eater in on the hunt for the Horcruxes?

…fair enough, she'd rather have Severus next to her – and therefore in neck-snapping range – rather than have him working for Britain's enemies. Regardless…

"No time for games, Albus," Lenore replied, taking out the lead box and dropping it on his desk with a muted bang; fishing out a sealed memory, she set that down, far more gently, next to the box.

"Oh? Found something to aid our search already?" Albus asked with clear interest, setting his cue on the table and walking over, eyes shining with great interest. Severus followed the Headmaster, though with much more caution; warranted caution, at that.

Falling heavily into a chair, Lenore rubbed her eyes and stabbed a finger at the box, "Better: I found, and destroyed, one of the Horcruxes already."

Humming, Severus waved his wand and opened the lead box; peering inside, his hooked nose twitched as he sneered, ignoring Albus leaning over to join the examination, "I take it that the reason the silver is tarnished, is…?"

"There was a small explosion of magic when I cut the chain."

"The locket wasn't the locus?" hm, so Severus knew his Dark artifacts; perhaps that Mastery he was sitting on wasn't unwarranted.

"Horcruxes don't have a locus," Lenore crossed her legs and folded her hands as she elucidated, "They function as bodies, imbued with the caster's soul energy; even if it's a complex object, like a length of chain links, or a pocketwatch, as long as a single element of the object is destroyed, severed, or pierced, the enchantment fails. After all, any such damage would either critically injure or kill a human, and the Horcrux acts as a false, if inanimate, body. Additionally, if the Horcrux was made by a sufficiently powerful Magical, the object can have an area of mental influence on other beings; the larger the soul shard contained, the stronger the effect."

Albus looked at her over his half-moon glasses, eyes creasing in slight concern, "I hope he didn't give you too much trouble."

Lenore huffed with displeasure, "Hardly; I used the Black Manor basement, encircled the Horcrux in containing Runes, and severed the chain with a goblin-forged siderite knife. As for the mental attack, I've faced much worse from worse," she shrugged slightly, but also allowed a small smile to form, "That said, I did manage to discover some very useful information:

"Tom Riddle removed sections of his soul in accordance with a theme, that theme being what he perceived as weaknesses in humanity. For instance, if it were a pure Horcrux, it would've contained an accurate, complete copy of his soul; in this case, it did not. Instead it contained unadulterated lust."

Severus blinked, and concluded, "He removed his libido."

"Just as well," Lenore sniffed, "I doubt even a platypus would have found the bastard attractive."

"And this, I presume," Albus held up the memory vial, an expression of triumph on his face, "Would be your memory of its destruction?"

"...no."

The two Wizards looked at Lenore with concern, at that simple, sadly-delivered word.

She frowned, and continued, "It's… Kreacher's memory. From when he… assisted, in retrieving the Horcrux, over 10 years ago."

Humming, Albus summoned his Pensieve; after pouring the memory in, where it projected the image of a gaping cave on the side of a cliff, he asked Lenore, "Care to come with, dear?"

Lenore shook her head and walked over to the nearest window, "I've already seen it, as has Sirius. The only three beings you'll find are Kreacher, Regulus Black… and inferi."

Sharing one more glance, the two Wizards dipped their fingers in the bowl.

As for Lenore, she shut her eyes, reliving what they were seeing.

"It needs blood. Give me your hand, Kreacher."

"Yes, Master Regulus."

…

"A potion. Can you drink it, Kreacher?"

"I will try… no, Master. It never touches my tongue."

"I see… Kreacher, no matter what this potion does, I must keep drinking it. Even if you have to force me to."

"Master, I-"

"Promise me, Kreacher."

"...I promise, Master Regulus."

…

He is screaming, clutching at the basin, screaming like someone under the Cruciatus.

"No… no… leave him… l-leave him alone…"

Kreacher fills the shell, dutifully, and is careful not to spill any potion, even as he weeps.

"Stop… s-stop hurting h-him… leave Sirius alone…"

Kreacher made him drink, still weeping.

Regulus gulps it down, and sobs.

"No… n-no, m-m-mother, stop…"

Kreacher didn't want to remember, but he couldn't help it. He remembered that day, in the sitting room, next to the Tapestry, when Regulus stood up for his brother…

And Walburga made him pay in pain, and servitude to the Dark Lord.

…

The potion was done.

Kreacher snatched the necklace from the basin, replacing it with the fake; he turned-

Inferi.

"Go," Regulus was calm, even as he used fire to beat a few back, but he was weak; one of the dead grabbed his wand, the wood splintering in its unforgiving grip.

Kreacher took a step forward-

Regulus' eyes focused on him

"GO! TAKE IT AWAY! DESTROY IT, OR IT WAS ALL FOR NOTHING!"

Kreacher stepped back, preparing to Pop away-

The inferi dragging Regulus away- their fingers pulling at his skin- Regulus' hand plunged into his robes, withdrawing-

A Quietus Spike.

"TORJUS PUR!"

He drove it into his own heart-

White LIGHT-

The boiler in Grimmauld place, and Kreacher's quiet, wretched sobs of grief and awe, at seeing the end of the best of the remaining Blacks.

…

Lenore opened her eyes, hearing the too-recent echoes of Sirius' wretched sobbing into her shoulder, and sighed tiredly, bowing her head- her hand snapped out to catch the items falling from her hat.

Cranberries.

A trill came from the nearby perch, and she looked, narrow-eyed, at Fawkes the phoenix, who somehow managed a smug look before picking up another piece of fruit and hurled it at Lenore's face.

She caught it in her mouth and crushed it between her teeth, seed and all.

"...thank you."

Trill.

"But don't do that again, or I'll cook you like a goose."

Honk.

"Are you a phoenix or a fecking duck?!"

Fawkes barked like a dog.

Several minutes later, a somber Albus and Severus emerged from the memory to find Lenore Black screaming and slashing a metal whip as she chased Fawkes, who was making elephant sounds, around the Headmaster's office, the portraits alternating between cheering on their favorite of the pair and making bets.