Chapter 7

Beginning of September 2003
Ministry of Magic, London, United Kingdom.

Amelia Bones sat at her desk, exhaustion etched into every line of her face. Her fingers massaged her temples as she contemplated the aftermath of the World Cup disaster. Citizens from other countries had been injured by the Death Eaters, and the international pressure was mounting. Thanks to it, it was unlikely that any of the captured Death Eaters would escape without facing severe consequences. However, deep down, Amelia knew that they were merely pawns in a much larger game. Most of them were unmarked, indicating that they were at the bottom of Voldemort's old organization, mere foot soldiers in his dark army.

And that Count of Caerwin... Rumors of his heroic deeds had spread like wildfire, earning him a reputation as a mysterious and valiant figure. There were even articles in the press detailing his acts of bravery, painting him as a modern-day hero. The combination of his courageous actions - saving a Pureblood Princess and helpless citizens, coupled with his aura of mystery, had made him a figure of fascination and admiration among the public.

While she appreciated his efforts in inflicting significant damage on the Death Eaters, she was frustrated that he had disappeared without facing interrogation by the Aurors. Purebloods often believed they were above the law, and the Count's actions seemed to reinforce that notion. Despite her gratitude for his heroic deeds in saving the lives of spectators during the chaos of the World Cup, she couldn't help feeling frustrated by his apparent evasion of accountability. If she had her way, she'd give him a medal herself, but she knew the law had to be upheld, regardless of one's status. She was about to start thinking about the one counterexample of pureblood's privilege, one of her rare failures, which left a bitter taste in her mouth. But she couldn't even begin to think about the Sirius Black file when a tapping interrupted her.

With a sigh, she rose from her desk and approached, recognizing the telltale sign of an owl. She unlatched the window and retrieved the letter, her fingers lingering on the smooth, high-quality envelope. The sender's address, embossed in elegant script, revealed it was from the Mysterious Count of Caerwin.
Curiosity piqued, she carefully tore open the envelope and withdrew its contents, revealing a letter accompanied by several sheets of paper. The Count's words sprawled across the page in precise, ornate handwriting, each sentence seemingly crafted with meticulous care. As she'd expected, the Count's handwriting was immaculate, and his style quite pompous and pedantic - nothing too shocking for a nobleman.

Dear Madam Bones,

I trust this missive finds you in good health and high spirits. It is with great respect and humility that I pen these words to you, knowing full well the weight of your esteemed position within the Ministry of Magic.

Allow me to extend my sincerest apologies for my abrupt departure following the recent events at the World Cup. I regret that circumstances did not permit me to remain and address any inquiries you may have had at the time. However, rest assured that I intend to rectify this matter expeditiously.

I am pleased to inform you that I shall soon be making my way to Britain, where I hope we might arrange a meeting at your earliest convenience. It would be my honor to engage in open dialogue with you, Madam, and provide any assistance or information that may be of benefit to your esteemed department.

In an effort to express my earnest desire for reconciliation, I have taken the liberty of including a small token of goodwill alongside this letter. It is my hope that this gesture may serve as a testament to my sincerity and willingness to cooperate with the Ministry in any capacity necessary.

With the utmost respect and deference,

The Count of Caerwin

She let out a derisive snort at the mention of a gift. Did the Count truly believe she was one of those easily swayed Ministry officials? However, her skepticism waned as she cast her gaze upon what undoubtedly constituted the gift - the dozen sheets that accompanied the letter.

With each sheet meticulously detailing the crimes, associates, and whereabouts of the captured Death Eaters, as well as individuals suspected of involvement in the attack who had managed to evade capture, her initial cynicism turned to astonishment. It was a trove of invaluable information that could significantly aid law enforcement efforts. Though she knew that this information could not be presented directly as evidence in court, the implications were clear. All it would take was discreetly dispatching a couple of Aurors to corroborate the findings, or perhaps stumbling upon it "by chance," and they would have a veritable goldmine on their hands.

She couldn't wait to meet this mysterious Count. She had many questions for him.

Beginning of September 2003
Grimmauld Place, London, United Kingdom.

Marcus casually lit a cigarette, disregarding Isabella's disapproving glance—a familiar exchange between them. Despite her being fucking annoying, she remained one of his closest companion. She was a strange mix between a friend, a colleague, a big sister and a mother.

Positioned a short distance behind the Count, Marcus and Isabella observed as he knelt on the ground, methodically waving his wand through the air, presumably inspecting the wards. The Count had divulged little about what they were doing in the cold London night, a common occurrence given his mysterious nature. Marcus even suspected that "Count of Caerwin" was merely another alias among the others and not his true identity, but he harbored no inclination to probe into the Count's secrets. The Count was like a father to Marcus, and he wouldn't dare pry into his secrets. Ever since the Count had taken him in at thirteen, rescuing him from a Muggle prison where he'd been locked up for petty theft, and taught him everything, including magic, Marcus had sworn unwavering loyalty to him.

"Ah, I think that…I should have guessed…" the Count murmured, his wand movement halting abruptly. He pulled a small dagger from his coat pocket and, with a wave of his hand, pricked the tip of his index finger.

A drop of blood fell to the floor.

Suddenly, before their eyes, a house materialized—a structure concealed by one of what Marcus recognized from his lessons with the Count as one of the most ancient blood wards known to him, surpassed only by the Fidelius Charm. The building's weathered front steps led to a worn door adorned with a serpent-shaped knocker. Curiously, the door lacked any conventional means of entry; there was no keyhole, handle, or other familiar fixture.

With a graceful gesture from the Count's hand, the door creaked open, unveiling a shadowy corridor beyond. Stepping forward, the Count led the way into the dimly lit interior, with Isabella and Marcus trailing behind. They came to an entrance that must have been badly decorated - Marcus knew nothing about decoration, but he could tell by the look on Isabella's face.

Beyond the threshold, they found themselves in a corridor illuminated by the flickering glow of gas lamps and the gentle radiance of a grand chandelier suspended from the ceiling. Once an opulent passage, adorned with elaborate portraits, time had left its mark, casting an aura of decay upon the surroundings. The air was thick with a sense of desolation, cobwebs clinging to the corners while peeling wallpaper and worn carpeting bore witness to the passage of neglectful years.

"Intruders! Intruders!" A shrill scream echoed through the corridor. Startled, he spun around to locate the source of the annoying voice. His gaze landed on a nearby portrait, its visage contorted into a grotesque expression of fury.

"Intruders!", she screamed.

The Count halted in front of the screaming portrait, his expression unreadable as the cacophony filled the air. Then, to the astonishment of his companions, he underwent a transformation. Marcus and Isabella watched in stunned silence, not because the Count's Metamorphmagus abilities surprised them—they had long grown accustomed to his shape-shifting talents—but because of the face he chose. It was a face they knew all too well. The face he had when he first met them. A face that they rarely saw anymore, save for a few meticulously preserved photographs where he appeared alongside a man, a red-haired woman, and two men - one gigantic and one short and fat, whose faces had been erased -, that he sometimes spent evenings looking at. The face that undoubtedly was his original face.

As the portrait's gaze landed on the Count's face, its shrieks abruptly ceased, replaced by wide-eyed astonishment. It seemed on the verge of speaking when—

"Sir…?"

But before any words could escape, flames erupted from the Count's wand, engulfing the painting in a fiery blaze.

"Fiendfyre," Marcus observed grimly. Whoever was depicted by that portrait, it was evident that the Count harbored no fondness for them. He squashed the impulse of curiosity to find out who the woman was to get an idea of the Count's real identity. Either way, if the Count wanted them to know, he'd tell them.

No sooner had the Count reverted to his usual white, aristocratic, and stern visage—the one he donned as the Earl of Caerwin—than a house-elf materialized. He like all house-elves, was notably diminutive compared to humans, with a bulbous, snout-like nose, bloodshot eyes, numerous folds of skin, and white hair sprouting from his bat-like ears. Casting a disdainful glance at the intruders, he was about to address them when his eyes fell upon the charred remains of his mistress's portrait. In an instant, the elf's demeanor transformed from one of mild anger at the impromptu visite to inconsolable anguish, alternating between tearful lamentations and vehement curses. It was a rather pitiful spectacle, and Marcus thanked god, if it existed, that he was born a human.

"Kreacher," the Count intoned, and the creature, whether surprised the intruder knew his name or compelled by the magic that bound him to the Blacks, fell silent instantaneously.

"You shall not utter a single word, inflict harm upon anyone within these walls, or even harbor the faintest notion of rebellion against me and my two retainers, Marcus and Isabella. You will obey them and their orders will be for you second only to mine. You will obey no one else, and all previous orders are rescinded, no matter from whom you received them, be they dead or alive. Your every action shall be in service to our will and our will alone. You will not do anything but what is necessary to your survival - breath, eat or sleep - and what you are expressly ordered to do."

The Count continued, and there was something ancient in his voice. Marcus did not recognize what his master was doing, but he could almost feel the magic of the bound between the elf and his master tighten. The house elf quivered under the force of the Count's imperious tone, his eyes widening in fear and submission.

"You will scrub this dwelling from top to bottom, with the same fervor and dedication you once showed to your esteemed master, Orion Black. Every corner, every crevice, every surface shall gleam with the pristine perfection befitting of this noble house."

The elf attempted to stammer a response, but the potent magic that bound him silenced his protestations, and with a soft pop, he vanished from sight, likely to commence his assigned task. The Count shifted his attention back to his two companions.

"My friends..." The Count's voice, usually resolute and commanding, softened with a rare warmth, taking Marcus and Isabella by surprise. Marcus discerned a subtle vulnerability in the Count's demeanor, indicative of someone who had learned to shield their emotions after enduring betrayal from those they trusted was a sentiment Marcus knew well - it was the feeling he woke up with everyday since he learnt that his father had raped his mother, and that, nine months later, she had abandoned him in an orphanage, only leaving behind her a word saying she hesitated killing him, and paper with the first name of his father and a description of his attire when he…met…her : a long, flowing black robes with a hood, an intricately designed silver mask, black leather gloves, tall leather boots, and a cloak.

In that moment, the Count, typically an unyielding pillar of strength, appeared weary, burdened by the weight of his own thoughts.

"I know you must have a lot of questions," the Count began, his voice tinged with solemnity. "I am, after all, keeping many things from you. You've followed me to countless places, through countless adventures and shenanigans. This trip to London is probably the last, and the most important..."

Before he could continue, Isabella interjected gently, her tone filled with unwavering loyalty. "Count... There's no need to try and convince us - we already are. And there's no need to try and explain - all you have to do is say the word, and we'll go." Marcus nodded solemnly, his eyes reflecting a steadfast loyalty.

"Thank you, my friends," the Count expressed, his voice carrying a sense of genuine appreciation.

As if drawing strength from their support, he composed himself. It was a sight Marcus had grown to respect - the Count's unwavering resolve appeared once again on his face.

"Here is what we are going to do. First, Isabella, I want you to find a man named…"

Abruptly, the Count swiveled on his heel at the sound of Kreacher's anguished cry. Darting down the corridor with wand in hand, he found the elf writhing on the floor, clutching a peculiar locket, evidently in great distress. It appeared obvious that Kreacher was vehemently resisting the command to tidy up, even at the risk of his own well-being - and only for the sake of this strange locket.

Then, the locket started hissing at them, and a strange smoke escaped from it before enveloping Marcus.