Chapter 7: King Maker

"3…"

Scanning the small cobblestone street, onlookers peered out from the cracks of doors and broken windows; none dared move beyond that. It wasn't every day a royal patrol would grace a district in this way. The dull ache in Neville's chest made him grip his wand tighter as he made his way through the center of his small group of ten, each standing at attention as he moved to the front.

"2…"

A few feet away, his red and black armor, crafted using the shell of a blast-ended skrewt, reflected off the grimy and gritty metal door of a warehouse. His breathing became shallow, and a wave of dizziness washed over him. He could feel his heart pounding in his ears, each beat echoing louder and faster as if war drums warred inside of him. Neville forced himself to take a deep breath, but his chest felt constricted, as if a vice was tightening around his ribs.

With a slight nod of his head, two Death Eaters maneuvered to the sides of the door, their faces swimming in and out of focus, their wands raised.

"1…"

His armor's reflection disappeared from the metal door as the two Death Eaters to his side cast the colorless Protego. Looking behind him, three Death Eaters stood on his right and three stood on his left. The farthest Death Eater on Neville's left raised his wand, turning his head to make contact with Neville.

Neville swallowed hard, trying to steady his racing heart. He felt a brief wave of nausea but shook his head to clear it.

"Breach on command," the Death Eater said.

Neville turned toward the metal door and, with the slightest nod, a swoosh of a wand could be heard from behind him. The door flew off its hinges, casting dust everywhere.

"Breach," Neville said, his voice steadier than he felt, filing into the room after his two Death Eaters.

Stepping into the room, piles of fabric were stacked to the ceiling along the walls of an expanded warehouse. Individual pieces of fabric flew across the room, wrapping and collapsing on mannequins that marched in a circle in the dead middle of the warehouse floor. Reds, blues, greens, and every other color wrapped around the mannequins to be shredded and stitched by scissors and needles that flew back and forth between each mannequin without missing any fabric. Robes, trousers, and shirts were tossed out from the mannequins into separate piles that were being packed by people who were now cowering behind whatever they could find.

"Hands in the air, don't move," a Death Eater ordered as the group made a motion forward. "Anyone who resists will be killed."

Two women ran from behind a pile of clothing, attempting to reach an exit.

"Mine," Neville said, accompanied by the wave of his wand. A red string-like substance emerged from the tip of Neville's wand and, with a loud pop, shot forward, quickly wrapping both women together. The room filled with their screams followed by the sound of boiling flesh. Within a second, their screams had ceased and an acrid, putrid fume, akin to a burnt pork roast, filled the room.

There was a cry from the other Muggles. Neville made a slight nod, watching as his Death Eaters dispersed to check the bodies.

"Muggles," one Death Eater said, "Marked."

"Disperse," Neville commanded, watching as his Death Eaters began to secure the other Muggles.

Neville marched forward, watching as blood from the two women spilled across the floor and into a nearby pile of fabric. Even with all the colors that surrounded them, the bodies and blood seemed to stand out from the rest of the warehouse. The third warehouse they had raided today, and Neville had found nothing short of perfection from all of them. There would be nothing here.

An approaching Death Eater confirmed it with their report, "All Muggles are marked. No Enhancers. No concealing charms here."

"I'm heading back to the chapel," Neville said, tossing some fabric from the pile. "I suppose it's unfortunate to hear about the third accidental fire to happen upon another warehouse."

"Yes, my L-" Neville had already Apparated before the Death Eater could finish. Upon his next eye opening, he was standing in the middle of his courtyard, staring at the large red-stoned manor dubbed 'The Crimson Chapel,' his fortress. The Crimson Chapel stood majestically against the dreary British sky, its large, red stone walls casting an imposing presence over the surrounding landscape. The grand manor, more akin to a medieval fortress, boasted towering battlements and crenellated parapets that circled the rooftop, with guards robed in crimson standing atop. Each corner of the manor was marked by stout, cylindrical turrets, their conical roofs pointing towards the heavens.

In the courtyard, cobblestone pathways crisscrossed the expansive space. At the center stood a magnificent fountain, its tiered basins adorned with intricately carved figures of intertwining basilisks. Water cascaded gracefully from the topmost tier, creating a soothing symphony of splashes that echoed softly through the courtyard.

Servants and house-elves hustled in and about, all hurrying to their duties of keeping the large manor and property maintained. He hadn't fully placed his feet before Muggle servants began to approach him, stripping him of his armor and cleaning him.

One servant kneeled before him. "Your Grace, welcome back. Will we be dressing you for the Lady's guests, private, or training?"

Neville gave a measuring look. "And who has the woman brought here this time?"

"The Lady and the Keeper are present in the gray wing guest room for light conversation and tea with Lady Greengrass and Lord Malfoy."

Neville clenched his fist. "I'll be joining."

Minutes passed as Neville found himself robed in simple black, peeking through the large oak doors of the guest room. Spacious and bathed in natural light, the room featured high, vaulted ceilings with exposed wooden beams, adding a touch of rustic charm to the sophisticated decor. The walls were adorned with delicate, cream-colored wallpaper featuring subtle floral patterns.

At the center of the room stood an intricately carved circular table made from dark mahogany. The table's surface was polished to a high shine, reflecting the soft glow of the crystal chandelier hanging above. The chandelier itself was a work of art, with dozens of faceted crystals catching and dispersing the light in a dazzling array of colors. Sitting around the table were Lavender, his keeper, Horace Slughorn, Daphne Greengrass, and Draco Malfoy.

Around the table, a few house-elves stood behind their plush, high-backed chairs which were upholstered in rich, burgundy velvet. Each chair bore the crest of the basilisk embroidered in gold thread on the backrest.

Large, mullioned windows lined one side of the room, draped with heavy, cream-colored curtains tied back with gold tasseled ropes. These windows offered a stunning view of the lush gardens outside, where vibrant blooms and meticulously trimmed hedges could be seen swaying gently in the breeze.

A grand fireplace dominated one end of the room, its mantle adorned with an array of silver candelabras, fresh flowers in porcelain vases, and a large, gilded mirror that reflected the room's elegant furnishings. The hearth itself was surrounded by intricately patterned tiles in the shape of the basilisk.

The door was opened. "I present to you, the Lord and Prince, Neville Riddle."

"At ease," he replied, entering the room.

Everyone sat, except for Horace. "My Lord, welcome back. We hoped for good fortune on the prince's mission?"

Neville ignored him and made his way to his wife, greeting her with a quick peck on her head. Beside her sat Daphne, beautiful, regal, and slender, with long blonde hair that reached the middle of her back. As he stared at her, he could see that she was beginning to wither; her facial bones were becoming more pronounced, giving her a skeletal appearance.

"Your Grace," Daphne said.

A cruel smile stretched across Neville's face. "Your family will think we're starving you if you don't eat more." A light swat fell across his chest. "I'm joking."

Horace laughed, which prompted the servants to chuckle. "Funny joke, your Grace."

"Horace," Neville said.

"Yes, Your Grace."

Neville's hand was swift against Horace's face, but it carried power so that Horace plopped to the ground with violent force. "The draft didn't work. It needs to be stronger."

Horace grabbed at his reddening cheek. "Y-yes, Your Grace. My deepest apologies. I only worry that it will be too much—"

"You promised results, not worries," Neville said, his wand summoned to hand.

"My husband," Lavender said loudly, "now is not the time to play with servants in front of our guests."

Neville took a deep breath before pocketing his wand. "Don't speak again until you grab my favorite chalice and bring it to me."

"Of course, my lord," Horace said, bowing and leaving swiftly.

Turning lastly to Draco, who met his gaze with a steely look of his own. "How unusual to see you alone."

"There have been a few complications today for my staff, but even so, today, I've come as a friend and acquaintance to the prince and his lady," Draco said, his gaze locked. "Sharing in gossip and tales across the realm does the heart good in these times."

Lavender laughed. "And it's been wonderful! We must do this again."

"Yes, my lady, I hope that my presence here will be more frequent." Draco smiled, bringing his cup to drink.

"Really? Are you making a new collection?" asked Daphne.

"Possibly. Whatever the realm may have me do." Draco sat his cup down and stood from his chair, standing a bit taller than Neville. "Ladies, I must excuse myself; the prince and I have much to discuss."

Neville motioned for Draco to follow him. Neville gave a final glance at Lavender and Daphne before trailing Draco out of the room. They walked down the long corridors of the Crimson Chapel, their footsteps echoing off the marble floors.

Once they were out of earshot, Draco turned to Neville. "Did you find what you were looking for?"

Neville grabbed Draco and slammed him against the wall. "Stop playing games with me, Draco," he hissed. After a moment, Neville let Draco go, watching as he fell onto all fours. "Or better yet, get the fuck out of my manor." Without waiting for a response, Neville turned and continued walking.

"Then who will make you Emperor?"

Neville grabbed his wand and turned with violent force. "What did you say?" he asked. "I should execute you right here and now."

"The Emperor won't live forever, and between your newborn sister and your brother, well…" Draco said as he stood up, dusting himself. "You know what you want, Your Grace, and I know that I can deliver it to you."

Down the distant corridor, two servants made their way across. As they passed, Neville turned his eyes back to Draco, whose gaze remained unwavering.

"And what would you know about what I want?" Neville demanded.

Draco picked at his robe. "Before a piece can be executed, color choices, fabric material, patterns, and stitching have to be well thought out and planned. The cut has to be precise and well-proportioned. But even then, the fabric has to deliver a story. It has to speak not only to those who wear it, but those who see it."

Neville's mouth tightened. "What the fuck are you saying?"

"I will do everything you ask of me, and in return, you will make me your right hand under oath," Draco replied calmly. "You will give me the power to carry out orders in your name, to speak with your authority, and, if necessary, to rule in your absence."

Neville laughed heartily. "I simply asked for a favor."

"I'm uninterested in favors. What I told you are my terms. "

"And why do you think I need you, a garment maker?"

Draco pointed down the corridor to two servants walking across the corridor. "What do you notice?"

Neville stared at the two servants walking across the hall. "Nothing unusual."

"They've walked across four times since we've been standing here."

"So what?"

"Having put furniture in this house, these only lead to towers, which there is nothing to clean, serve, or do. Someone is keeping tabs on you."

Neville felt a dull ache in his chest. Draco simply shrugged. "Your Grace, I bid you fare—"

"Deal."

Draco's brow furrowed. "Yes, Your Grace?"

"You will serve as my right hand."

"Excellent, Your Grace, we have much to discuss," Draco replied, smiling. "While you were gone, I've received major intel to share on the possible whereabouts of your brother."