BOOK IV: A SONG OF BLOOD AND BETRAYAL
The heralding drums of resurrection have begun their beat - for both the Dark Lord and the Old Ones. As Year 4 ushes in its many dangerous and supernatural intrigues, the newly renamed Harry Black - Prince of Slytherin - must focus on shaping Salazar's House and Wizarding Britain to his Vision amidst the Triwizard Tournament. With his coterie of family, friends, and allies, Harry must strive to work within the many machinations of Fate and Destiny to stave off the Dark Lord's diabolical desire for final rebirth, and prevent the rise of another Fate-marked Prince of Slytherin.
CHAPTER 1 - Primera Sangre
07 July 1994 - Unplottable Location, 11:01AM
Destiny.
A seven-lettered word that was so ingrained in mankind's collective existence, it'd become as intrinsic as breathing.
Of course, not all definitions of the word were the same.
To many of the unworthy, destiny was an ephemeral concept, the destination at the end of a hazy horizon that may be achieved due to something as simple as hard work and determination. A childlike concept highlighted by 'hopes' and 'dreams' that a truly hapless romantic would foolishly tie to love - be it filial, fanciful, or fanatical. The truly fanatical would forge their ambitions to achieve their concept of destiny, and with said forging would leave monuments or broken bodies in their wake as they raced to that final destination in the eye of the horizon.
However, those who knew Destiny, truly understood the concept, knew that it could only come from one source - Fate Herself.
Only the Third of the Eldest could architect True Destiny - one ubiquitous path to one ubiquitous objective that could only be taken by the one for which said-Destiny was intended.
The Chosen One.
True Prophecies were only that which could aptly describe this Destiny, words of divine decree forced from the tongues of Seers when Fate Herself - for a brief moment in time - would supplant their wills and make her intentions known.
And when the Third Eldest made her intentions known, all would inevitably submit.
A deep shuddering breath broke the wizard out of his philosophical musings as he redirected his attention outward to his environment, assessing the details as a museum spectator would a prized art collection.
While there were no masterpieces present, what this room held was infinitely more valuable than the culmination of dried brushstrokes on canvas.
A spacious rock-hewn cavern forged of magicks more ancient than the eldest of his bloodline. It sat on a small fissure of the Augusta Emerita ley line that lay in the heart of Mérida. Though a mere fissure, the strength of the magic was palpable throughout the space, a slight yet sturdy thrum that left a keen electricity in the air. It powered the various obscuring magicks and other such wards that kept the location a hidden fortress, perfectly suited to the needs of its sole inhabitant.
Ensorcelled lights filled the room with a soft glow, though there was enough shadow to still spell a compelling scene. Strange markings dominated the walls and the seemingly endless ceilings, which upon closer inspection, would reveal themselves to be very large and elaborate moldings of serpents.
Specifically - a mighty basilisk, an imposing python, a towering cobra, a fearsome krait, a gigantic ashwinder, a colossal boomslang, and a menacing runespoor. They were currently dormant, but a hissed command from the wizard's lips would awaken them to do his bidding.
Another unique feature of the walls were several grooves spanning the room's circumference, many of which held phials containing the luminescent white-blue mists of memories. Each represented a unique and necessary moment that culminated in not just the silent wizard's existence, but a stepping stone Fate Herself wanted him to take to reach his Destiny.
28 March 1994, 3:31AM - After years of relentless tracking, bribing, and near-desperation, finally finding the burial crypt of Salazar Slytherin, nestled deep within La Gruta Hundida along the Guadalquivir. Exhausted joy turning to frustrated anger upon the confirmation that his blood alone would not be enough to open his ancestor's sepulcher.
14 May 1992, 10:58PM - Surprising Ignacio Reyes de Victoria in his apartment and cursing him with a Parsel-enhanced Transmogrifian Torture Curse, taking his blood before leaving the man to die a scream-filled death.
9 February 1988, 9:46PM - Taking the form of Vicente de Bazán y Guzmán to lie in wait for the man, a duel breaking out between the two upon Guzmán's discovery of his presence. Finally overpowering traitor after an hour-long exchange of lethal spellfire, culminating in Vicente's impalement with his own sword, fashioned in a facsimile of La Cruz Espada. Taking the blood and the blade as his recompense, before torching the dead man's abode in a blaze of Fiendfyre.
31 October 1981, 11:11PM - Consulting with the Great Kibarbarinik Hiari Kipkirui, who submitted herself to an Ascended Trance so he could speak with his ancestor. Bitter disappointment at the witch's declaration that "he could not be reached beyond the Veil, because it is not yet the time."
14 June 1972, 7:14AM - His promotion to Chief Auror of Los Caballeros Mágicos upon the death of his predecessor León Oquendo y Zandategui, who'd died of heart and respiratory failure. The healers believed it to be a consequence of his age and years of a poor diet, but it was really a consequence of years' of slow-poisoning, magically infusing cyanide into the man's favorite café brasileño. The natural nuttiness of the beans' providing perfect cover for the cyanide's almond flavor, with León none the wiser.
21 December 1969, 8:29PM - His initiation into La Garduña, finally learning of the true power of the secret organization that ruled the shadows of Spain since its inception in the early 10th century.
4 August 1958, 3:14PM - Crossing paths with a Joachim Berd in Santiago de Compostela, realizing too late that it was truly a Glamoured Erasmus Wilkes, a descendant of his ancestor and another whose blood he required.
22 April 1955, 6:22PM - Taking the form of Maël Toubeau to join the leagues of Lothar von Reichenbach, a former mage-general and one of the leftover relics from Grindelwald's Reign of Terror. Having to engage with a squadron of French Aurors who interrupted their attempt to ransack the Baguettes Magiques de Cosme Acajor. Casualties were suffered on both sides, and 'Maël' managed to escape upon the arrival of an elite tactical faction called 'Légion d'honneur' of the Chevaliers de L'Inconnu, of whom the grievously injured Laurent de Lapin - the senior-most auror present - was a member.
29 February 1952, 1:49AM - Avenging himself of the last of the de Idiáquez magical lineage, keeping a phial of his blood as both momento and future machination.
19 September 1948, 9:46PM - Henrietta Fischer and her son escaping his well-crafted clutches, preventing him from taking the blood of the only descendant of House Gaunt known to him.
3 January 1946, 4:08AM - Discovering the location of the famed Nurmengard Castle, the prison which held Gellert Grindelwald - the most recent wielder of the famed Elder Wand. Hoping to infiltrate the castle to interrogate the Dark Lord about the Deathstick, only to have the knowledge stripped from his mind as a powerful Fidelius rendered it an unknowable secret.
20 July 1936, 10:47PM - The hours-long siege of Seville within Los Barracones de Macarena, a ferocious skirmish between two sets of battle-tested opponents. On one side were the pureblood falangistas - led by Gervasio Redondo de Valdes - who'd sworn their undying loyalty to Gellert Grindelwald and his vision for a unified magical kingdom. On the other were a faction of the ICW Auror Corps led by then Chief Auror Caractacus Flint, a fierce and powerful warrior who was unyieldingly ruthless in his choice of lethal magicks. They fought for hours with the falangistas killing many of the Aurors, until one of Gervasio's own successfully cornered him off and slit his throat, escaping with his blood and leaving the others to Flint's brutal mercies.
30 July 1933, 4:31AM - The day of his mother's death, coinciding with his 17th birthday. Experiencing, for the first time ever, the true depth of rage that could only be inspired by all-consuming grief.
29 July 1916, 3:03AM - The witnessing of a True Prophecy indicating the arrival of a wizard who would mark the "rebirth of The One of the Nine-Headed Serpent", ushing in the reclamation of a "forbidden bloodline" and revealing himself as "a Savior-Prince amidst the betrayers".
Finally, Avada-green eyes landed on the northernmost section of the room's wall. In addition to a memory phial containing the events of 17 August 1588, there were two other objects present that represented his most prized possessions.
One was a magical portrait of his mother Valeria Esmeralda de Sagrada y Cortez, whose gentle little smile made his heart physically burn in memory of suffering her loss and all she'd sacrificed during her life to ensure her only son would be able to fulfill his Destiny. They shared the same eldritch emerald gaze, exactly like their forebear whose image flanked hers.
Said image was non-magical, created by famed muggle painter Tiziano Vecellio. The subject was a strikingly handsome man; tall and broad-shouldered with a handsome aristocratic face full of patrician angles highlighted by a healthily tanned complexion which spoke to his naval background. Shoulder length ink-black hair inherited from his House Blackwood-descended grandmother framed his face, their darkness highlighting the striking contrast of his intense eyes.
Duke Estaban de Cortez y Slytherin had truly been a vision for sore eyes, and his demise and subsequent tarnishing of his legacy by his betrayers was a wrong that his last living descendant was determined to set to rights.
'I won't fail you.'
Deftly moving to the center of the room he unholstered his wand - 17⅓ inch snakewood with Horned Serpent horn.
A sharp flick of Diffindo saw blood pool in his palm, which he smeared in seemingly empty space. HIs blood disappeared, before the air rippled. Like a shroud unveiling, the unseen shadows parted before a door materialized.
Naturally it wasn't a mundane door; it was forged of pure basalt and covered with a teeming mass of sculpted snakes that slithered about madly, their serpentine voices creating a sinister chorus in the air.
A sharply hissed command saw a quintet separate from the collective nest, linking together to forge an ouroboros-shaped door knob that he twisted to enter. This particular room, a wizardspace creation of Esteban's creation, was immune to all detection and any other sort of sorcery save Parselmagic. Since it didn't technically exist in the current plane of Reality unless it was summoned by a Parselmouth, it served as the perfect means to hide secrets.
Including people.
Magically bound to a wooden chair was the terrified form of Reinaldo de Moura, the last living magical male descendant of Cristobal de Moura via his mistress Inês Afonso de Moura. His fear was palpable, hazel eyes blown wide in horror as he struggled futilely against his bonds. His expensive robes were torn on account of their initial scuffle a day prior, and he spotted quite a few unhealed cuts and bruises on his face. Reinaldo screamed through his gag, but that only served to amuse his captor.
"PETRIFICUSsS!" Reinaldo's eyes bulged at the Parseltongue, not bothering to hide his terror as he bellowed:
"WHAT DO YOU WANT?!"
Eldritch green eyes glimmered in amusement. "You, of course!"
His captive's eyes bulked as he felt his anger surge. "BASTARDO! HIJO DE PUTA! LIBÉ-" He didn't have a chance to finish his statement as he was rendered temporarily speechless by a vicious punch to the side of his head, dislodging a tooth and causing blood to pool in his mouth
"Never. Insult. My Mother. Ever. Again."
Instinct compelled Reinaldo to rapidly nod his head despite the blood dribbling out of his mouth, fearing he wouldn't get to keep his head if he did anything else.
"...Why…why are you doing this?"
His captor tilted his head, expression almost playful as he began circling Reinaldo like a predator could his prey. "It is rather simple; you have something I need, and I intend to relieve you of it. You see, you may not know this, but a little over 400 years ago, your ancestor Cristobal and five other allies betrayed mine. The actions of those six on El Corte Mágico compelled King Philip to not only expel my forbear from his homeland, but completely strip him of his birthright and render him and his bloodline pariahs."
"What in Circe's name are you talking ab-"
Reinaldo once more didn't get to finish his sentence as his captor drew close to him, and drawing on the gift of his distant Blackwood ancestry, morphed into the identical visage of Duke Esteban.
Reinaldo blanched as all the implications became clear. "¡Por Dios! Es imposible!"
"Nothing is impossible by Fate's hand." The gravitas in the metamorph's voice caused his captive to shudder, not liking the portentous weight of those six words. Choosing bravado, the Bogatyr alum exclaimed:
"This is sheer and utter madness! I do not know what deranged little scheme you are cooking up but you will not get away with this." He sneered in anger. "I am important, I matter! People will come looking for me, important people, and you won't live long enough to regret it!" Reinaldo's expression turned nastier at the disturbing blankness in those chilling emerald orbs. "You have nothing. You are nothing. You do not have the will to -"
His statement was cut short at the pressing of snakewood under his chin, its tip burning hot.
"You cannot begin to comprehend the ssstrength of my will. LACcCERO!"
The hissed spell was accompanied by a rapid ear-to-ear slash that evenly slit his captive's throat. As Reinaldo gurgled through the excruciating sensation of hot coppery blood gushing down his chest he suddenly froze, registering the bloody deluge ceasing at a sharply hissed spell.
"Worry not, amigo! I just applied a Stasis Charm. It won't heal you, but it will prevent you from bleeding out and ruining this perfectly pristine floor. I'd considered applying a little healing, but I am no longer feeling charitable given your… rude comments."
"¿Q-Q-Quién… e-eres?" was all Reinaldo could rasp past the weight of the restraining magicks.
The Parselmouth smiled, a fearsome predatory thing. "¿Quién sssoy?... Me llamo Roderigo Esteban Salazar Cortez y Slytherin. Yo sssoy El Elegido… El único Príncccipe de SSSlytherin!"
And at that terrifying declaration of his True Name, Roderigo once more morphed his form into that of Reinaldo's, causing the frozen man to strangle out a choke. Elegant swishes of his snakewood wand transformed his robes into an identical version of Reinaldo's own, right down to the golden olive leaf-patch emblematic of the ICW. Tucking his wand away he retrieved his captive's own, twirling the 9-inch ebony apparatus about teasingly as Avada-green eyes sparkled.
"¡Hasssta luego!"
The Crazy Unicorn Cabaret - 8th Arrondissement - Paris, 2:51PM
Ebony flashed in desperation with a bellow of "EXPULSO!", but it was deftly blocked by an Averto from blackthorn.
A few more sharp flicks saw Jerome Fletcher disarmed and bound in his chair, having to gulp down his fear at the sight before him.
Furious was an understatement to describe the visage of Chief Auror Gareth Lestrade, whose gray-blue eyes flashed with the promise of violence should the bound man attempt any sort of funny business. Flanking each side were Aurors Henri Tremblay and Balthazar Volant, both of whom wore expressions that were entirely unforgiving.
'Merde!'
Opting for false bravado, Fletcher sneerily asked:
"Who the hell invited you and your lackeys to my place of business, Gareth?!"
Lestrade actually snarled, taking a determined step forward. "We let ourselves in, Fletcher." He returned the man's sneer with equal ferocity. "Considering all of the activities you've entangled yourself with, I imagine I wouldn't be too happy to see us here either." A vicious smile spread across Lestrade's face at seeing and hearing the little bastard gulp. "Now, based on the considerable amount of irrefutable intel we've been able to gather about your recent business practices, I'd be well within my rights to handcuff you and haul you off to a cozy little cell in the basement of the BDLJM. You would, of course, be granted access to legal counsel, though I can certainly say whatever little loopholes your solicitor would cook up to evade prison time would absolutely not prevent me from pumping you of Veritaserum so you can sing like a canary! Though given the nature of this particular case, I'd just skip all the niceties and simply beat it out of you!"
At this point, Gareth was less than a few inches away from a visibly rattled Jerome's desk, hunched over him like some enraged deity of olde. Though slight in stature, the Chief Auror was no less frighteningly intimidating, and Fletcher was absolutely convinced that he could, quite literally, rip him apart with his bare hands.
A few beats passed in tense silence before Gareth straightened and took a few steps backwards. "Sadly for me, I do not have the final say in what happens to you today."
Jerome frowned. "What do you mean-"
"Tu as été un vilain garçon!"
Jerome jumped violently at the mocking sing-song tone, feeling a nervous sweat break out across all his flesh. 'Mon dieu! I didn't even hear him come in!' He briefly registered a mild sting on his scalp, but couldn't free his arm to check for any damage.
Gabriel Delacour soundlessly stepped from behind Jerome's chair to face his person, pine wand at the ready and expression completely unreadable.
"Chevalier," said Gareth with considerably more respect, slightly bowing towards Delacour as his subordinates mimicked his moments. "He is all yours."
Delacour respectfully nodded. "You have my thanks, Lestrade."
As one, the three Inspecteurs exited through the room's Floo, with Jerome belatedly realizing it must've been how they'd entered his office to begin with. He then realized that they'd somehow bypassed the myriad of security and alarm wards that should have prevented them from doing that in the first place!
"Oh Jerome, Jerome, Jerome…I really should have you flensed."
Despite the frisson of fear he felt at that declaration, Fletcher blustered. "You do not have the right to do that! You cannot simply enter my territory and-"
"Silence."
Jerome's mouth snapped close with an audible clack. The man that stood before him reeked of danger, and he was not yet ready to have his soul unceremoniously delivered to the Netherrealm.
Le Garde-Chiourme tended to have that effect.
"Good, you are capable of listening. I am well aware of your little trafficking ring, so do not bother me with the trifles of whatever excuse your puny little brain is attempting to cook up. It will only whittle what little remains of my patience and further expedite your demise. Your greed and utter lack of dignity have always been obvious to anyone with functioning eyesight and common sense, but alas, you have finally crossed the line." Delacour leaned forward slightly, savagely pleased to see the other wizard visibly flinch. "You've violated the rules of the game, and as such, it is time to remove you from the board."
By some miracle Fletcher found his voice. "You-you-you cannot do that! I am protected! He would never-"
Gabriel only laughed, the sound both boyishly bright and mocking.
"You think Le Caïd will protect you?! After your deceit and flagrant violation of the Statute, which threatens his very business?! Imbécile!"
To Delacour's surprise, Jerome sniffed and straightened his back as a belligerent sneer overtook his features. "I am not talking about him."
"Do not feign coyness with me today."
The detainee flinched, though he succeeded in not cowering at the Chevalier's tone. "You already know him…le souverain du monde…"
Delacour merely tilted his head as his formidable mind rapidly deduced the meaning of that suggestive statement.
Whir-click.
"...Volodymyr…as in…Volodomyr Tkachenko…"
The still-sweating businessman sneered, believing that he'd finally succeeded in rendering the vaunted Chevalier speechless.
Big mistake.
He barely had time to comprehend the speed of Gabriel's wand before he found his restraints tightening painfully, slowly but surely cutting off his circulation. It was followed by his neck being wrested backwards at a sharp angle before getting stuck due to the modified Petrificus. To his mounting horror, his chair slowly levitated and rotated forward to render him eye-level with Delacour's expression of cold fury.
"You…have been dallying…with the Pakhan…of the Tkachenkokaya Bratva?" His voice was less than a whisper but it was no less threatening as Jerome fought not to swallow his tongue.
"Y-y-yes! He…he promised me independence! That he would help me expand my business model so long as I cut him a one-time share of the profits! I just wanted my independence! That is all! I just-" He struggled some more, knocking over several knick-knacks from his desk.
"Mais la ferme. Tu n'as pas ton mot à dire là." Jerome began blubbering as tears streamed down his face whilst Le Garde-Chiourme stared at him unblinkingly, as though deciding how best he could deliver on his earlier promise on flensing him.
"You know," the older wizard said after some moments. "I woke up this morning feeling rather…magnanimous. I'd considered delivering you to Le Croquemitaine…as you know, he's nothing if not efficient and isn't fond of extending one's suffering." He smirked at the broken wail from Jerome's lips. "But then…I thought of all the helpless victims you exploited, young women and girls whose lives you irreparably damaged with your avarice. La Paillasse would certainly agree with me." Jerome wailed again, eyes widening in pure panic as he tried to struggle against his unyielding bonds. "But then…come to find out…you've been…dallying… with the Bratva. And that…that…I cannot and will not forgive."
A flick of Delacour's wand drew a sniveling Jerome closer until their noses were practically touching.
"...It is time to confess your sins… Le Prêtre will be pleased to see you."
And before Fletcher could even think to muster up the strength to try to scream for mercy, Gabriel nonverbally transfigured him into a matchbox he slipped into his inner robes pocket. A quick sweep of his wand rendered Fletcher's office into its previous form.
He registered a keen buzzing of an insect behind his ear, which immediately moved to come to eye-level. In a flash, the creature resolved into the form of a Chevalier.
"Le Guêpe…excellent timing." The agent bowed in response. "Here," Gabriel thrust a phial of hairs into the younger wizard's hand. "That should cover your Polyjuice needs."
"More than sufficient sir."
"Excellent. You are already aware of Jerome's itinerary for the day. Make sure you make it to the meeting with the Pakhan's representative and make note of everything. I ensured your emergency portkey was modified to bypass any…specialized wards that may be in place. Your Polyjuice is also a specialized formula, so no reverting with an antidote should you knowingly or unknowingly be dosed. Report back at 22:00 hours."
"It will be done."
With a nod, Gabriel stepped through the Floo to continue the rest of his errands.
5:45PM
The smallest ruffle in the air alerted her to the presence of her summoner.
"Gabriel…prompt as always."
The Chevalier stepped into her line of sight, eyes glimmering with mild amusement despite his standard bored expression.
"Sabine."
La Veuveblanc smirked. "So…is there a reason we are meeting here instead of my usual room at Le Procope with a bottle of our favorite Château Pétrus?" Though her tone feigned coyness, her icy blue orbs sparkled with genuine mischief.
Gabriel quirked a brow in response. "I have other plans for supper." Sabine sniffed before looking away.
"Again…why are we here? I assume you have Saucet well in hand considering we're currently standing in front of his empty flat?"
"Certainly better than having him floating face down in the Seine, non?"
The blonde smirked. "Had fun digging him out of there?" Her teasing expression waned at the look on her companion's face.
"Yes, I find near-corpse retrieval so exciting. La Paillasse really outdid herself. The muggles certainly do, so thank Nimue I found his almost lifeless body and not Police nationale. Which would be yet another strike against your organization's recent repeated violations of the Statute. Rather flagrantly, if I might add."
La Veuveblanc straightened. "That was a gross oversight, and I am willing to admit my…error in not foreseeing Pascal's betrayal when faced with the opportunity to dabble in his own greed. Trust me when I say that it will not happen again. You have been rather flexible with allowing us to conduct limited business with the muggles, and for that, my father and I are grateful. "
Le Garde-Chiourme studied her for a few moments before nodding. "Indeed I have…see that it doesn't happen again. As I've told certain colleagues of mine, your organization stands on the lesser end regarding matters of Truly Serious Concern, especially given your refusal to bend to the dark lord nutters whose violent and destructive whims we've had the displeasure of entertaining." He couldn't stop the sneer that briefly marred his features. "Your dissolution, which I have in my power to make happen (he registered the blonde's brief grimace) would leave a vacuum, and you and I both know how much nature abhors that. Especially given Volodymyr's insistence on filling that would-be vacuum by any means necessary."
"Fils de pute! Je vais buter ce salaud!"
A soft chuckle escaped Delacour's mouth, curling around Sabine's ear and causing her to lightly pink. "Oh chérie…not if I kill him first."
She giggled. "I'd forgotten just how delightfully ruthless you can be, especially when someone doesn't do exactly what you want."
He smirked. "All for the Greater Good - no more, no less. " Sabine's face was briefly unreadable, before clearing in a blink.
"Well…I have other arrangements for the evening. Are we done here?"
Gabriel merely blinked, before unholstering his wand and lobbying a non-verbal Bombarda Maxima at the complex that was once Pascal Saucet's residence and would-be lab. Sabine successfully repressed her reflexive jump at the sight and sound of the explosion, realizing the property must have been pre-warded to prevent the resulting flames from spreading and containing the ensuing damage, in addition keeping the non-magiques at bay.
"That was a perfectly useful appartement you just blew up." She sniffed.
"Are you a witch or not?" he countered, the teasing glint back in his cobalt-blue eyes. "I'm certain you can have a posh little pad up in no time. Le cinquième is quite the hotspot for the youth."
Sabine smiled coquettishly, unable to stop her cheeks from once more going pink. "Indeed… Are you certain of those supper plans?"
Gabriel's expression turned coy, causing the blonde to laugh out loud.
"Quite certain. But if you are still hungry this weekend, we may reconvene this Saturday at my room at Le Procope. I'll ensure Daumier has the Prieur Montrachet ready."
The witch smiled, a small yet genuine thing. "D'accord."
"Très bien. Au revoir petit dragon." And without waiting for her response, Gabriel soundlessly disapparated.
Rolling her eyes fondly, La Veuveblanc also took her leave.
Later That Night…
Polishing off the last of her mutton patsy, Number 36 flicked away any crumbs with her wand - 11-inch cedar with unicorn hair. Another flick produced her clipboard and her favorite quill, ready for all the necessary notetaking.
With a deep breath, the Associate Director of the Prophecy Division ventured into the Hall of Prophecy.
A massive and seemingly endless hallway with a vaulted ceiling that stretched into a fathomless night-like abyss, a magi-visual consequence of the Wizardspace charms used to create the chamber. A network of diverging paths all converged into the main pathway that stretched the entire length of the room, bordered by shelves upon shelves of misty orbs containing Prophecies both true and True.
Not all of them were alike; some orbs were large whilst some were small, containing different colored mists with varying opacity. Runic matrices for modified Silencers were incorporated into the wood of the shelves, muting the varying sounds of Seers as they - unwittingly - divined words of destiny.
Thirty-Six typically did a routine itinerary check during the days marking the year's chief solar events and the midpoints between them, specifically Imbolc, Ostara, Beltane, Litha, Lughnasadh, Mabon, Samhain, and Yule. The Unspeakables noted that these dates coincided with prophetic activity, be it the arrival of a new orb or the fulfillment of a preexisting one.
There were quite a few theories on how the orbs were created, but at this point, they were Level 9 Classified and thus only known to Two, Six, Thirteen, and Control.
Despite being steeped in the more scientific of the prophetic arts (predictive Astrology and Ornithomancy were an exacting process), Thirty-Six could never ignore the portentous shudder of…something…that would creep past her senses, kept at bay by her psychic shields.
'And given the Alethiometer's recent activity…'
She couldn't repress her grimace in recollection of the compass-like object's strange fit this past Sunday within the Astrum Crypt, its six unique hands spinning madly over the ever-changing pictures. Twenty-One and Thirty-Two had shared a brief moment of matching panic, thinking the Cryptohedron had been reactivated. However, no natal chart was yielded, eliciting a collective sigh of relief.
That soon ended when a set of unique constellations flashed with increasing urgency across the star-filled ceiling once the Alethiometer finally stopped spinning.
Aldebaran - nestled in the Eye of Taurus against the Wild Sign Sarthu.
Celaeno - the Umbra of Taurus against the Wild Sign Adepleis.
Glyu'uho - the Hand of Orion against the Wild Sign Letebegues.
Fomalhaut - the Mouth of the Fish against the Wild Sign Hagutch.
Algol - the Head of Medusa against the Wild Sign Bibath.
Per protocol, Control was alerted, startling the reporting Unspeakables by commanding them to leave the Astrum Crypt immediately. That was followed by the Chief Unspeakable's near-instantaneous arrival to the Crypt, accompanied by Two, Three, Four, Six, Seven, and Thirteen ferried to their destination by Q.
At the current time, the details pertaining to that bizarre meeting was Level 5 Classified, i.e. Strictly-Need-to-Know.
Shaking off those thoughts, 036 began her tasks.
After two hours she reached the final shelf in the furthest back row within the Hall. Said shelf held the oldest orbs on record, and out of their number, only two had been Fulfilled. Making her notes, she froze at seeing the appearance of an orb she knew hadn't been there the last time she'd
Casting a slew of identification spells in the space slightly in front of the orb, she gulped at the results.
The orb had Revealed itself because the Heralding Lines had been achieved, meaning the Prophecy was halfway towards Fulfillment.
Wanting to be sure Thirty-Six repeated the identification spells, lips settling into a thin line upon receiving the same results. Grimacing, she retrieved her communication mirror necklace and tapped it thrice with her wand, speaking when 001's face appeared.
"Discovery of new Prophecy Sphere in the Penultimate Shelf within the Hall of Prophecy on this day at 12 minutes past the 10th night hour. Originally divined on 29 July 1916 at 3:03AM by… Dark Seeress Melisandre Trelawney, and Witnessed by Valeria Esmeralda de Sagrada y Cortez." Taking a deep breath, she divulged the few lines the orb revealed, startled at the grim look that settled on Control's face.
"Sir?"
"It will be handled, 036. Your task is complete."
AN 1: Roderigo's storyline will serve as an analogous counter to Harry's own rise and rule as the Prince of Slytherin. Their paths will definitely converge in Year 5, but don't worry, Harry and Co. will, as expected, be the heart of Book 4 (and 5, 6, and 7).
AN 2: Roderigo's poor victims represent King Philip II's secretaries/advisors Juan Alonso Idiáquez and Cristóvão de Moura, both of whom failed to share the written concerns of Alonso de Guzmán y Sotomayor, the 7th Duke of Medina Sidonia and the (muggle) Naval Commander of the failed Spanish Armada. Duke Esteban was the magical Naval Commander, and unfortunately, the collective failures of the muggle and magical counterparts were diverted to him, resulting in him and his family suffering the Spanish Wizengamot's version of The Ultimate Sanction. More details will be revealed later on.
AN 3: The conflict between Le Milieu and Tkachenkokaya Bratva will serve as part of the backdrop for Book 4, since relatives on both factions will be present for the TWT. As far as Gabriel's role, he's the would-be 'peacekeeper' whose all about choosing the best option that will preserve the Greater Good. He is played by Aidan Gillen in his role as Petyr Baelish (GoT). Imagine Littlefinger using his powers of ambition, cunning, and ruthlessness for that pesky Greater Good instead of harassing a teenaged Sansa and money-grubbing.
AN 4: The role of La Veuveblanc is played by Vanessa Kirby in her role as Alanna Mitsopolis/White Widow (Mission: Impossible – Fallout). That character is a bit unhinged, but fiercely loyal to her family and those she trusts, which is probably less than a handful.
