Chapter 3
Summer 2003 - Twenty-two years after Sirius' emprisonnent
Rome, Italy
After five minutes of sheer terror and frantic hyperventilation, Daphne forced herself to calm down. "Think, think!" she muttered to herself, her mind racing with dread-filled scenarios. She had not enough money with her, and if she send an owl to her parents for help, the deadline would pass, sealing Astoria's grim fate as a werewolf. Sweet, gentle Astoria, condemned to such a horrific fate!
And she could not even rely on her old aunt. The woman had no connections, no resources, and at the mere mention of Astoria's predicament, she had fainted away like a useless old rag. Daphne glanced anxiously at the clock on the wall. She had approximately six hours left until the dreaded midnight deadline loomed over her : time was already slipping away.
The Greengrass family lacked substantial contacts in Italy when they needed them the most. Even the few acquaintances she had were unreliable. Leonardo Acatti, her father's colleague, might agree to lend her the money she required, but at a steep cost – either through astronomical interest rates or by demanding a favor in return, or even proposing a marriage arrangement with one of his illegitimate sons. But beyond the financial risks, a greater danger loomed in the form of Greyback. Even if Daphne somehow managed to gather the necessary funds, there was no guarantee he wouldn't betray them both, transform them both, totally disgracing the Greengrass family, and take off with the money. What she truly needed was leverage, something to level the playing field. However, facing Greyback's formidable pack alone left her feeling utterly defenseless.
Considering turning to acquaintances like Blaise Zabini for assistance provided little comfort. While he might harbor some sympathy for Astoria's plight, he was hardly a reliable ally. The money laid with her mother, the infamous Black Widow, whose manipulative maneuvers had secured her both power and wealth in the past. Yet, relying on her was a precarious proposition, as her motives remained murky and her trustworthiness questionable. She was an assassin, for fuck's sake ! In the end, regardless of which ally she chose, the same predicament of firepower and intimidation would undoubtedly persist in confronting the looming threat posed by Greyback.
Who could... The Count! The Count who was both infinitely wealthy, if rumors and what she'd seen of his home were to be believed. And most of all, the Count who seemed to have a personal grudge against Greyback! But what would he ask for her help? Could she trust him? Of course not. Did she have a choice?
Daphne swallowed hard, steeling herself for what lay ahead. It was for the sake of her sister, Astoria, that she summoned up her courage. With a determined breath, she approached the heavy door leading to the Count's apartment and knocked, the sound echoing through the silent hallway. As the door creaked open, Daphne's heart pounded in her chest, her nerves on edge. Standing before her was Isabella, the Count's enigmatic companion. Where once Daphne had found the woman's cold beauty impressive, it now seemed downright intimidating. There was an aura of icy detachment about her, an unsettling grace that hinted at something beyond mere humanity. It sent a shiver down Daphne's spine, making her wonder how she had not noticed before. She couldn't shake the nagging thought that Isabella might be more than she seemed. A fleeting suspicion crossed her mind - could she be a vampire? But she quickly dismissed the idea. After all, she had seen Isabella in the light before... hadn't she?
Her doubts swirled like a storm in her mind as she questioned the wisdom of seeking the Count's aid. Was he too like Isabella, something otherworldly hiding behind a veneer of elegance? Had she made a grave mistake in coming here, risking not only her own safety but also Astoria's? Despite her mounting trepidation, Daphne squared her shoulders and pressed on, mustering all the courage she could muster. "I must speak with the Count," she declared, her voice betraying only a hint of the fear gnawing at her insides. Isabella did not answer immediately.
With a determined breath, Daphne insisted once more, her voice steady despite the rising tension. "Please, it's urgent," she implored, her gaze meeting Isabella's with unwavering determination.
Isabella's gaze hardened further, her lips thinning in apparent displeasure. "The Count is occupied," she replied tersely, making it clear that she was not inclined to entertain any further requests.
Undeterred, Daphne persisted, her resolve unwavering. "I must see him," she insisted, her tone firm and unwavering. But just as Daphne feared she would be turned away again, they heard the distant echo of the Count's voice, calling out from somewhere within the apartment. Isabella hesitated, her resolve faltering for a moment, before reluctantly stepping aside. "Very well," she conceded, her tone clipped. "You may enter."
Daphne followed Isabella and found herself not in the salon where she had been before, but in the Count's office. The room exuded a striking modernity, even amidst the ancient surroundings. Sleek lines and minimalist design characterized the furnishings, some of which appeared to be of Muggle origin, blending seamlessly with the traditional decor.
The Count sat behind a polished desk, engrossed in his work, a stack of papers spread out before him. His choice of writing instrument surprised Daphne - not a feather quill as she had anticipated, but a sleek fountain pen, its ink flowing smoothly across the page.
The Count looked up as Daphne entered, his expression unreadable. "Please, have a seat," he said, his voice calm and composed. "What brings you to interrupt my work and insist on seeing me?"
Daphne, drawing upon her political training, took a moment to compose herself, gathering her thoughts before speaking. "Your Excellency," she began, her voice measured and diplomatic, "I come seeking your esteemed assistance regarding a matter of utmost urgency concerning my sister, Astoria. It is with great concern that I implore your guidance and support in this delicate affair."
With a practiced motion, the Count capped his pen and gestured for her to take a seat. "What troubles ail her? And why did you seek my assistance, in particular?" he inquired, his tone measured and composed.
Daphne, drawing upon her political finesse, met his gaze with unwavering confidence. "Your Excellency," she began, her voice carrying the weight of urgency and diplomacy, "I come to you in a time of dire need, for it is my sister, Astoria, who finds herself in the clutches of a most formidable adversary—a werewolf of infamous repute, named Fenrir Greyback."
She paused briefly, allowing the gravity of her words to sink in before continuing. "While my family possesses the means to meet the demands of her captor, regrettably, the necessary funds elude my immediate reach. Moreover, I harbor deep-seated concerns regarding the safety of my sister should I venture alone to deliver the ransom."
Her expression remained poised as she articulated her plea with eloquence. "Hence, I beseech your esteemed assistance on two fronts: firstly, to extend the loan of the ransom of fifteen thousand galleons, which my family shall repay in more than full with gratitude, and secondly, to provide accompaniment or enlist the aid of Marcus, your esteemed retainer, to ensure both my safety and the successful retrieval of my sister."
Daphne's tone softened as she leaned forward slightly, her voice laced with sincerity. "Your Excellency, I assure you, my family holds great respect and gratitude for those who lend their aid in times of need. Your generosity will not go unnoticed, and we will be forever indebted to you for your assistance."
Unspoken thoughts lingered in Daphne's mind as she made her plea. She knew that her request was not advantageous for the Count, yet she also understood, thanks to her eavesdropping, that he probably harbored a grudge against Greyback. But to Daphne's astonishment, the Count accepted her plea without hesitation, refraining from any hint of blackmail or request for favors. "So be it," he declared, his tone resolute. "I'll go with you to deliver the ransom.". And the Count uncapped his pen, and started writing again, as if her demand had been trivial.
To Daphne's utter surprise, the Count's acceptance had come swift and without any strings attached. Her mind raced with disbelief at his straightforward response, unable to shake off the feeling that such a generous offer was highly unusual, if not unprecedented. He had to have ulterior motives…Yet, she knew better than to look a gift horse in the mouth in such circumstances.
The Count, sensing her astonishment, chuckled softly before offering an explanation. "The extent and difficulty of a favor, my dear, depend greatly on the person undertaking it," he remarked, his voice tinged with a hint of arrogance. "For me, such a sum and a small pack of werewolves hardly amount to a challenge."
Though she found his demeanor exceptionally arrogant, Daphne couldn't deny the impressive confidence with which he spoke. It was a mix of awe and skepticism that flooded her thoughts…but, maybe, with the Count, she could save Astoria.
As an afterthought, almost as if to appease her and maintain a sense of reciprocity and politeness, the Count added, "And in return for my assistance, when I venture to London in a few months' time, I trust you'll be kind enough to introduce me to the important figures here. You see, I am quite unfamiliar with the social circles in this city."
Fenrir Greyback glanced at the young girl who was lying in the corner, knocked out by a cheap potion, and lit himself a fag. He sighed, taking a deep puff of smoke. The job was unusual, but it was going to go well - and they were going to make a hell of a lot of money. He would have tried to double-cross the young nobles by turning the youngest into a werewolf even before the meeting, but their client had made it clear that, if he did that, they wouldn't be paid. Fenrir would have told the mysterious woman, draped in a hood and smelling like a vampire to go fuck herself - but one of his pack members had done so and been turned into a kebab. She had knives, and she was fuckin' fast. He didn't know who the mysterious client that asked for the kidnapping was, but he was sure of one thing: if he tried to fight her, he probably wouldn't win.
Daphne was stressed, and she was shivering a little. Not from the cold - she'd thrown a warming charm on her jacket - but, though she'd never admit it, from stress and fear. Daphne stole a wary glance at her companions. The Count strode confidently ahead, his demeanor unwavering despite the oppressive atmosphere. Beside him, his retainer remained stoic, his wand poised for any sign of danger. The Count's audacious display of confidence left Daphne feeling uneasy. How could they hope to contend with Fenrir Greyback and his pack with only two, or three if she counted herself? But as her thoughts drifted Astoria, Daphne knew she had no choice but to press on. For Astoria's sake, she had to do it.
As the trio navigated the shadowy corridors of the Colosseum, the ancient stone walls seemed to loom over them. Descending into the depths of the Colosseum, they entered the labyrinthine sewers that snaked beneath the ancient structure. The air grew thick with the smell of dampness and decay, and the sound of water dripping echoed off the dank stone walls. The narrow passageways twisted and turned, leading them deeper into the subterranean darkness, where Fenrir had set the rendezvous.
"Ah, the Princess Greengrass herself in the flesh! But I see you don't give a damn about your sister's life, since you've come accompanied...despite my instructions," she shivered as she heard Fenrir's voice in the shadows, and her eyes adjusted to the darkness just in time to see him kick her sister, who was tied to the floor.
She could make now out the menacing figure of Fenrir Greyback, flanked by four other men, likely werewolves themselves, who stood hunched over with a feral glint in their eyes. Their unkempt appearance and foul odor marked them as outcasts of society, akin to strangely feral hobos.
Daphne's heart sank as she caught sight of her sister, Astoria, lying on the ground with her hands bound and a gag in her mouth. Despite the bruises marring her skin, Astoria appeared remarkably composed, her eyes flashing with defiance as she met Daphne's gaze. The scratches were relatively harmless, but Daphne was too absorbed by the situation to see the strangeness of Astoria's relatively unharmed state.
Against all expectations, it was the Count that spoke up. "I see you've chosen to forgo any semblance of civilized behavior, Monsieur Greyback," he remarked, his voice laced with disdain.
The werewolf let out a raucous laugh. "You've got the money?" he demanded crudely.
Without hesitation, Marcus reached into his pocket and produced a purse, tossing it effortlessly to Fenrir. The werewolf caught it with a swift motion, his eyes gleaming with anticipation. With practiced ease, Fenrir opened the purse and performed a quick spell to tally the galleons within. After a moment's calculation, he nodded in confirmation, acknowledging that the count was indeed accurate.
Daphne shivered as the werewolf flashed a sinister smile, his eyes glinting with malice. He leaned in menacingly, gripping Astoria's hair in a cruel grasp. "However, since you didn't come alone, I'm not obliged to keep my word, am I?" he taunted, his voice dripping with menace. As he brought his sharp-nailed fingers dangerously close to Astoria's throat, she whimpered in fear, sending a chill of dread coursing through Daphne's veins. Despite her overwhelming terror, Daphne's hand instinctively reached for her wand.
Before she could act, the werewolf calm voice cut through the tension like a knife. "Oh, darling, put that away. What would you do with it? You'll only hurt yourself," he mocked her.
"Unfortunately, Mister Greyback, it's you who will emerge scathed from this little meeting," said the Count in a chillingly calm voice. "I'm hardly a knight in shining armor, and I'm generally quite amoral. But, out of selfishness, I'm asking you to release these two young ladies. I'm relying on them to guide me on my forthcoming journey to London," he continued, his words very calm. The Count's unexpected intervention provoked mocking laughter from the werewolves, their crude amusement echoing through the dim chamber.
"Well, my little friend, we'll have to take care of you too, in that case," sneered Fenrir, his voice dripping with malice as he tightened his grip on Astoria's hair, his intentions clear.
"In that case..." and the Count exploded into a fury of movement. 'Gods!' Astoria and Daphne exclaimed inwardly. He was habitually the epitome of calm and phlegm, but how quickly he moved! He drew his wand and in a single motion, with a spell Daphne didn't recognize, caught Fenrir under the chin and threw him backwards - away from Astoria at the same time.
Marcus took the opportunity to pick up the young Greengrass, who was bound and lying on the ground, and hoisted her onto his shoulder. Daphne thought he was going to set her down next to her and start fighting the werewolves, who came to their senses and approached them with a menacing air. But with Astoria still on his shoulders and his wand unsheathed, he started walking towards the exit, beckoning Daphné to follow.
"But... you're not going to leave your master, the Count, alone against the werewolves? He'll die!" Daphne cried out, her voice trembling with fear.
Marcus smiled cryptically at her. "He's not the one who will die," he replied with a chilling certainty.
As he said that, the Count's started to chant. His incantation reverberated through the chamber. The ground trembled violently as unnaturally massive rose stems erupted from the earth, their silver-tinged thorns gleaming in the darkness. With swift and precise movements, the massive enchanted vines obeyed his gesture, lashing out with terrifying ferocity. Writhing like living creatures, they ensnared the werewolves, binding them tightly. As Daphné stood still, looking at the scene, the werewolves roared in fury and desperation as the thorns pierced their flesh, eliciting agonized howls that echoed through the darkness. Despite their struggles, they were no match for the Count's mastery over the strange magic.
Marcus grabbed Daphne, who gasped as she was thrown onto his shoulder. "The fight is far from over, Fenrir Greyback is pretty tough, and we need to get out of here, or you'll likely be collateral damage."
After a few minutes of Marcus running, they emerged into the open air of the arena, Daphne's mind raced with thoughts of the terrifying power she had just witnessed. The Count's mastery of magic had been nothing short of awe-inspiring, and the image of the enchanted vines ensnaring the werewolves haunted her thoughts.
Daphne's heart raced faster, her anxiety mounting as they waited in the center of the arena. The newly unbounded Astoria was crying, and worrying about the Count. The minutes stretched on, each passing second feeling like an eternity as they braced themselves for what might come next.
When they finally heard the approaching footsteps, Daphne's muscles tensed involuntarily, her breath catching in her throat. Who would it be? The Count? Or Fenrir?
But as the figure emerged from the shadows, relief flooded through her. It was the Count, his presence commanding and formidable. Despite the intensity of the battle they had just witnessed, the Count appeared unruffled, not a single speck of blood marring his pristine clothing.
In his hand, however, he held the severed and bloody head of Fenrir Greyback.
"Well, ladies, you who came to Rome for entertainment, what an evening!", laughed the Count.
The Greengrass would suffer as he had suffered—but not yet. For now, he would be their savior.