Chapter 6
Summer 2003
London, United Kingdom.
Hermione's eyes fluttered open, her surroundings gradually coming into focus. The worried faces of Harry and Ron loomed over her as she regained consciousness, their expressions a mix of concern and relief.
"Are you okay, Hermione?" Ron's voice was laced with worry.
Hermione nodded weakly, still trying to shake off the disorientation. "I think so," she murmured, attempting to sit up.
An Auror approached, his demeanor serious as he began, not caring about her tired state, questioning her about the incident. The Auror's gaze bore into Hermione as he questioned her about the events of the night.
"Can you remember anything about what happened?"
Hermione shook her head, her brow furrowed with frustration. "Not much," she admitted. "I remember being struck by a spell and then waking up here."
"You were found unconscious near three badly injured guy dressed as Death Eaters," the Auror explained. "We brought you here for treatment."
Hermione's eyes widened in surprise at the revelation. "I didn't realize..." she trailed off, processing the information.
The Auror continued, his tone grave. "Most of the guys dressed as Death Eaters managed to escape, but we found several of them badly wounded," he said. "All of them had similar injuries, suggesting that only one person was responsible."
"I don't remember anything clearly," she confessed. "The chaos was overwhelming."
The Auror's frown deepened as he considered her testimony. "According to rumors, it was the Count of Caerwin who intervened," he revealed. "The wounds are the same that were found on Fenrir Greenback's corpse once the Italian gave it back to us. While we won't be arresting him since he acted in self-defense against what was clearly terrorists, we do intend to question and detain him temporarily for 24 hours - only to ask some question and verify his identity. So if you have any information about what he looks like…"
Harry's expression darkened. "That's absurd," he interjected, his voice tinged with anger. "This 'Count' was the only one who stood up against the Death Eaters. He did what needed to be done, while everybody was fleeing! While you were not here! He saved many lives, including Hermione's". Harry deliberately did not tell the Auror that he had himself stunned two or three Death Eaters in a vicious duel, before they started fleeing. And that he was very proud of it.
The Auror met Harry's gaze evenly, his resolve unwavering. "Unfortunately, we have our protocols to follow, Mr. Potter," he replied firmly. "We need to ascertain the Count's identity and how he managed to inflict such damage, regardless of his intentions. We did not even recognize which spell he used!"
Hermione's voice trembled slightly as she spoke up. "I understand the need for protocols," she began, her tone hesitant. "But, honestly, I don't remember much from that night. All I recall is... is that he was very handsome, and he had a very deep voice…"
The Auror sighed.
Youth…
Summer 2003
Paris, France
The Count sighed heavily as he entered the room, his shoulders slumping with exhaustion. With a casual flick of his hand, he discarded his cloak, letting it fall to the floor before he began the task of rolling up the sleeves of his shirt. He then collapsed onto the expansive sofa of his French palace, his posture betraying a casualness that clashed with his noble title.
Unperturbed by her master's demeanor, Isabella efficiently poured him a generous glass of sparkling water - she had never seen him drink alcohol, and he never asked for some. Her expression remained impassive, a testament to her years of service and familiarity with the Count unpredictable behavior. She had grown accustomed to his shifting personas, his multiple identities. She was used to see his transitions between aristocratic refinement and commoner casualness with practiced ease. Witnessing his effortless interactions with both wizards and Muggles alike, she had long since abandoned any attempts to decipher the enigmatic workings of her master's mind. She knew it was neither her place - nor her interest. She owed him too much to doubt him, or question him. She held back a shudder as she recalled her state before the Count had found her, saved her from a fate worse than death. For that act alone, he had her unwavering loyalty. But it wasn't just gratitude that bound her to him; it was also the care he had shown her since, taking her under his wing, providing her with sustenance, shelter, education, and helping her reintegrate into a society she had long been estranged from.
Her master downed the contents of the glass in a single gulp, his thirst momentarily quenched. With a simple gesture, he indicated his desire for a refill, prompting Isabella to oblige without hesitation.
"Fuck..." Sirius muttered under his breath, his frustration evident in the coarse edge to his voice. Isabella arched an eyebrow in surprise - the Count rarely used such language, especially in her presence. He ordinarily was the epitome of determination and coldness. Tentatively, she set down the bottle she was holding and moved around the sofa, enveloping her master in a gentle hug from behind. Sirius stiffened momentarily, a flicker of surprise crossing his features before he gradually relaxed into her embrace.
"Are you well, my master?" Isabella asked in a hushed tone. She felt him hesitate before regaining his composure.
"It's nothing, really. Just a setback," he replied, his voice tinged with frustration. "I hadn't planned to reveal myself so soon, especially not at the World Cup. Nor did I anticipate encountering certain... friendly faces again so soon. It…moved me more than I'd like to admit. But I couldn't stand by and watch one of Harry's friends being tortured and murdered."
Isabella nodded understandingly, her fingers gently massaging his scalp. She couldn't quite comprehend the Count's attachment to this "Harry Potter," a young man rumored to have defeated a Dark Lord when he was but an infant. He seemed to hold a significance for the Count beyond her understanding and unrelated to his exploit.
The Count straightened, withdrawing from her embrace. "It's all right. I'll just bring my plans forward a few days."
He regarded her with a curious expression. "Fetch me some writing supplies; I have a letter to draft. And be sure to pack everything up. Inform Marcus that we'll be departing for Great Britain tomorrow."
Isabella's heart skipped a beat at the mention of returning to the land where she had endured so much suffering. She knew they eventually would have to go there, but being confronted to the fact that it would be now…She pushed aside the haunting memories, her resolve firm. No, this journey had nothing to do with dwelling on the past. With the Count's support, perhaps she could find a new purpose. She shook her head, focusing on the task at hand. She had to attend to the Count's needs, leaving the past behind her, even if it meant suppressing any thought of revenge.
Beginning of September 2003
London, United Kingdom.
Hermione Granger sat at her desk in her childhood bedroom, the anticipation of the new school year at Hogwarts coursing through her veins. With just a few days left before classes began, she was eager to dive into her studies, especially since she had chosen Charms as her major and Transfiguration and Runes as minors. It was going to be so much more interesting than Undergraduate!
But despite her excitement, her textbooks laid untouched on the desk in front of her. Instead of studying, Hermione found herself idly chewing on the end of a quill, lost in thought. She knew she should be focusing on her schoolwork, but her mind kept drifting to the mysterious and handsome man who had saved her life during the summer. She felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude towards him and wanted to express her thanks, but she didn't know where to begin.
With a sigh, Hermione picked up a piece of parchment and dipped the quill in ink, hesitating as she tried to formulate her thoughts into words. She wanted to convey her appreciation and admiration, but every sentence she wrote felt inadequate - too childish, too pedantic, too girly… She crumpled up several failed attempts and tossed them into the wastebasket beside her, frustration mounting with each discarded sheet.
Summer 2003
Malfoy Manor, England
Lucius Malfoy reclined in an opulent armchair, a glass of ruby-red wine cradled between his long, slender fingers. His thoughts drifted back to the recent events at the World Cup, where he had dispatched a contingent of underlings of his old master, carefully ensuring they remained ignorant of his own involvement. It had been a calculated move. Firstly, it had provided him with a means to discredit Aurors responsiveness, a subtle maneuver aimed at undermining the authority of Madam Bones, one of his main political adversaries. By orchestrating chaos and discrediting the Aurors, he aimed to portray them as inept and incapable, thus bolstering his own influence within the Ministry. Secondly, the World Cup debacle had afforded him the opportunity to rid himself of a few troublesome henchmen, individuals that lacked any subtlety, and whose loyalty had wavered in the absence of their fallen master, the Dark Lord. No longer needed to further his ambitions, they had become liabilities, their brutish methods and uncompromising ideology a hindrance rather than an asset.
The scent of aged oak and dark fruit wafted through the air as he savored the taste of triumph mingled with the intoxicating fragrance of power
And this "Count of Caerwin" intrigued Lucius. While defeating three low-ranking Death Eaters was commendable, it was the culling of Fenrir Greyback and his werewolf pack that truly impressed him. Lucius knew Fenrir well, and he understood the formidable nature of the werewolf's abilities. Such a feat commanded respect, even from someone as steeped in the dark arts as Lucius.
Seeing potential in the Count, Lucius considered him a possible ally - or pawn. Despite the Count's actions in injuring the bottom feeders, Lucius doubted his fellow Death Eaters- well, the ones who mattered, particularly the ex-inner circle, would hold it against him. Instead, they would likely recognize him as a valuable asset. They were too astute not to see the Count's title, wealth, and skills as opportunities for exploitation.
The rumors of the Count's fortune, supported by the testimony of the youngest Greengrass, only fueled Lucius's ambition. Apparently, the Count was set to arrive in Great Britain in a matter of days or weeks, with the eldest Greengrass' daughter tasked with introducing him to the londonian elite. As he twirled his glass between his fingers, Lucius pondered his next moves. Dispatching investigators to gather information seemed prudent, and he would instruct his son, Draco, to keep a vigilant ear to the ground. Perhaps he would also make him seek out the Greengrass daughters for further insight into the Count's intentions.
?
A lone figure hunched over a cauldron, its contents bubbling and hissing. With quivering hands, they hoisted forth a twisted, malformed child from the depths of the bubbling concoction, its malformed limbs contorting unnaturally as it emitted an unsettling wail that pierced the silence of the night. The man could not help but recoil in horror at his Master appearance. The child's eyes glowed like twin embers in the darkness. Its voice, a sinister rasp that sent shivers down the figure's spine, spoke with a chilling certainty. "Now, my faithful servant," it intoned, its words dripping with malice, "it is time for the second part of Our Plan."