Trigger Warning: This chapter includes graphic depictions of violence that may be disturbing for some readers. Read at your own discretion.
XIX. The School of Purity
"Governor? The Prosecutor has just arrived. She will be here in a few minutes."
The deputy's voice pulled Evan Rosier from his stupor, and he nodded resignedly. He was sitting on the edge of his desk, his gaze fixed on a blackboard covered in annotations and snapshots relating to the ongoing case.
His desk was cluttered with scrolls: expert reports, notes in his handwriting, and flying letters from other Ministry members. Perhaps most harrowing were the photographs of the massacre: grisly and explicit images that could unsettle any ordinary soul. Yet, as Head of the Security Section, Evan had grown impervious to such horrors, having been exposed to a fair share of violent spectacles throughout his career. This instance was different, though; it was his own ranks that had incurred the losses.
The Rosiers were often described as loyal allies, unfaltering in their obedience. Historically, they had aligned themselves with more influential families, leveraging such alliances to further their own status. They were neither natural leaders nor astute tacticians. Their family motto encapsulated this ethos perfectly:
- Untarnished Loyalty -
Evan Rosier was hardly the commanding figure one might expect to lead a faction like the Death Eaters. His appointment resulted from a simple political arrangement. In truth, he rarely made decisions independently. Until now, his leadership had not been tested, save for the occasional assassinations of Death Eaters by Dissidents.
The door opened to reveal a woman with pale skin and long black curls restrained by a thick, shimmering green brooch. Bellatrix Lestrange had an aura that made those around her uneasy. Perhaps it was her penetrating gaze or the constant, vicious smirk she sported. Her unpredictability and unrestrained zealotry had become legendary. Given her standing within the regime, her views held considerable weight.
"Valour and vigour, Madam Prosecutor," Evan greeted her, his tone solemnly formal.
"Purity above all, Governor," she returned.
A smirk played upon her lips as she fixed Evan with a commanding look. Visits from Bellatrix Lestrange were far from social courtesies, and over the years, Evan had come to regard them with a sense of foreboding. He anticipated that their discussion could only veer in one of two directions.
With a sense of apprehension, he watched her, having a fairly solid conjecture about the purpose of her visit. Evan resettled into his chair, gesturing for Bellatrix to take the seat opposite him. Ignoring the invitation, she drifted to the desk's corner, drawn to a cage by the fireplace. Inside, a vibrant and colourful Fwooper lay lethargic.
"What a charming creature," Bellatrix remarked, her finger trailing across the cage bars, eager as a child yearning to stroke a pet.
Evan watched her warily. The bird seemed restless, emitting screeches unlike any he had previously heard.
"Hope is quite an enigmatic concept," Bellatrix suddenly declared, her back to him. "Wouldn't you agree, Governor?"
Evan remained silent, caught off guard by the query.
"My father once told me that hope is profoundly dangerous. It can drive even the most serene man to madness," she continued, extracting the bird from its cage.
The bird was scarcely visible in her clenched fist as she gently caressed its head. "Even more troubling, hope is dreadfully infectious," Bellatrix went on, her tone laced with ennui.
She glanced up, her attention shifting to the large board across the room. Her dark eyes briefly scanned the photographs affixed there. Approaching, she pointed a long, black-varnished nail at one of the images.
"Who would have imagined that someone so inconsequential and of such an impure lineage would dare challenge us?" Bellatrix mused, her eyes flashing with intense revulsion.
Evan's gaze followed hers, settling on the photograph of the attack's perpetrator, Hannah Abbott-Boot, an Unblooded who appeared entirely unremarkable. She was far from the figures typically associated with the regime's adversaries.
"It seems we have underestimated the enemy. Our complacency has grown too thick. And I'm concerned this contagion is spreading through the populace more swiftly than anticipated. We must eradicate it before it takes deeper root," she stated decisively.
"In that case, why allow the press to publicise the incident?" Evan finally asked, his curiosity getting the better of him.
Initially, Evan was taken aback by the Sacred Coven's decision to allow the attack's reporting in the national press, later realising it was a calculated propaganda move. The assailant was depicted as a dangerous and cruel individual, capable of the most heinous acts.
The public reaction was outrage, appalled by this woman's savage deeds. Evan was aware that these developments would provoke indignation across all strata of society, from the lowest to the most privileged.
"The enemy lurks everywhere, infiltrating even the most unexpected places, including our own ranks. The reality is, our resources to combat them are not infinite. So, what better strategy than to mobilise our citizens to act on our behalf?" Bellatrix remarked with a smug grin.
Paranoia was taking root among the public, and suspicion had become rife in the streets. The people themselves had become enforcers for the Security Section, with instances of denunciation rising markedly following the press coverage. Unbloodeds frequently faced violent attacks from Purebloods, driven by either a sense of justice or a quest for retribution. Both Death Eaters and Aurors had been instructed to turn a blind eye to these actions.
"And this is just the beginning," she declared, her voice dripping with glee. "Do you know what's stronger than hope, Rosier?"
Rosier shook his head.
"Fear. It's fear that drives people to commit atrocious acts," she said, her smile curving malevolently.
He was well aware she spoke from a wealth of experience.
"Tomorrow, the public will learn via the press that the Aurors have captured an accomplice of this savage, who is currently under interrogation," she disclosed. "Of course, it's fabricated, but that's beside the point. What truly matters is the dread this will instil in the scum lurking in our streets. Soon they will have nowhere left to hide."
A calculating gleam flashed in her eyes, leaving Evan momentarily convinced he was in the presence of madness. Suddenly, Bellatrix thrust her clenched fist towards him. Evan winced, realising the bird had stopped moving. She opened her palm, revealing a coating of thick, red liquid—blood. A sharp nail had punctured the bird's flank.
"I want these vermin to find no quarter. I expect the Death Eaters to intensify their efforts threefold, effective immediately and until further instruction. We'll show to those who've dared challenge our authority the extent of our ruthlessness," she declared, her voice imbued with resolve. "No deviations will be tolerated."
Bellatrix eyed the motionless bird in her grasp with a semblance of satisfaction. Evan felt a profound sense of powerlessness witnessing this act. For the first time since assuming leadership of the Security Section, he acknowledged his lack of resolve and competency to navigate such a crisis. He had always been aware of his pretence, yet it had never been a point of contention, courtesy of his lineage. Today, however, his ineptitude could no longer be masked.
"The only Dissident worth tolerating is a dead one, remember that," she concluded, flinging the bird's blood-stained carcass onto the desk, splattering blood.
A speck of blood landed on Evan's cheek. A macabre grin lit up Bellatrix's face. Despite Evan's effort to maintain composure, an overwhelming desire to distance himself from this deranged woman surged within him.
"Disappointment does not sit well with me, as you're fully aware. After all, we're talking about the security of our entire nation here. You would do well not to let me down, Governor," she intoned, adopting the sulk of a child denied her whims. "I'd hate to subject you to the same end as these parasites. Think of your wife and your daughter."
She exited the room, leaving Evan frozen in her wake.
/
"Quick, or we'll miss History of Purity," Samantha Edgecombe urged, her tone flustered as she hastened down the wide first-floor corridors.
She glanced back to see her classmate Violet trailing, appearing remarkably unconcerned.
"Calm down, Sam," Violet replied with her usual lack of interest. "I've got something to sort out before class, anyway."
Samantha gave her a quizzical look. "Right, off you go then," she conceded before dashing off.
After a sprint that left her gasping for air, Samantha arrived at the classroom doorway.
"I'm sorry, Professor Crouch," she panted, cheeks reddened with both embarrassment and exhaustion.
"Five points from Hufflepuff, Miss Edgecombe," Crouch remarked, barely glancing her way. "Take your seat."
Samantha found her place in an empty row and swiftly pulled out her textbook, her cheeks flaming as she tried to ignore the weary glances from some of her peers at the deduction of points. At least she'd avoided detention, she consoled herself.
Bartemius Crouch Senior, their stern History of Purity teacher, scribbled some unintelligible words on the blackboard before turning to face the class. With a rigid stance, sharp gaze, and a moustache that obscured his lips, Professor Crouch exuded strictness. He was a practical and rigid man, valuing strict adherence to rules above all. Having once held a notable position within the Ministry of Magic's Department of Magical Law Enforcement, he had grown weary of retirement and opted to teach at Hogwarts.
"As you're all aware, Victory Day is upon us," he began deliberately. "Would anyone care to recount the significance of this day?"
Immediately, Samantha's hand, along with two others, shot up.
"Miss Edgecombe?" he inquired, with patience.
"It marks Lord Voldemort's victory against the opponents of the purified British empire, sir, after a civil war that lasted nearly a decade," Samantha answered promptly.
"Five points to Hufflepuff. Could anyone elaborate on the causes of the conflict?" Professor Crouch pressed on.
"Lord Voldemort wanted to prevent the extinction of British wizardkind. Prior to the conflict, the reigning authorities were inclined towards alliances with Undesirables and even proposed violating the International Statute of Magical Secrecy by disclosing our existence," Nathan Bulstrode interjected with his haughty tone. "It posed a direct threat to our future survival."
Samantha dropped her hand, shooting an annoyed glance at the boy as the professor awarded Slytherin five points, despite him not raising his hand.
"And what was Lord Voldemort's rationale for opposing these proposals?"
"History shows that Undesirables have persecuted wizards at every opportunity. They even orchestrated 'Witch Hunts' for centuries. That's why the Statute of Magical Secrecy was established in the seventeenth century and ratified by all magical governments," Nathan elucidated. "It was a measure to safeguard our very existence."
The professor gave a nod of satisfaction. With a casual flick of his wand, papers from his desk soared and neatly aligned themselves on the blackboard. Samantha squinted, identifying the papers as photographs. Gasps of shock and dismay filled the room.
The images, static yet vivid, depicted scenes of extreme violence. The first captured a child seated amidst debris and flames in an apocalyptic landscape. Another showed three men suspended from a tree, encircled by figures in white hoods brandishing torches. A further image revealed a group huddled against a wall, their figures gaunt as though starved for weeks, with uniformed men jeering and gesturing at them.
"Throughout history, Muggles..." Crouch began, pausing as he registered the horrified and disgusted looks from his students upon hearing the prohibited word.
"...have shown a relentless penchant for persecution. Their history is filled with wars and violent conflicts since the dawn of their existence. They've spent centuries slaughtering each other, under various pretences such as ethnicity, territorial claims, or divergent beliefs and convictions. Their unending quest for dominance over those considered different continues to this day," the professor explained solemnly. "If history has taught us anything, it's that it's in their very nature."
Samantha observed the pictures with dread. She had read and heard accounts of Muggle brutality and violence from the earliest eras in class and in textbooks. Yet, she had never before seen such explicit displays.
It was from a survival imperative that Lord Voldemort and his adherents had opposed the Blood Traitors then in power. Two centuries prior, Voldemort emerged victorious from a fierce battle against a faction under Albus Dumbledore, labelled a Muggle apologist. The purified British empire was the first to assert its sovereignty against Undesirables. Voldemort's victory had restored the rights of British wizards, freeing them from the necessity of concealment akin to Nifflers.
"How ghastly," a voice chimed in next to Samantha, snapping her from her thoughts.
She jerked slightly and turned, meeting the familiar gaze of Violet Rosier, who must have slipped in silently beside her on the bench.
Professor Crouch had made no comment about her late entrance nor deducted any points. Violet, after all, was a Rosier, belonging to one of the Sacred Thirteen families. Her preferential treatment at Hogwarts was unquestioned. Despite their friendship since their first year, Samantha occasionally felt envious of the privileges extended to Violet. As a second-tier Pureblood, Samantha diligently pursued academic excellence. It was at times galling to observe Violet securing respectable marks with minimal effort. Moreover, no professor ventured to reprimand her consistent lateness. Despite her average academic performance, Violet's future was set in stone, assured of prime opportunities by virtue of her father, a governor of the Sacred Coven and leader of the Death Eaters.
As the class concluded, Samantha collected her belongings and followed Violet through the corridors of the fifth floor, where house-elves were busily adorning the castle for the forthcoming Victory Day festivities.
"Oi, Rosier!" came a pompous voice from behind.
Nathan Bulstrode, flanked by his cronies, quickly caught up with them. Samantha couldn't help but roll her eyes; she found the boy utterly insufferable.
"We're throwing a party at the Astronomy Tower tonight. Fancy joining?" he inquired, brandishing that conceited grin Samantha abhorred.
"Maybe we'll stop by, time permitting," Violet replied, her tone indifferent as she quickened her pace, cutting short any further conversation.
Samantha quickly followed her lead.
"Is it just me, or has Bulstrode become especially clingy this year?" Violet pondered, her fingers absently weaving through her long, dark hair.
Samantha bit her tongue, opting not to mention to her friend that Nathan Bulstrode, like most fourth-year boys, had a crush on her. Violet's allure wasn't just about her status; she was unarguably the most striking girl in their year, universally admired and liked. Next to her friend, Samantha often felt quite plain, as if merely a shadow. At times, she resented her own envy. Despite having everything going for her, Violet was neither haughty nor unpleasant, treating her peers as equals, her only flaw perhaps being her academic nonchalance.
When Samantha's parents discovered her friendship with a member of a Sacred family, they were overjoyed. They incessantly encouraged Samantha to maintain her relationship with Violet.
"We're incredibly proud our daughter is friends with an heiress of the Sacred Thirteen," her father would often boast.
"Make sure you're always in Miss Rosier's good graces," her mother would insist.
For second-tier Pureblood families like the Edgecombes, status and reputation were paramount, with each generation aiming to enhance the family's prestige. Samantha felt the weight of her family's expectations, pressured to excel academically and to foster relations with peers from more distinguished families.
Leaving the corridors behind, they made for the castle's grand entrance, leading to the extensive grounds. Samantha secured the fastenings of her heavy cloak. At the park's centre stood a grand fountain, dominated by a statue of Lord Voldemort. He was posed triumphantly, wand raised, with water streaming from its tip into the fountain basin below.
It was customary for some students to pay homage at the statue. As they passed, Samantha spotted the Carrow sisters, Bronwyn and Bryony, the notoriously reclusive sixth-year students. Given their odd and standoffish behaviour, no one dared disturb them, a courtesy extended because of their relation to Adamus Carrow, Prophet of the Clan of the Final Days—Britain's most esteemed congregation.
Samantha watched, surprised, as Violet also approached the statue. Unlike the Carrow sisters, who stood before Voldemort's statue with crossed arms, seemingly offering silent prayers, Violet, for all her illustrious background, had never shown such overt fervour.
"Whoever bathes their hands in impure blood…" Bryony began.
"Shall cleanse them with tears," Bronwyn concluded. "May Voldemort preserve us. May his strength direct our endeavours. May he purify and light our way, shielding us from foes."
"Let the blood remain pure," Violet interjected unexpectedly, tossing a Galleon into the fountain and watching it sink with a grave look.
The Carrow twins' eyes snapped open simultaneously, taken aback by the interruption. Recognising Violet, they gave a nod of approval before departing from the fountain, side by side. They rarely interacted with other students, choosing instead to converse only with fellow offspring of the Sacred Thirteen or members of the Final Days clan. Samantha couldn't pinpoint exactly why, but something about them unnerved her. Perhaps it was their empty blue stares or their peculiar habit of completing each other's sentences.
Turning towards Violet, who was lost in thought gazing at the statue, Samantha noticed her friend had been unusually quiet since they'd left Professor Crouch's class. Could her preoccupation be linked to that mysterious errand she had before their lesson?
"Everything alright, Vi?" she inquired.
Violet's usual nonchalance seemed absent today.
"I've just come from Headmistress McGonagall's office," Violet revealed, letting out a deep sigh as she turned to Samantha. "I've been instructed to leave Hogwarts by week's end."
Samantha's face registered shock. "Leave Hogwarts? But why?" she stumbled, clearly bewildered.
"My father's decision. My studies will continue under a private tutor at home for the time being," Violet responded with a sense of resignation.
Glancing around to ensure their conversation remained private, she lowered her voice.
"He's worried about my safety after the Chimera Palace incident," she shared quietly. "He's afraid I might be targeted."
Samantha's reaction was one of disbelief. The attack at the Chimera Palace, executed by a lone assailant who detonated a bomb amidst a crowd, killing innocents, had been the subject of widespread horror and discussion at Hogwarts. Samantha had been particularly appalled by the reports of the assailant: a disturbed rogue previously involved in a home invasion and an attempted baby abduction.
"But Hogwarts is safe… Couldn't they provide protection for you here?" Samantha asked.
Beyond school grounds, Violet and other Sacred Thirteen children were always escorted by Death Eater guards, even for mundane trips to Hogsmeade.
"It's my father's call," Violet repeated, her shoulders dropping in resignation. "I've no say in it, Sam."
A hush fell between them. In the silence, Samantha was struck by a profound realization—this was the first time since their friendship began that she felt relieved not to be in Violet's shoes.
/
Terry was jerked awake by the clatter of metal. He sat up sharply, causing the insufferable squeaking of the bed he lay on—an uncomfortable mattress with a sullied appearance, slumped over a steel frame. Occasionally, the mattress's sagging springs jabbed into his back, causing sharp pains.
He gazed at the grimy, filth-coated grey wall before him, its surface sticky to the eye. The dim cell radiated a desolate aura, deepening day by day. It mirrored his current psychological state in its grimness.
Terry had always led a simple and relatively uneventful life. It took very little to make him happy. His humble beginnings had taught him to be content with the essentials. As an adult, he'd aimed for nothing more than to be a caring and protective husband, building a life with Hannah.
However, the unraveling of his world began with the heartbreak of losing their first child. Hannah's struggles intensified, and he stood by, feeling utterly helpless. He constantly berated himself for not being more supportive. Communication had never been his strong suit, and he was at a loss on how to aid her. It was when he noticed her obsessively watching a stranger's child that he grasped the severity of her condition.
Hannah's sudden vanishing left him fearing the worst. For weeks, Terry, with the help of his loved ones, did everything within his power to find her, wrestling with the consuming dread.
He had spent the worst weeks of his life, constantly torturing himself with thoughts of what he could have done differently. Why hadn't he restrained her on that day? Why hadn't he delved deeper? Why hadn't he sought professional help for her?
When Terry reported Hannah missing, the authorities barely took notice, her status as an Unblooded scarcely making a blip on the Aurors' radar.
In an unexpected turn, a late-night knock revealed two wizards in Healer robes at his doorstep, with Hannah, appearing unconscious, in tow. Relief surged through him. They revealed that she had suffered a nervous breakdown, leading to her commitment in a specialized clinic, where her identity was only recently uncovered during her recovery.
Elated to have his wife back, safe and alive, Terry refrained from probing the oddities in their story, despite being left with lingering questions. Perhaps he should have questioned more.
Following her return, Terry observed a stark change in Hannah. She appeared distant, her mind seemingly adrift. Understanding the ordeal she had been through, he recognized her need for time to heal. He showered her with unprecedented care and consideration, hoping to ease her back to herself.
Her occasionally odd responses didn't concern him; he viewed them as steps in her recovery process. She needed time, rest, and attention. Whenever Terry ventured to inquire, Hannah dismissed his concerns, insisting she was fine.
"Is everything alright, Hannah?" he inquired during a quiet dinner, with an evening on the sofa and Celestina Warbeck's serenades from the wireless filling the air.
That night, his wife seemed especially tense, prompting his worry.
"I'm fine," she reassured him. "Just a bit worn out, had a busy day. I've been visiting shops for work."
Terry, surprised yet heartened by her initiative, felt encouraged.
"That's wonderful to hear," he responded. "I think getting out more, seeing people, would be good for you."
This gave him solace. Hannah's desire to reengage with society and regain a routine signalled her path to recovery. Since her return, deep reflection led Terry to acknowledge his past shortcomings, especially his emotional absence during their darkest moments.
"I wasn't there for you as I should have been when we lost Alfie; I was present in body, not in spirit," Terry admitted ruefully. "I don't want to repeat that mistake."
Hannah seemed puzzled by his confession. It was a topic they'd historically avoided.
"I made vows when we married, and I'm committed to keeping them. Know that I'm always here for you, and... I'll try to communicate more," he continued, his tone determined.
She had looked at him with teary eyes, as if she was about to break down. She seemed as if she wanted to say something but held back. He could see that something was troubling her.
"Promise me you'll tell me if things aren't going well?" he implored.
He watched her, hoping for a moment of honesty, a glimpse into her thoughts. But Hannah merely nodded, words eluding her. He drew her close, her head resting against his neck.
"I love you, Hannah," Terry murmured softly into her ear.
Silent, her tears soaked his shirt as he held her close, a mute testament to their shared pain and love.
In the days that followed, Terry noticed a significant change in Hannah's demeanour; she became increasingly restless, her anxiety palpable as though tormented by unseen worries. Her complexion had turned notably pallid, hinting at her distress. His concern peaked when she prepared to leave for her inaugural day at a new job, secured through a temp agency.
"Are you sure you're well enough to go, Hannah?" Terry asked, his worry evident.
Her smile, though meant to reassure, seemed strained.
"I'll be alright," she assured him with conviction. "I've just taken an energising potion; it should start to work soon."
Terry, still doubtful, chose not to press her further.
"When do you expect to return?" he probed.
Hannah, preoccupied with packing her bag, took a moment to respond.
"It will be late. You'll likely be asleep by then," she replied, her tone distant.
Suddenly, she pivoted on her heel, walked towards him with a determined expression, and threw herself into his arms. This sudden show of affection caught Terry off guard, yet he wrapped his arms around her, holding her tightly.
"I'm sorry," she murmured slowly, her voice thick with evident emotion.
"Sorry? For what?" Terry asked, his face a picture of confusion.
"In time, you'll understand," Hannah whispered back, hinting at deeper layers beneath her words. "I just want what's best for us."
Before he could respond, she kissed him—a kiss charged with a desperation he hadn't felt from her in ages. A gesture more profound than any they had shared in recent memory. As they parted, she looked into his eyes, a silent message shimmering there, though she restrained herself from speaking further. She then hastily collected her bag, donned her hood, and glanced back at him one final time before exiting.
The following morning, Terry awoke to find Hannah's side of the bed untouched, her absence from the house unmistakable. A sense of dread enveloped him, with the silence echoing his fears. She should've been back by now, he thought.
As hours passed without her return, anxiety consumed him. Contacting her parents only intensified his alarm when they confirmed she hadn't visited them. His apprehension deepened, memories of her previous disappearance haunting him.
Hours later, a deafening clamour at the door startled Terry. He dashed to the hallway, stopping dead at the sight that greeted him. Figures were standing in front of the remnants of his shattered front door, wands aimed at him. Terry had barely opened his mouth when a burst of light struck him, knocking him unconscious.
Upon regaining consciousness, Terry discovered he was in a cramped, dimly lit chamber with drab grey walls, bound to a chair by constricting vines.
Before he could ponder his situation, the door swung open, revealing two figures. Initially obscured by darkness, one figure was notably robust and broad-shouldered, while the other was shorter and slighter.
A sudden blaze of light forced Terry to shut his eyes, its intensity nearly searing. Blinking his eyes open, he took in the newcomers. A tall, imposing figure cloaked in black, his face masked—a Death Eater, Terry realized with a gulp.
The other, an older man with a bald head and sharp black eyes behind round glasses, circled Terry, inspecting him with a scrutinous gaze. Terry's unease grew under the man's piercing examination.
"Why am I here?" Terry managed to ask, his voice hoarse.
Silently, the man extended a hand clad in dragonhide gloves. To Terry's surprise, the stranger forced him to open his mouth and tilted his head back as if to look down his throat. He then grabbed Terry's hair roughly and jerked his head forward, examining the back of his neck. For several minutes, he continued his strange inspection, ignoring Terry's questions. Finally, the stranger seemed to decide he'd seen enough and moved to a table at the back of the room. He pulled out a roll of parchment.
"Terry Boot - Wand number 284939 - born on 23 January 1979 in Birmingham. Status: Half-Blood," the man declared in a deadpan manner.
Terry watched, trying to piece together his situation, his thoughts racing about Hannah's whereabouts and their intentions.
"In line with the provisions outlined in the Magical Statutes of Conduct, enacted in 1810, you are slated for an official hearing. I, Sigfredys Selwyn, a senior delegate of the Wizengamot's high council, am appointed to oversee the proceedings," the man proclaimed.
"A hearing?" Terry echoed, confusion clouding his voice. "Sir, there's been a misunderstanding, I—"
"Due to your blood status, you are ineligible for formal legal representation by a Law Mage. You may, however, represent yourself," Selwyn interjected, disregarding Terry's protests.
Terry's response dwindled into silence, apprehension taking hold.
"You stand accused of the following crimes—complicity in terrorist acts, financing terrorist activities, and collaboration with a criminal organisation intending to harm the nation, the Sacred Coven, and public order."
Terry stayed silent, completely dumbfounded by the accusations. Selwyn peered over his glasses, fixing Terry with a piercing gaze.
"What is your response to these charges?" he asked sternly.
"You have the wrong man. I'm an honest worker and have nothing to do with this," Terry asserted, shaking his head in disbelief.
"Are you Hannah Boot's husband, née Abbott?" Selwyn asked, his tone icy.
"Yes," Terry stammered, visibly confused.
"Do you deny having any knowledge of her plans and actions?" Selwyn pressed on.
"Her plans?" Terry echoed, his frustration mounting. "Where is my wife? I demand to speak with her."
Selwyn scrutinised him for a moment, as if evaluating Terry's truthfulness.
"You are well aware of your wife's whereabouts. Six feet under, following her role in the deaths of esteemed community members—innocent individuals," Selwyn stated. "And your accomplice left you to answer for her actions."
Terry's world spun as the revelation hit him; his heart raced with disbelief and shock. It seemed like a nightmarish illusion. Surely, this was a dream—no, a horrific nightmare. It couldn't be real. The room seemed to close in as Selwyn's accusations continued, though Terry hardly heard them over the pounding in his ears.
"Hannah is…" he began, unable to finish his sentence.
Admitting it aloud would render it too real, too final. No, the Hannah he knew couldn't possibly be capable of such horror. He knew his wife. She would never harm a fly.
Yet, a gnawing doubt crept in. Had she truly been the person he thought she was? Her recent behaviour and mysterious disappearance had sown seeds of uncertainty.
Feeling defeated, Terry responded to Selwyn's questions with numb detachment. He felt strangely disconnected as if observing the scene from afar, like a spectator outside his own body. With every passing minute, the case against him seemed increasingly damning.
"We've identified Hannah Boot at the scene of a foiled child abduction," Selwyn pronounced. "Just two days before you reported her missing. The timing seems rather convenient, wouldn't you agree?"
His scoff carried a derisive edge.
"After her alleged 'return,' you failed to notify the authorities," Selwyn continued. "You claim she was hospitalized during her absence but cannot provide details about the facility or those in charge. St Mungo's has no record of her admission since the previous year."
The circumstances did indeed appear dubious to Terry. Even he had found the whole thing odd himself but hadn't pressed Hannah for more details. He had found his wife safe and sound, and that was all that had mattered to him at the time.
"Additionally, we discovered components common in explosive devices within your home," Selwyn disclosed, consulting his notes.
Terry was dumbfounded by the revelation.
"Under the statutes of the Purified British Empire and by vested authority, I declare you guilty on all charges. You are hereby sentenced to life imprisonment in Azkaban, with no possibility of parole," Selwyn declared, finalizing the document.
The verdict floored Terry.
"No, you're wrong! I'm innocent! This isn't fair!" he protested, thrashing against his restraints, desperate for freedom.
"Fair?" Selwyn scoffed, his laugh lacking any hint of humour, as he gave Terry a grim look. "Mr Boot, the world is a cruel place."
And so, Terry found himself relegated to the bleak confines of Azkaban, known as the nation's fortress of despair. It took days for the shock of his sudden predicament to fully register. How could he come to terms with his wife's death when he couldn't even make sense of it? How could he mourn her when accused of such heinous deeds?
Life in Azkaban was a living nightmare. His cell, a veritable pit of filth, was perpetually cold, the air laden with stench, and the incessant sound of rats his constant company.
Yet, more than the physical confinement, it was the relentless assault on his psyche that tormented him most. Day and night, Terry was plagued by dark, overwhelming thoughts and morbid musings. The Dementors' presence only deepened his despair, driving him into bouts of inconsolable weeping for Hannah. In moments of respite, he lay motionless, his mind plagued with questions about her.
He shared his cell with two other men. One man tormented by endless nightmares, whose self-conversations unsettled Terry, and another, called Xenophilius Lovegood, who welcomed Terry's company. On the tenth day of his imprisonment, a guard unexpectedly called their names, opening the cell door.
"Tykes, Boot, and Lovegood, on your feet," the guard commanded, his voice gruff.
A spell encircled Terry's arms, summoning a slender rope that wound tightly around his wrists. Alongside his cellmates, Terry was herded into an unfamiliar chamber, already filled with prisoners.
Every inmate, Terry among them, donned identical brown jumpsuits, marking them as political prisoners or Unbloodeds—a dual stigma Terry bore. He found a spot in the queue, his eyes nervously scanning the surroundings as he attempted to make sense of the situation.
The prison's unwritten laws and inmate hierarchy had quickly become apparent to Terry. Following Xenophilius Lovegood's advice, he had kept a low profile to steer clear of trouble. Just days before, he was assaulted by a group of Pureblood inmates who branded him a terrorist and hurled vile slurs about his wife and lineage.
Xenophilius speculated that the guards might have leaked details of Terry's conviction to the other inmates, effectively painting a target on his back. Since the assault, Terry had shunned the communal spaces, preferring the gloom of his cell to the brutality of the yard.
The door swung open abruptly, revealing a figure clad in dark, elegant wizarding robes, escorted by guards.
"That's Yaxley, the prison's warden," Xenophilius murmured to Terry.
Yaxley halted before the assembled prisoners, a sinister grin playing across his lips.
"Seems your pitiful lives might at last find some purpose," he announced, sweeping his gaze over them with evident scorn.
He walked along the line, appraising each prisoner with evident revulsion.
"The Sacred Coven, in its infinite generosity, has granted a special Ministry Clemency in celebration of Victory Day," Yaxley revealed.
Victory Day, a national holiday, celebrated Voldemort and the Purebloods' triumph over their adversaries. Festivities included parades, reenactments, and public celebrations, particularly vibrant in Diagon Alley and other notable locations. Like many Unbloodeds, Terry consistently avoided the day's public revelry for safety reasons, mindful of the increased hostility toward individuals like himself.
"The Sacred Coven will offer one amongst you a chance at freedom," Yaxley solemnly declared.
His smile, razor-sharp and predatory, bore an almost vampiric perfection, casting an involuntary shiver down Terry's spine. The announcement triggered a flurry of murmurs among the prisoners; Terry, though, remained frozen, overcome by a growing sense of dread. The proposition felt inherently wrong. Why would the regime offer liberation to one of them?
The revelation became the central topic of discussion that evening, overshadowing all other chatter in the canteen. For the first time since his assault by fellow inmates, Terry ventured into the communal area, keeping to himself as he consumed the indistinguishable mush dished out onto his tray, half-listening to the speculative murmurs surrounding him.
"I've heard they're organising some sort of competition for Victory Day," shared an inmate known as Cattermole, a red-haired fellow with a pronounced moustache. "The winner will be granted freedom."
"Why though?" pondered Xenophilius Lovegood.
Cattermole offered a noncommittal shrug.
"Who's to say? Maybe they're feeling charitable," he remarked, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "With them, anything's on the table."
A burst of laughter erupted from the table's end, drawing the crowd's attention to Belby, a blond brute who had previously targeted Terry.
"You lot are clueless. Don't you find it odd that only Unbloodeds are participating in this farce of a competition?"
He was met with confused looks.
"A guard let slip that this whole spectacle is the government's attempt to appease the masses. Since the attack, they're out for blood. And you lot, traitors and Unblooded vermin alike, will pay the price," he proclaimed, his voice dripping with delight.
His malevolent gaze flicked to Terry, then he erupted into mocking laughter.
That night, Terry remained awake, haunted by Belby's ominous words echoing endlessly in his thoughts. In Azkaban's relentless gloom, time blurred into a seamless continuum, broken only by sporadic disturbances from his cellmates.
Eventually, the cell door creaked open to reveal food trays with offerings slightly less grim than usual. The trio ate in silence and Terry nursed his tea until his vision blurred and sounds receded into the distance. Moments later, Xenophilius slumped to the floor, followed swiftly by Terry's own descent into unconsciousness.
Upon regaining consciousness, Terry discovered he was in a stark room, his movements restricted by twine. He wasn't alone; other prisoners, similarly restrained, shared his confusion and apprehension.
"Where are we?" an inmate asked.
"Listen," urged Xenophilius, tilting his head attentively.
The distant murmur of voices became apparent. The door then flew open, revealing Yaxley, accompanied by an entourage of masked Death Eaters. Anxiety surged within Terry at the sight.
"Who would've thought a bunch of lowlifes like you would sell out the house?" Yaxley scoffed. "Enjoy your moment of glory while it lasts."
He grinned again, revealing his pointed teeth.
"May the best man prevail," he declared with a malicious sneer.
The Death Eaters stormed into the room, grabbing the inmates by their arms and forcibly leading them out of the locker room. Terry observed that each prisoner's jumpsuit was marked with a number on the back. With a lump in his throat, Terry trailed behind a Death Eater along a dimly lit, circular corridor, their footsteps and a persistent hum reverberating against the walls. Where were they being taken?
Suddenly, the procession halted, casting a deep silence across the chilly, shadowed corridor. A grating sound shattered the silence as a massive door ahead creaked and shrieked open, flooding the area with light. Terry shielded his eyes and stepped forward, his restraints falling away, blinking against a brightness he hadn't seen for what felt like an eternity.
Before him stretched an enormous Quidditch stadium, with a pitch of densely compacted dirt. The stands were teeming, a veritable sea of faces peering down at them. He estimated the crowd at well over twenty thousand.
"What the bloody hell is this?" a fellow inmate whispered, baffled. "We're not seriously going to play Quidditch, are we?"
"There're no hoops, you dolt," retorted another.
As another door groaned open across the field, all eyes shifted. A group of women, clad in the same drab uniforms, filed into the arena, equally bewildered. They, presumably, were the female prisoners from another section of Azkaban. With the doors slamming shut and the Death Eaters disappearing, Terry's gaze lifted to the stands, where the crowd's roars became discernible.
"Are they actually cheering for us?" one prisoner asked, his confusion palpable.
"No," Xenophilius replied, grimacing. "They're jeering at us, hurling insults."
Terry's gaze shifted to the nearest section of the audience, where he saw faces contorted with loathing, as spectators hurled vitriol towards them.
"Power and purity to our esteemed audience. Welcome to the annual Victory Day festivities. Your presence in such numbers today warms our hearts," a resonant voice boomed across the stadium.
Terry looked towards a reserved area in the stands and spotted a man standing, wand poised at his throat.
"Madam Prosecutor, would you grace us with your words?" the commentator's voice asked.
"Thank you, Mr Bagman," a woman's voice responded.
"That's Bellatrix Lestrange!" hissed a fellow detainee in fury. "I'm in this mess because of this bint!"
"Greetings to you all on this special occasion," Bellatrix began, her voice dripping with smug satisfaction. "Following tradition, today we honour the victory of our esteemed leader, Lord Voldemort, the liberator of our nation and the guardian of our community. Through his guidance, our survival was secured against adversaries seeking our downfall, ensuring peace for our descendants."
Her homage sparked an uproar of applause from the audience.
"Today, as with every year, it is time to thank him. In honour of our saviour, this year, the Sacred Coven has chosen to present a unique tribute as a sign of our unwavering gratitude," she motioned towards the field.
"These individuals before you pose a grave risk to our way of life, seeking to undermine our society by siding with the Undesirables," she declared with evident revulsion. "They threaten the peace the Sacred Coven tirelessly works to provide you, the heirs and disciples of Lord Voldemort."
Following a deliberate pause, Bellatrix scanned the crowd, then continued, "Today, one among them will be granted a chance to atone for their misdeeds. To do so, they must offer Voldemort the ultimate sacrifice," she declared solemnly.
"Sacrifice?" a voice murmured behind Terry. "What does she mean?"
"Thank you, Madam Prosecutor. Let the competition begin!" boomed Mr Bagman's voice, echoing throughout the stadium. "And remember—only one will be left standing."
Death Eaters raised a colossal protective barrier before the spectators. Terry wondered at the necessity of such a barrier, especially since the prisoners were unarmed.
Abruptly, holes opened around the arena's perimeter. A chilling scream rang out as a prisoner was impaled by an arrow, collapsing with a growing red stain soaking through his jumpsuit.
Another cry followed from the women's side; another victim of the arrows. Panic ensued, with prisoners desperately trying to evade the deadly projectiles. Terry was shoved to the ground in the chaos, his head thudding against the earth. Around him, the prisoners had begun to scatter in all directions to dodge the randomly emerging arrows from the wall holes.
Terry remained on the ground and began to crawl slowly towards the centre of the pitch. After what felt like an eternity, the holes in the walls closed up. Rising, Terry surveyed the grim aftermath: bodies strewn across the ground, some motionless, others grievously wounded. Survival had favoured those who, like Terry, had lain flat or hugged the walls beneath the arrow slits. The crowd's fervour at the spectacle was palpable, their cheers ringing with a disturbing zeal.
"Look up!" a voice cried.
Terry looked up to the cloudy sky and saw a shape rapidly descending before landing with a resounding crash on the ground. A towering stone statue of Lord Voldemort, brandishing a sword and a seemingly real wooden wand, had appeared.
The sight of the wand sparked a rush among some prisoners, while others hesitated, wary of approaching. A few daring souls scrambled towards the statue, jostling each other in a ruthless climb. Terry saw a female prisoner, smaller and more delicate than the others, slip past unnoticed by her opponents. She managed to pull herself to the top of the statue, reaching for the wand. As her fingers brushed the wand, the statue came to life. Its hand grasped the sword at its waist and plunged it deep into the prisoner's abdomen. Terry couldn't hold back a scream of horror as he saw the woman's eyes widen, bloodshot, as the sword skewered her through. At this sight, the prisoners who were attempting to climb immediately threw themselves to the ground to avoid the same fate.
"We're all going to die," whimpered a voice nearby, fear palpable in the air. "I don't want to die."
The audience's cheers at the prisoner's grim fate only deepened Terry's despair, leaving him to ponder the cruel reality he was ensnared in.
Before Terry could digest the chilling spectacle, the arena unleashed yet another terror, giving them no respite. Suddenly, a rumble heralded the opening of a gaping hole in the ground. Three prisoners, huddled together, plummeted into the abyss. Their haunting screams echoed until abruptly silenced.
Instinctively retreating, Terry narrowly escaped a similar fate when another crevasse yawned open, just inches from where he stood, claiming two more victims. Gazing into the abyss, he gauged the depth at more than ninety feet. From such a height, death would be instantaneous, bones shattered by the fall's force. Realising with horror that he would have fallen had he not retreated, dread knotted his stomach.
Rooted in shock, Terry watched six additional pits snap shut after ensnaring dozens more, their dark maws marking a grim harvest. Strategies formed on the fly; staying near the edges seemed safest, yet now only about twenty prisoners remained from the initial hundred. The commentator's voice broke the tense silence, heralding a brief pause.
"Ladies and Gentlemen, a brief intermission commences now. We shall resume our thrilling competition in merely ten minutes! During this brief hiatus from our captivating entertainment, let us introduce you to an unparalleled innovation by our esteemed sponsor, Swift Sip Solutions. I present to you the Everglass Vial collection. Crafted through a revolutionary process that fuses magical essences with the utmost durable glass, these vials guarantee your potions retain their potency up to three times longer than traditional containers. Thanks to their magically enhanced, indestructible design, the days of lamenting over spilled potions are behind us! We're excited to offer you the opportunity to participate in our special raffle for a mere two sickles. Place your bets on who you believe will triumph in today's harrowing contest, and you might just secure an entire year's supply of Everglass Vials for yourself. Be on the lookout for our agents, who are mingling amongst you, ready to facilitate your entry. Don't miss out on this chance to revolutionize your potion storage!"
The announcement, reminiscent of a mundane radio ad, seemed grotesquely out of place. Yet, it effectively diverted the crowd's attention, with many eagerly engaging stadium staff for refreshments or to enter the macabre raffle.
Amidst the chaos, Terry stood frozen, bewildered by the spectators' indifference to the brutality unfolding before their eyes. It seemed they were merely spectators at a Quidditch match, their apathy towards the prisoners' suffering starkly apparent. Terry's outrage subsided as he came to accept the grim reality: to the onlookers, he and his fellow prisoners were simply foes of their regime, undeserving of empathy. This realization struck him—they were all doomed to die in this grotesque spectacle for the crowd's entertainment, all except one.
Glancing around, Terry observed a noticeable shift in the atmosphere. The remaining prisoners now viewed one another with suspicion, clearly plotting ways to outlast each other.
Driven by fear yet fuelled by a primal survival instinct, Terry grappled with his predicament. His life had devolved into this nightmare, yet giving up was out of the question. Now, more than ever, Terry was haunted by the choices he had made in his life. Would things have been different had he made other choices?
The sharp sound of a whistle broke his train of thought, signalling the end of the intermission. Hostilities were about to kick off again. Attention turned to the centre of the arena, where three platforms had materialised, yet no prisoner ventured near, wary of further dangers.
Then, an immense creature, a terrifying hybrid of lion and leopard with a mane of lethal spines—a Nundu, Terry realised with a jolt of terror—appeared, quieting the crowd. It growled menacingly before opening its massive mouth, showcasing an impressive array of fangs. He had heard tales of these rare but vicious creatures.
Without warning, the beast pounced on the nearest prisoner, embedding its powerful fangs into the victim's neck before brutally ripping open his chest, tearing the flesh to shreds.
The screams of its victim echoed in Terry's ears as he made a dash for the nearest platform, followed by others seeking safety. The platform beneath Terry rose, offering a precarious sanctuary. Crouching to keep his balance, he noticed he wasn't alone; Xenophilius Lovegood, bloodied and stern, stood beside him, having sought the same refuge. They exchanged nods, united in their desperate fight for survival. The central platform, too, had risen about six feet off the ground, yet it stood roughly three feet lower than Terry and Xenophilius's perch.
Xenophilius's revelation sliced through the chaos. "The height of the platforms is dictated by weight!" he informed Terry urgently.
Confused, Terry followed Xenophilius's gesture towards the overcrowded third platform that remained stubbornly on the ground, burdened by too many occupants.
"The lighter the platform, the higher it'll rise," he elaborated.
As another prisoner joined Terry's platform, it remained aloft, now bearing three. The rest quickly caught on. Seeing the nundu nearing the platform still on the ground, two prisoners from that platform made desperate attempts to reach the central one, already supporting four, only to be robustly repelled by those already there. They pushed them off forcefully to stop them from climbing aboard. One poor soul, denied sanctuary, became the next casualty of the nundu, his end met with grotesque enthusiasm by the crowd. In the midst of the pandemonium, two attempted to dodge the nundu's advances by dashing across the arena, their efforts in vain against the creature's might.
A frantic plea from the third platform rang out, "Let me up, you lot of wankers!" only to be met with a cold rebuff.
"In your dreams!" bellowed a bald man before viciously stamping on his hands. "Piss off, dementor's offspring!"
One fell to the ground, and the nundu swiftly lunged at him, dragging him off the platform amid the jeers and laughter of the spectators. The prisoner who had shoved him off smirked victoriously, punching the air in triumph. His jubilation turned to panic as his platform began to sink, while the first started to rise.
"What's going on?" he shouted, throwing annoyed looks around.
"Jump to the first platform, now!" Xenophilius's directive cut through the tension.
"What?"
"Do it, or you're done for!" Terry yelled.
With reluctance, a prisoner followed the advice, levelling the platforms and briefly putting them out of the Nundu's reach. The beast, now seemingly uninterested, settled down, though its gaze remained on the prisoners with a detached predatory interest, quietly waiting for its next opportunity.
Now, three individuals stood on each platform, achieving a balance. They had outsmarted the mechanism, Terry thought with a glimmer of hope. If they maintained this balance, the creature couldn't get to them.
However, the fragile truce shattered when the bald inmate violently ejected a comrade, his actions receiving the crowd's brutal acclaim.
"No way I'm dying here. There's only room for one survivor," declared the bald prisoner, drawing ecstatic cheers from the frenzied crowd.
Terry's platform, and another, began descending, spurring Terry into a desperate leap towards the central platform, barely evading a harsh collision.
"What are you doing, you fool?" the bald man shouted. "You're going to get us all killed!"
The bald man lunged at him. Terry dodged just in time, sending the man sprawling into the arena. The platform swiftly rose. The man left on the platform looked at Terry with gratitude.
The ground-level platform, now bearing three survivors, ceased its descent. One of them stepped forward, his demeanor steadfast as he addressed the mocking crowd.
"Your twisted games cannot break us. You can't stop us. Fear abandoned us long ago. And in the absence of fear, we find freedom. Torture our bodies, and take our lives, but our souls and spirits remain invincible. LIBERTY AND DIGNITY!" he proclaimed, his defiance echoing up to Bellatrix Lestrange's position.
His defiance proved fatal; as he charged at the nundu, he was caught mid-leap. The creature swiftly and violently snapped a portion of his neck, casting blood across the platform's edge, a grim testimony to its deadly force.
Terry observed the scene unfold with a mix of horror and helplessness, shaking uncontrollably. The platforms balanced themselves at an equal height above the ground. A door in the arena swung open once more, and a hissing sound filled the air. Promptly, the nundu stood up and casually strode through the opening, which shut behind it. The platforms descended, returning to the arena floor. The six remaining survivors stood amidst the dust, granted a temporary reprieve.
Terry was startled by the sound of grinding and looked upwards. A massive wrecking ball was hurtling towards them at breakneck speed. He threw himself forward to dodge the enormous projectile. Unaware until it was too late, two prisoners were struck violently by the ball, catapulted across the arena towards the stands and spectators. Terry observed the protective field around the arena flicker, just as the two men collided with the translucent barrier. Their collision with the stadium's protective shield was instant and lethal, greeted by the onlookers with a mix of horror and fascination.
The wrecking ball, a seemingly enchanted instrument of chaos, changed its course abruptly at the last moment, accelerating like a bludger, rendering any attempts to evade it strenuous. Terry and the remaining prisoners scrambled in disarray to avoid it. This harrowing chase spanned several minutes, which to him felt like an eternity. Exhausted and barely able to run, his legs were giving out. Two other prisoners, too fatigued to continue, were too slow and met their fate under the path of the relentless ball, being cast towards the protective field.
Abruptly, the wrecking ball ceased its movement, and Terry collapsed to the ground, gasping for air, his breathing shallow. Every part of him ached. He found himself at his wits' end, utterly drained of strength. He struggled to his feet, only to realise that he and another prisoner were the sole survivors. He recognised Xenophilius Lovegood, who appeared as desolate as he felt, his silver hair now tinged with scarlet. The crowd's roar filled the stands. It took Terry a moment to discern that they were chanting in unison.
"HAND-TO-HAND! HAND-TO-HAND! HAND-TO-HAND!" echoed the crowd's relentless chant.
A chill coursed through Terry's veins, leaving him immobilized. Similarly, Xenophilius appeared rooted to the spot, terror-stricken. What were they expected to do now? Both men remained motionless for what seemed like ages, bracing for the next horror that would seek their demise. The crowd's shouts persisted, unyielding. Then, Terry noticed something being dropped into the centre of the stadium. The glint of blades threw him into panic as he grasped the grim reality.
There would be no more challenges, no more deadly traps or wild beasts. Only the two of them remained, and the crowd was baying for them to fight for dominance. Survival now hinged on defeating the other.
One had to die by the hands of the other, for neither could live while the other survived.
Panic engulfed Terry as this realization dawned on him. His stomach twisted in knots. Part of him wished to collapse right there, yet another part urged him to fight. His presence in this ordeal was a gross injustice. He had lost his family and been wrongfully imprisoned. Was this a chance fate had offered him? After surviving such cruel tests, he was now mere inches away from victory.
From freedom.
Driven by an adrenaline surge, Terry rose, inhaling deeply. His body ached in its entirety, yet he set the pain aside. Blood streamed from a wound on his temple, a relic of his fall at the competition's outset. He made his way to the centre of the stadium, where the weapons were placed. Xenophilius Lovegood was already there, and they reached the weapons simultaneously, their gaze locking on the two daggers before them. Their eyes met. Standing face to face with Xenophilius, equally exhausted and appalled, Terry's resolve wavered.
"We don't need to do this," he whispered, his voice barely above a hoarse murmur.
"We have no choice," Xenophilius responded, his voice laced with tremors. "If we don't, they'll kill us both."
He reached down and picked up one of the daggers, his hand quivering. After a moment's hesitation, Terry picked up the other dagger, noting the snake engraved on its hilt.
"I just want to see my daughter again," Xenophilius voiced, his tone laden with sorrow.
"I'm innocent," Terry declared bleakly, despair etched across his face. "I've done nothing to deserve this."
Both had compelling reasons to live. But did their reasons hold any weight? Could they decide who deserved life more this way? No, Terry thought with resignation. Moreover, this was not the outcome the spectators sought. The screams from the crowd intensified, spurring them to action.
With a dagger in hand and a cry filled with fury and determination, Xenophilius charged at Terry. Terry dodged, hurling himself to the ground. Xenophilius attacked again, and in a panic, Terry kicked out, causing both of them to stumble. With no room left for doubt, Terry convinced himself he was merely defending himself as he counterattacked. A violent struggle ensued on the ground as they grappled for dominance. Xenophilius clamped down hard on Terry's wrist, drawing out a primal scream. The bite was deep, tearing through the flesh, and blood poured out.
Recoiling, Terry staggered back, cradling his injured wrist and wincing in agony. Seizing the moment, Xenophilius advanced once more. Braced for the onslaught, Terry delivered a vicious kick to his adversary's face. Xenophilius let out a groan of pain as a tooth flew out, his lips smeared with blood. He dropped his dagger. This was Terry's chance. He pounced, pinning Xenophilius to the ground, his own dagger poised in his blood-soaked hand, ready to deliver the final blow.
Their eyes locked, Terry witnessing a complete transformation in his opponent. Xenophilius, now utterly defeated and frail, caused Terry to halt in shock, staring at him in disbelief. Then, Xenophilius broke down in tears, looking more pitiable than ever.
"All I wanted was to see my daughter again... My Luna..." he sobbed, overcome with emotion.
Terry stopped in his tracks, horrified by the realization of what he was on the verge of doing. Was he really about to kill this man, with whom he had shared his deepest fears and hopes in the dismal confines of their Azkaban cell? They had recounted tales of their past lives, clinging to the hope of one day returning to the world outside. Both had become casualties of a merciless system, punished merely for their birth into families deemed impure or for their belief in equality among wizards, irrespective of lineage.
Terry resolved then and there. He would not let them win, nor allow them to strip away his humanity. He would not perpetuate this cycle of hatred and senseless violence. He could not follow in Hannah's footsteps. For the first time since learning of her demise, thoughts of his wife stirred neither anguish nor revulsion for her actions. Instead, Terry found himself empathizing with her decisions.
Captivity had rendered him numb, incapable of grieving, and utterly stunned by Hannah's actions. Yet, witnessing the sadistic pleasure these people derived from their torment, he could comprehend her vengeance, her yearning for liberation. Though he could not condone Hannah's choices, he now understood them.
He gently lowered his weapon, placing the dagger into Xenophilius's hand, who looked on in shock, his eyes widening. Tears ceased, giving way to an expression of sheer disbelief, as though Xenophilius could not comprehend Terry's gesture.
"There's nothing left for me here..." Terry murmured, a smile devoid of joy on his lips. "Go find your daughter."
His family was gone. He stood alone. Yet, he would retain his freedom of choice to the end.
"Do it," Terry implored. "I beg you."
A sharp pain engulfed him as the dagger's blade pierced his chest. He locked onto Xenophilius's tearful eyes—mixed with regret, sorrow, yet a hint of gratitude. Terry collapsed, his gaze fixed on the sky above the arena, where a skull with a serpent protruding from its mouth loomed ominously.
The Dark Mark.
Vision blurring, he could no longer discern the figures in the stands. He was deaf to the world around him: the crowd's uproar, Xenophilius Lovegood's weeping, his own dwindling breaths.
This was the end. At last, peace awaited him. At last, he would be reunited with his family.
As Terry Boot exhaled for the final time, a singular thought lingered.
The world was a cruel place.
Hannah's choices had serious consequences, and it was ultimately Terry who paid the price.
Their story is a true tragedy - all the more so because they will never know the truth about their son – who survived.
Writing this chapter was a heavy task for me. I confess that these scenes are not always 'fun' to write, but realism and authenticity are crucial to me as an author, even when it means delving into some rather dark themes and psychologies.
Also, it's crucial to understand the aftermath of the attack through the different layers of the regime. But you've had 19 chapters to see the world in which the characters live, and if you're still here, it means you have quite strong nerves. We're not exactly in a fairy-tale land, and the repression is far from over.
Anyway, I hope you enjoyed getting a glimpse of this version of Hogwarts. We already had a view of 'Pureblood' Hogwarts in Book 7, so I didn't think it was interesting to focus a lot in this story. But here's a glimpse anyway.
The sentence ''One must die by the hands of the other, for neither can live while the other survives.'' comes from canon. It normally refers to the Prophecy between Harry and Voldemort. It's been slightly reworked for the sake of this chapter. Obviously, while the meaning is the same, the context is entirely different.
Let me know your thoughts.