Chapter Ten: Count Bodies Like Sheep

To the Rhythm of the war drums.

Nurmengard Germany, March 9th 1939

"Don't fret precious I'm here. Step away from the window.

In a high tower, frozen over with jagged teeth scratching the sky, a fire burned lackluster. A room reflected in the glass. It was weakly lit giving little substance to anything beyond its skeleton. A thing that was sparser than ever it had been. It was a lonely place and the cracking bones of the low kindling echoed in the silence of the spaces between what had once been and what was now.

The air was the wake of a dead man, a dirge hid in the absence of all sound. No shadows stood to send off the past, no being offered roses on the coffin the fort had become. Devastation marred the spaces where once life prevailed. There were hints where his hands had brought motion and energy to such a blank space but they were fading as all mortal things did.

Magic that had once bound the stones had been broken and wards crumbled bit by bitter bit in his absence. It was a dying world caged within the dying fortress of Nurmengard. Once regal and supreme it now rotted from the inside. It was infested you see, taken by a parasite that ate at it. As brother it was to the larvae of wasps eating the insides of their living host before emerging from the corpse left behind. Such was the fate of Nurmengard, and such was the fate of that room.

There was no more pacing and never no more to come. No great man was left to weave between bookshelves. Now barren and dusty. No great mind remained to forge new footsteps at their worn shelving bases. Their book denizens had pages still stuck in a time before, when things had been different. Where once understanding and learning had bloomed there remained only the seeds for the obsessed.

Where once magics of great natures were forged and spells were cast, there was now nothing but a table and map, and a shell of a once great man. The howling of winds and the waging of wars was now all that the room contained.

That once great man required neither sleep nor nourishment. Hair of gold crowned him dimly without shine or elegance, fading as had he. Cheeks once full and eyes once alive were sunken and gaunt. Their spark was gone, the magic had died. Gone with it were his worldly cares. It showed in his boots that had worn down to the soles, his heels that had worn to the bone, and further still the wear and tear went. Robes once ornate and exuberant, prideful, draped over him in swathes of brackish stained hues. They reeked of decay and of blood copper.

He had been a great man once, a visionary they had called him. He had been beautiful, graceful, and sharp witted, just as sharp as his tongue. He had the power to capture the spirit of man. Charisma had made his glow like a beacon. He had been the lure of the fight for glory, for freedom! Freedom of magic! Freedom of Wizards and Witches alike!

He had been the star that would have guided the wizarding race to an era of would be greatness. A time where magic need not be oppressed by ministries and secrets. He could have done great and wonderful things. He could have been so much more.

But he had not listened. His hubris had been his downfall for one did not meddle in magics they were not yet ready for. One did not mess with gods.

Now, he cared little for the cause and he dreamed no dreams of grandeur any longer. His aspirations were ashes in the fire, his spirit a broken and shattered thing that was beyond the repair of mortals. His men comprised no longer of the spirited and loyal. Those smart had fled at the first sign of weakness. Those more faithful learned in painful lessons that they could either break or change to suit.

They had been a band made of wit and cunning, of dreams and of desires. At present they were but the blunted edges of a rusted sword. They were lost to time and belonging. Beings of an age before where things were good and whole and righteous. Like storybook heroes they faded into the withered forms of villainous dim things. Wraiths for rings and crowns. The fanatic and deranged.

They worshiped and bled at his feet as cultists were wont to do. They had no direction, no names, no faces, just bodies of bones and viscera. Wretched creatures that held no place in a world such as this. A shame for the congregations had been men of greater things once. Like master like servant.

Ideals of freedom and revolution had been traded in for subjugation and tyranny. Laughter was but the crying of madness in the walls. It was the breath of zealous ideology to a man who existed no longer. The passing of the year was harrowed with the disintegration of all their beloved work. It was the twisting of dark and thorny vines that spoke of all things terrible.

The months leading to this moment were filled with the destruction of cities and the dastardly plottings of mortal men. The march of the newly minted Third Reich thrived in the great nation of his birth, and the magical world of Germany cowered under him as he crushed out opposition with an unsettling apathy, and with a ruthlessness unknown to man until that moment.

The months that came since, had promised a greater nation to those fearful and uncertain masses. A dawn of the good for the many and the purging of the undesired was better than truth. Blind mortals asking to make Germany great again as it once had been. To this he acquiesced and granted them an image of refound safety and warmth. This he promised but his tongue was black behind his smile. His words were but the lies of all those who strove to climb higher at any means necessary. They were the images of man standing on his brother, crushing him, and then ascending upon his blood and bone to reach glory.

He was named a devil incarnate, but that would have been too generous. That would have been less eerie by far. A devil could at least feel things like wrath or lust. A devil was more than compulsion or function. For the wand was not a human and was incapable of being one for all that it may try. For all that it looked the part. It showed constantly in his coldness and emptiness that was present in all things. It was in vacant smiles and cataract eyes. He might as well be dead.

The only thing that made him close to a man rather than a corpse was the obsession and need that preceded him. His need to find and conquer, and to be reunited with his master once more drove him. He... it, marched on and laid before the world a war, a famine, a plague, and a great many deaths without remorse. He… it, derived no pleasure in the acts for it knew not of lust or greed, only utility. He was but a command made into semi sentience, to do as he was bid and be what he truly was. That is to say, a wand for the master of death.

This alone separated him from the dead and likewise the living. All emotions that had once made him Gellert had been destroyed or chiseled away into small, niggling, fragments of the man this body had once been. Only his determination remained untouched and unrelenting in its resolution. This was by far more dangerous than any change to date. You see, without moral scruples to hold him, without desires to distract him, and without worries and fears to divide him, he became an insurmountable force.

His power became absolute, his magic became mechanic and perfect in its execution. It was impossible to see an end in sight when he was on the move for he never truly rested. Likewise he never stopped. His influence and authority stormed the magical world over. It left behind him a trail of woe for mortals to witness. To show them he was a foe that they could not temper or slow. Even this being the unerring truth of the days, there were many that yet that defied his will.

Defiance was a useless thing and while many understood such, it seemed others did not grasp its futility. His enemies built their armies and lifted high their walls, as if it would keep them safer somehow. They told their children tales of his weaknesses and faults as if such things existed. Leaders rallied rebellion with honeyed words and visions of freedom! So akin to the Gellert of the past and yet these same ones conceived intricate plots to overcome him.

In the end it was no matter, they like his quelled host were much too late to stop him. In the end there could be only his imminent victory and the might of the Elder one. Maybe because it was inevitable or maybe because he was made by a being that was prideful, he allowed their walls to be built, and their tales to be told, and their leaders to scheme in the dark of the night. He did not care for challenge but even he was a curious thing and mortals had surprised him before.

Still though it did not look like a promising game and he was growing curiously impatient? Annoyed? Concerned? Such a human concept and yet he was, growing concerned, With these acts of rebellion. His enemies were far too weak to be of consequence to him and their minuscule defenses would not, could not, save them. He was nothing but what he was and that meant nothing would stem the oncoming tide of dearly devoted deathly hallow. The course was set, and the hoard would pour forth and devour from the snowy north. The longer it took the more he would destroy and the more souls he would gather. Feed on.

Still, more and more he felt concerned if that was what it was. He needed to hear the desolation of the masses before him who has so struggled against him; He needed to taste their blood and ash in his mouth; He needed to smell the fear, and touch the flesh of his enemy before tearing them asunder like he had never needed before. Most of all he felt the need to eat for he was always hungry now, gluttonous.

The hunger would not abate. He would gorge himself on the souls of the lost and disparaged. He would eat and eat and eat until even bones didn't remain, but he would never be sated with just anything. This was a hunger that was not for food or drink or flesh in particular. It was larger than that. It was the need to feast on the world at large. He was made to conquer and devour, to destroy and to punish. That was the will. That was his purpose, to be an instrument to end all things. He was made to serve and so would never be satisfied. He wondered if having a body was affecting that particular facet in his design.

Even now he suffered the gnawing within as he stood vigil over the frozen tundra. The sprawling expanse of white went on further than mortal eyes could see. A beast of which no man could tame. The frosted window pane was a tapestry of icy fingers, and in its reflection dead eyes looked out, glassy and half blind already.

He saw and did not through the semi milky film over his vision. It clouded all things dimming the light and showing what hubris had wrought, the spirits of things in place of faces. This one staring back at him was near enough to empty, the first in a long series of faces of nothing that he would see leading the final face. To death. To home.

It was troubling. He was running out of time. He had to achieve his goal before this body gave out. He doubted he would find another wizard powerful enough to house him if it did. The longer he tarried the more this body decayed. The faster it died, the harder and faster he pushed in return. Each assault he commanded was to higher and higher levels of extremes.

It mattered not what it was that occurred, only that it did. He created infernos in the place of hearth fires, tsunamis in lieu of tides. Raids became battles; Battles became intricate plans of espionage; Intricate plans of espionage became War. Muggle states spiraled into propaganda and fear. Their men drafted or volunteered to die on imaginary lines for glory or love. The lies of the state to guide them onward to their graves, unmarked.

Camps, for the unworthy and the just alike, were raised from the nothing beneath them and were just as soon filled with the desperation of masses. The despair of the pitiful dug deep into the foundations. They clawed on concrete walls, and containers, and in bellies of ovens, until the nails wore to the bones and they could claw no longer. Their mass graves were ash plumes in the sky, and their eulogies came forth in the screams of hundreds of thousands of mouths.

The stench of burning flesh replaced the odor of belladonnas. Much like gunpowder and sulfur replaced the scent of roses in the cities in the wake of battles. Bombs fell from the embracing arms of large war vessels. Muggle weapons that could take out cities in the blink of an eye were formed in secret while their lesser counterparts were unleashed. Fire from the skies; Fire from the ovens and chambers of gas; Fire from hundreds of thousands of guns. War. A beautiful, terrible thing.

Once, a great man would have mourned it. Now there was only the dead stare from a dead thing, and a crooked twitch at the corners of a once generous mouth. It's left hand raised and war went forth, it's right hand raised and took the souls so arduously reaped. Leave it to an instrument created from Death to wage the most devastating war the world had ever seen. It had accomplished so much and yet it had not been enough and it was still running out of time.

A year in possession of a flesh and blood body, months and it had yet to find its master. Fire burned in its wake, but no place had hide or hair of his Lord Peverell, his home. He dug out names long lost, and places long hidden, only to find he could not enter or to find them empty. Ancient stones barred his entry, fortified with blood and bound by oaths long forgotten to any but his clever master. Old magics, ancient whispers. Tongues of civilizations past.

One by one the blood of kin were taken far beyond his grasp. The laws of his creation forbade him and magic bound him henceforth from striking those of the blood. Mortimer had been his first mistake, the severity evident in the protections not placed in his way. It showed in the chains placed on his feasting. His failures. If master did not wish it, He could not harm them. Even before, he had needed another to open his way forward.

He could not harm them, that was not say he had to be the one to do the hurting in the first place. He had an army, a nation, a continent to do his bidding. They would do it for him. He did not wish to resort to such tactics. The blood of the master in any capacity was still his blood no matter the form or mixture. However, he was running out of time. He and likewise they, could not overcome the restrictions closing in around him.

It became clearer each hour that he needed to be more forceful. He needed to enhance his reach farther if he were to make any progress in bringing his owner to heel. He would take the world if need be, if that was what it took to pull his master to his side and finally be home. If it was force he need, it was force he would use.

The muggle war had become useful in that sense. Muggles were easy to prey upon. Promises and the depths of fear swayed them for they were unworthy things with simple minds. He had little problems in gaining control of the non magical. Poland fell with an alarming ease to the might of his army. Even at the start his victory over Germany was much too simple. It was the magical world that was the challenge and even that was an enemy easily overcome once he had the right strategies and people in place.

It would be alarming, and maybe even sobering, if the magical world understood the implications of his movements but they did not. They had made no effort to do so. He was an enemy they never saw coming. Every. Single. Time. He was an invisible hand that crushed their throats while they slept in ignorance. Their determination to ignore all things non-magical made it too easy to take their freedom.

And whilst they struggle and thrash, and though the magical world may resist better than the muggle one, they stood no chance. Numbers would always prevail. The muggle world surrounded each government as if they were islands in a vast ocean. Where one muggle community fell to his command the magical community it surrounded caved under its greater weight. Magical Germany fought, but it could not outlast him. Allies to the German muggle cause came in droves. Their numbers were overwhelming and his host's homeland fell before him.

It was not as if they had no warning should they have chosen to look, to see. It was rather that they shut their eyes, hid behind denial and disbelief. The magical world had long since ceased to see the danger outside their islands, be it from fear or ignorance. They did not know or invest time to learn of the technologies of man, and thus could not prepare for the assaults he launched. So he had taken and conquered but it was not enough. All of this, for all of his advantages, he was still just as far from his goal as before.

Stuck in a wretched mortal coil. Hungry… so hungry. Desperate.

What he needed was answers and access to the far flung corners he had yet to breach. He required admittance to the communities his minions could not search for whatever reason his mortals gave. He wanted into the alcoves they could not scour. If the non-magical had the means to get in, he would have used them to the fullest. Somehow he would prevail. He would break open the world if need be. Had he not already?

As the months progressed further, the non-magical leader of Germany had waged war on Britain, France, Russia and many others. The world became embroiled, and in the chaos that ensued he had hoped his Hadrian would rise to stop it, as always he had done before when calamity struck. He had not. Fires burned on, people died. Nothing changed. A constant silence that spoke of failure. A year of terror and there was only that mourning silence.

He felt no oncoming storm, no energy from sparking lighting, no presence of pressure. He was doing so much but his master was still refusing him. He was showing him his prowess, his capabilities, doing as he was created to do, but Hadrian was either not impressed or stubborn. Could his master not see his worth? Could he not see that they belonged together? Could he seriously value the wands that lasted but a day, a month, a year in place of his everlasting greatness?! Did his master see him as lacking? He, The Elder One? That made to little sense.

It must be stubbornness. Maybe he needed to prove his capabilities more, to show his master that he was supreme. Maybe his master wished for the world at his feet, perhaps that was why he had not come for him as of yet. He had not yet conquered enough. The sacrifices were too small at the altar. Maybe he was not looking in the right direction? That must be the case.

Unseeing eyes turned to a worn out table whereupon it there was a familiar map. Careful markers blotted out countries as thousands of blackened dots. They took up spaces in intervals of miles invading the lands of the continent, save for a small bits to the east and south. There was one area at the bottom in particular that held his interest most assuredly as of late. Italia.

Italy had fallen into the modern age without grace. It should have been a nation of significance in the this world of war machines and industrial growth, but in the end its people held it back more than they pushed it forward. The advancements they had achieved centuries earlier had burned low to the present day nation. It lagged behind the industrial revolutions that rocked the continent and it struggled to fit in a rapidly progressing world.

The land itself was rich, and it was abundant in resources and trade. The mindset of the people was not that of fierce determination but rather of luxury. They took their time, lived simple and rich lives, and died simple lavish deaths. They prospered but did not advance. Whatever potential the land had became overshadowed by the vices of its people.

The muggle armies that had once been lauded were no longer behemoths and their ranks were no longer disciplined. War was a threat that came in night terrors, it was a far off tale in a bygone age where they had all lived before enlightenment. What could they not gain through business and trade? And so politics took center stage in the modern era leaving the military in shambles. It was a land that ran off favors. Unassuming and underwhelming as a world power.

When Hitler had reported on the possibility of an alliance with said nation he had been unimpressed. It was a useless endeavor making alliances with the non-magical parts of Italy. They held little significance to him if it they could not guarantee him a victory over their counterparts. The muggle nation could not give him close to what many others had and was of little worth in the grand scheme of his vast web.

He had been ready to dismiss such alliances entirely but he could not deny that it was not without its uses as all things had purpose. For all that Italy had fallen and grew fat, it was graced with a minuscule albeit creative magical community. If Italy thrived in wealth, its magical community drowned in it. It took what its counterparts had and revised it, grew it, and perfected it. It was easy to see that where the muggle community waned, the magical one took and invented.

The two worlds easily meshed together through hazy boundaries in the northwest and south, in ebbs and flows between them. The magical people were comfortable wandering within and without the non-magical world as evidenced in their integration of muggle technologies such as picture shows, cars, and radios. Such that they were aware enough to know how to handle the integration from one science to the next easily. It was a seamless transition and a dangerous bargain that paid off in spades. Not only was their magical culture a booming success, they had taken and learned how to conceal their world more effectively than any other against the waging wars outside of their boundaries.

The spells created in the back workshops and expert emporiums were not potent like those which traveled outside of India, and not as fanciful as those modified to suit the needs of France, but they were leagues above the rest when it came to functionality. For security and warding one went to the Italian witches and wizards of the age. There could be no locking charm quite like those that guarded the ancient catacombs of powerful families. There existed no ward better than that which encompassed their shops and obscured their homes from muggle eyes and cameras. Which halted bombs.

Admittedly, that made it nye impossible to crush them with the weight of their non-magical counterparts, for they were cautious and unyielding. The leverage that worked on other communities could not touch them. Resourceful beings that they were, they understood how to counteract non-magical weapons and had further developed their own deadly twists on them. Just in case.

It was there in those few protected communities of vast magical prowess which he could not get to. It was one of the few place that necromancers still dwelt, that the blood of Peverell still existed strongly. Of all the sacrifices he could make to bait his Lord. They, he knew, would be precious enough. Were they not the next of blood? Bound in the talents of the dead? Familiars of his master? If the world and war could not draw him from the hidey-holes of the world then surely this.

He could see it play out. He could go himself. He could rip through the shielding wards that separated the worlds and march in with calamity at his heels. He could feed the power of the veil. It mattered not what they called themselves, these necromancers, or where they hid. He would find a way to them. They would give him their secrets, one by one. He would prepare them to ascend through the lands of the dead in priceless magics. He could wrap them in delicate silks, piece by piece and hang them lovingly from belfries for the world to see. He could take them, bend them, present them as proof of his worth, that he would be denied no longer.

His master would come to him then, as he was getting ill for the waiting. He was sick of proving his power time and time again. His limbs were becoming sluggish with the weeks he wasted on amassing control. The game was getting old. It was time to end this and bring his stubborn master back to his side.

Doing so would cost him but he was getting desperate. This body while magnificent, was withering. It was mortal and thus unable to hold the glory that was him. Already he felt it giving, its movements slowed by the week. He would go to Rome, he would sack it. He would have his minions drag each wizard and witch out one by one, slaughter them like pigs, and paint their blood on the Colosseum for Hadrian's grand pleasure. Such a nice image.

Mortal lips twisted wrongly forming a sharp grin that tore the dried skin of his lips. Blood welled red, iron filled his mouth. Such a mockery of a smile pulled at the skin of his cheeks making the muscles quiver and burn from strain. So foreign to him now was the action and so wide that if he could feel it, it would have been painful in its intensity.

Yes a nice image indeed. He would go forth soon and bring with him his discord, chaos, and what was it humans called it? His love in abundance. If it so proved his worth, he would burn thousands of Rome's to ashes. If it closed the awful distance of him and his beloved then he would readily go. He would start forthwith and if Hadrian still found him lacking, he would take it to their homeland. He would go to Britain. For now he had an invasion to plan and a magical government to destroy. Let the mortal men handle the rest of the world. Magical Italy was waiting.

Northern France, The Trenches, March 31st 1939

"Go back to sleep."

He wasn't sure what to think anymore. It was as if every decent part of him was shriveling and dying with every shot he took. Before him was a scene unlike any he could have conjured in dreams or in nightmares. The sky lit gray over a field that used to house trees in abundance now only their skeletons remained. The air exploded into the dark ash overhead, screams that were far too high up to hear featured in his restless hours. The afternoon this day was dreary, it was hopeless, all of it sucked the life out of you and replaced it by fear. As had everyday of the war.

On either side of him was a well dug wall, wooden beams supporting the weight and narrow pathways just big enough for a person to fit through. Huddled masses lined the corridors of mud brick, and mini-guns were set up every twenty feet with handlers so as to leave no one area of the field beyond open for invasion.

The sound of gunfire, a steady cracking against the skull, became constants day and night. it was never ending in both the days and long nights. It echoed sharply into every corner, even those places where men thought silence would exist. He wondered if it would ever stop. He thought about the future and heard only the ratatatting of the guns. The phantom sounds followed him everywhere and seeped into his dreams until the nightmares became waking ones. He was not the only one affected.

They were clever and tenacious things, the phantoms of war, never ceasing the haunt. The thudding of bodies, the igniting of heavy guns, screaming faces without mouths, like the dying men falling to earth from high overhead. When he closed his eyes it was to the sound of crack cracking and the unbearable screams of pilots raining like water from the sky. Their blood painted the earth, sunk in, and corpses rose in their place in the garb of the enemy.

He dreamed of empty and festering pits where eyes should be and where souls once lived. Somedays he didn't know them, the faces, but it was worse on the nights he did. He dreamed of the brothers he had lost and those he had yet to lose. He saw the twist of the dying as they convulsed among the broken trench walls. He could see the last breaths rattle from their chests and the stillness that followed built the foundation for more bodies to pile higher still. Like pyramids that would turn to bones one day.

This was war. This was supposed to be glory. But God! There was no glory in this.

It was an endless nightmare, where everything was cold and the smell of mud was better than the scent of gunpowder, blood, and the shit from those dead and those dying. Meals were called MRE's and meager ones at that. Tasteless, and not enough to end the emptiness in one's stomach. He could no longer recall what a home cooked meal tasted like, what spices taste like. Despair clung to each and every man like some horrendous leach on their necks. They slouched under the unbearable weight and some didn't last through it.

Sometimes it wasn't a bullet or bomb from an enemy that killed. Sometimes it was the fear, some other times the loathing. Most times it was the Haunt. The bodies of allies were just as regularly found in tents as on the field. Those were the lucky ones, he thought bitterly. They could move on while the rest festered and saw their faces in dreams on the piles.

On the bad nights he tried to picture days when it was better, when he was just like the rest of the naive privates under his command. He tried to remember every reason he had condoned the war, because surely it needed repeating if it had been so important. As his time in the trenches continued his reasons became less and less viable, his dreams and hopes and fears were washed away in the booming of artillery fire and blood. So much blood and fear so much fear.

This was war, he told himself. This was the reality of the rich sending the poor to die, because in the end it was so easy wasn't it? It was easy to convince the desperate and downtrodden that they mattered. It was simple to instill in the, unfortunately not wealthy, masses to have pride in their work, and likewise their country. God! It was too easy to line them up to die like common animals under the illusion of making history or becoming heroes.

It was so easy, and he had been one of those. He had believed that he could make a difference and that he had mattered. He had felt like that once! But now, now he couldn't help but see the veil lifted from pretty lies and what a fool he had been. His country men were sitting in parlors and sipping tea with milk, while idiots like himself volunteered to fight and die for this. Starving and drowning.

This, the Screams and Cracking and the Dead, was what he had been signed up for. His country had needed him he had once said, but that argument was getting weaker and weaker. His patriotism was failing as all of the rest were failing. His bright eyed optimism and heroic ideal of staving off the great enemy had been replaced with apathy and cynicism. To the newer and fresher blood he was but another coldhearted soldier, his heroic ideal washed away in the tide of men who laid dead beneath his feet. Where they washed up and became a mountain of the fallen, friends and enemies alike.

He could remember every face, every promise, and every curse thrown at him. He recalled the way youthful german lips opened in a final rattling breath before falling limp into the mud to be forgotten forevermore. Names of men he never knew and never would were imprinted into his skull. He could at least have the decency to remember them, he had said. He was a murderer now after all, because how could he be a hero and commit the sins that he did.

Most times he tried to forget, he really did. He tried every moment to keep his eyes away from crows and carrion birds who feasted on the deceased in the night. He pretended he didn't know most of them. It was a fruitless endeavor because he saw the beasts devour them anyway. He couldn't make himself look away. He only prayed their spirits rested even if their corpses did not. A circle of decay.

He hoped a cycle of reincarnation existed. The idea of them never being again was too much to bear. Because he had ended them. Because his friends were part of it. Because there had to be something in the light of a human's eyes that couldn't be all bad. Because something needed to be to redeem this hell of human cruelty. He hoped that they could be reborn again, do things differently. Do things right.

He had taken from them their lives in the name of Britain as if he had any right. It should have been sweeter but it was no victory. It was a sick and twisted joke without a punchline. It was only survival. He told himself in the dead of night, as if that could fix it. Make it not happen. A circle of life he told himself. They would be trees one day, something beautiful and good. He could say that all he wished, but the trees he imagined them becoming wore bark that resembled the faces of the dead, the color of it would be the red of their blood soaked through the roots. Yew for those who'd been moved from the bloody puddles to hasty burials and burned to ash, or Holly for those who were not. A circle indeed.

Sometimes when he cleaned his rifle, he wondered what was left of him now but that which he became. Sometimes he wanted to take the barrel into his mouth, the taste of gunpowder and blood was already so prevalent so why not, and pull that trigger. Fill it more with sulfur and iron until he could drown in it. Until it all could stop.

He imagined a death that way would be too quick for pain to process. A kindness and a mercy. He imagined that he would lay with all those he killed in a heap beneath the feet of crows. He imagined it would be fitting that his mind would lay in so many tiny fragments. That the remains of himself would become a tree, that his soul a carrion bird. At least that way his outsides would match his insides, because like so many here he was slipping into madness and it wasn't as if he hadn't known. The sickness came upon them all in the end. The Haunt.

He couldn't say when he started seeing the dead behind his eyes, maybe after the second or third skirmish, but he knew when he started seeing them in the living. He had been promoted again but it wasn't for anything heroic or just. He hadn't saved anyone, he just kept shooting and in the end he was the only one left standing. He was alive and the real brave ones were dead so he was all they had left. They had to have someone and he was what they got.

It had been his second week on the field, not even a year long veteran. He was just as green as those that came in on the marches. The only difference between him and them was that he had learned that glory, pride, and honour, had no place here. He had learned to sleep at the back of another, his rifle primed, and not wake at every bullet that grazed over his head.

It had been then that he looked at those under his command and saw only corpses that walked. Their laughter was the gurgling of blood escaping out of paling lips, and their bright eyes were the bulging remains of a man desperate to see the next day before all the light left them. That was when he started seeing the dead because they were all dead, they just didn't know it yet.

He was forced from his musings. His rifle shinier than ever it had been. His ears tuned into the a whistling that came from overhead. It was a dread sound that rent the silence asunder. It was the only noise he heard as bodies rushed passed him desperate to live. They were fools, foolish to think they could escape. They were all dead anyway so what difference would it make now. If anything, this was better than a bullet that may or may not kill you.

He reached his hand into the pocket of his fatigues and drew from it a photograph. The edges were worn and it was crinkled beyond saving. In another time, another life, he might have discarded it in favor of a new, more current picture. As it was now, this was all he had left. His eyes gazed down at the face of a woman.

She was a slender thing with wide doe eyes. He recalled the way they crinkled when she laughed or when she shouted, more often the latter leading up to the draft. He remembered how her wild hair was softer than it seemed, the curls easily bouncing whenever she took a step. He remembered the sound of her whispers in the night so as not the wake the babe. He remembered the freckles on her nose, arms, back, breasts.

Most of all, he remembered her lips as they pulled back into a smile when he bent his knee to her. Marjorie Maven Granger nee Greengrass. It had been the most beautiful moment of his life. The world had been endless. Their perspective future had been so perfect.

They would have a child, get a home near the sea, get a dog. There would have been headaches at Christmas because of the in-laws, and they would sit out their back door as the years passed. He would watch the crinkles of her eyes deepen and her hair gray but always he saw that same smile from that same perfect day. He would love her forever and she him and they would be happy. Their babe would grown and have kids of their own far from pain and fear and they too would be happy.

He no longer saw that future. Even had he survived he wouldn't have been the same and neither would they. All he could do as the end neared was clasp the photo to his heart and lower his head to await the end. He had thought they had forever. He had promised her that, but then he ran off to fight a war. He left her in the doorway, their son on her hip, as he stormed off to the drafting station. She had been crying in that silent and strong way, as if the tears were not real and her chin not trembling.

There was no time now to apologize. The whistling came louder, its cry rose in a sharp crescendo preluding the oncoming destruction. Those around him were fleeing, not a soul turned to pull him with them. His mouth opened and he whispered words of love and devotion but the blast ate them. Them and all other things. It took milliseconds.

The screams surrounding him were consumed by the sound of impact, a wave of pressure followed behind it. His eardrums burst, agony coursed through him as blood poured from the sides of his head. Sound began with the ringing in his brain. The crushing of a world against him. His tongue swelled and smoke clogged the inside of his mouth. His body was already against the trench wall so the blast did not throw him, but the others were not so fortunate.

Then came the fire. It flooded into the dug out earth with fervor. Beautiful like a raging wave. He didn't even have time to process the pain of burning before Walter George Granger ceased to be. His name was listed later in the paper as one of the many lost to the tide of Germany. His last words lost to the fire from the sky.

His story was not uncommon. By the ides of April, the ladies of Britain were swathed in black by the thousands, tens of thousands, and more each day.

Up until then they had not known first hand the horror that took their brothers, fathers, and sons. Then, subtle at first, the sky echoed with the engines of planes. They were wide, large things and from far below they looked to be like a mother holding a babe. They forged overhead in great arrows and the sound of engines became replaced with a shrill whistle. It grated upon the ears below and drowned out all else.

Black dots scurried below it, but the whistles came from all sides and there was nowhere safe to go. Those lucky enough to reach or already have been in buildings huddled together. They sought out refuge under desks or tables, or in basements. Mothers covered daughters and infants like funeral shrouds. Children covered their ears and shrieked in terror.

Walls trembled under the impacts of explosions near and far. Windows shattered from the secondary blast waves. Smoke filled the sky and fires rampaged around the unfortunate souls of London. Then the whistles were gone, the formations of planes moved off. In their wake was devastation and the sounds of despair that echoed into the heavens.

They came the next day…

And the next.

The Germans called it Blitz Kreig. The British called it calamity.

Yet the days continued despite it all. The Milkmen still delivered milk, and the shopkeepers still sold papers, and tea was still good tea. Maybe it had been pride or maybe the people of London were made of sterner things but they kept calm and carried on in the face of war at their doorsteps.

The planes still came, and despair still followed, but life moved on. It had to.

In a townhouse on the edges of downtown London, neighboring the skeletons of others, a woman wrote in a book. A babe cried, but she wasn't listening. Marjorie Granger wrote and wrote. Her dark eyes were rimmed in perpetual red. She cried nightly, but still she wrote about the passing days. She prayed that the end would come soon.

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Somewhere in Scotland, April 24th 1939

"Safe from pain. And truth. And Choice. And other poison devils. See they don't give a fuck about you like I do."

He had to tell himself that this was worth the risk even though he knew already that it was. There had never been any room for doubt in him because that was a weakness that upper echelons of society could not broker. You either were confident in your place and held it or you weren't and the rest would eat you alive without remorse. He was of the former, as his father had been and his father before him. Therefore, he could not question himself now. Not when he was a Malfoy.

Even so, his hand was stalled outside of the door, poised to knock but not quite doing so. His mind was turning over and over the twisted paths this manipulation would take and how best this game needed to be played to win. If any time was best to woo Thaddeus Nott, it would be now. The man had just lost his betrothed to a duel against Potter. To salt the wounds he had lost to a man who was not trained in the least at the art of battle magic.

It was a testament to the man's ingenuity and strength that such a thing had not negatively affected him. It should have been the talk of the common room. It should have dethroned Thaddeus from his position on the social hierarchy but instead it had done the opposite and chaos had followed. The house had divided into two. Those that foolishly thought they stood a chance of usurping the titan and those that followed him still, knowing well the consequences of betrayal.

The divide had not phased the heir of Nott one iota. He had, if anything, proved to be more ruthless and cunning in the months following his disgrace than ever he had been. He showed true to his previous prowess and put down all that stood before him. He laughed openly in the faces of those who would scorn him, his tongue was a sharpened blade that cut into the insecurities of others with brutal efficiency.

Where once his eyes ignored those deemed unsuited to his company they now roved eagerly to see who, if any, had the gall and wherewithal to be interesting enough to be played with. These he took great delight in crushing under his magical weight. At first it had only been the usurpers but lately had extended to include all persons not in play. It effectively was pulling talent from the shadows of the house.

Those who would have been overlooked were tugged into the spotlight. More than a few had taken ranks among the inner circles they would have otherwise been victimized by. Even many of those involved the greater games beyond Hogwarts could not help but notice latent potentials being brought to light. It was not long before all eyes had turned to his little Tom and himself.

Riddle was sweet, intelligent, and kind. Outreaching to other houses as proven by his attache of companions. He exuded talent and easily topped his classes. He went above the necessary work, charmed professors, ended feuds. He walked with all the grace of pureblood. It was no wonder that many contemplated him with shrewd eyes nowadays. They wondered how best to use him. They wondered more why he, a Malfoy, was involved with Mr. Riddle.

He was but a beautiful and naive pawn to them but they did not know him like he knew him. They had not felt what he had felt when they first met. They simply did not know. They instead thought it cute that he, Abraxas Malfoy, was playing good host to the poor orphaned mudblood that Horace Slughorn adored. They thought it was a project of sorts or sometimes a slight to the house itself.

Nonetheless, the boy had proven his worth in knowledge and skill continuously, as he far outshined his year mates. He had single handedly gained their house an astounding amount of points. The culmination of all these factors were cause for him to be recognized by even the staunches of blood purists.

Even so, without proof of a solid lineage the boy was as good as a target especially when times of turmoil caused such heady power struggles. With the house in such chaos and with tensions surmounting on the highest they had been in decades, he was not willing to risk not using every advantage possible to keep young Mr. Riddle from exacting penitence from the fools who thought it safe to harm him. Only a fool would not use what they were given to get ahead.

Now especially the pair of them drew attention most unwanted. Tom was growing more irate with it everyday. They had both agreed that something must be done. Abraxas had been the one to suggest it, using Thaddeus to shield him, and only after he had found three third years screaming in a locked room and a smug Tom reading by the common room fire.

Abraxas feared that more would have followed if the house of snakes did not learn soon that Mr. Riddle was not all stunning smiles and weak. At this rate the infirmary would start to question the sheer amount of injuries coming from their house. It was this and this alone that had forced his hand. This, and because if all went well he could give Tom something he direly needed. Standing and structure. It did help that there was much in it for himself as well. Tom's favor was well worth the effort. So that was how he found himself standing before the door of Thaddeus Nott well after curfew.

He was secure in himself, he would not doubt himself. So he knocked. Wrapped upon the heavy oak once, twice, and thrice. The sound resonated heavily into the narrow stone hallway then the silence stretched on. It was not until he was about to knock again that the door opened smoothly and the shadow of the Slytherin head boy loomed over him like some dark creature of legend. It would have intimidated a lesser man and swooned any lady.

Even Abraxas had to admit he was a sight, highlighted in darkness and emobscene/em. The man stood over him by at least two heads, scantily clad with only a set of loose comfortable pants to keep his dignity. Years of dueling and activity had chiseled the man into a work of moving art.

The faint light from the wall sconces only emphasized the amount of work this man had done to perfect his form. Battle was akin to art, perfection was demanded for victory. His father had always said as much. Looking up to the head boy now he knew, knew that to be true. This man embodied physical power just as his Tom radiated the magical, how Potter had managed to win was beyond his comprehension.

For a moment Thaddeus merely gazed down upon him. Recognition caused his eyes to darken exquisitely into glinting indigo. He took him in with newfound, calculating intensity. His face was of marble countenance all seriousness and high cut features in the flickering lights from wall sconces.

He was a fourth year and had no reason beyond networking or scheming to have anything much to do with the family of Nott, at least not at the present moment. Perhaps if he were older then this late night call would not be as suspect as it was. It would be seen as an invitation. He doubted Nott would ever refuse such but as it stood he was too young by house and societal standards to be here for such. Admittedly had he any inclination for men Nott would be a perfect conquest. He would have buckled under such a gaze as this.

He did not. He was a Malfoy and one did not turn their eyes away from such a powerful name or an enemy. Potential or otherwise. For a moment in time they took each other in, sized themselves up, end the tension broke with smooth baritone of Thaddeus' voice.

"To what do I owe the pleasure Abraxas?" The voice was cold, neutral. Safe. It was only fair, he supposed. He would have responded with an equal if not deeper coldness, such was his untrusting nature.

"I realize it is late and that you and I have not ever… seen eye to eye on things." A scoff followed and he had to marvel again at the effect Potter had on what had been such a straightlaced Slytherin. "There is something I must discuss with you and I could think of no better time than now to do so. Invite me in heir Nott?" It was not a question and they both knew it. It was if anything a formality to be appeased.

Months ago Nott would have stiffly let him in, dressed himself to be presentable and tried to win his favor. That was then and this was now. Instead, the looming figure stepped aside arrogantly. He waved in the heir of house Malfoy as if the boy were but an afterthought and nothing more. Such was his blaiseness and Abraxas should have been insulted, but instead he found humor in it. It made the tension between them melt into something almost, but not quite, affable. Something in him eased and if not for the first time he told himself that this could be done.

He stepped in regally, brushing just passed the other's nakedness. The door clicked shut behind him where spellwork wove over its entirety for the sake of discretion. The gossamer flickering of heat and fire marked the magics weave. Embers sparked in ways that embodied the spirit of its host. Small was its presence albeit at one time it could have been called impressive in such an amount.

That was before Tom Riddle covered an entire room with just his presence, before tendrils had twisted and writhed against his own magic as monstrous and eldritch as a small child's eyes. Had he never met the boy he may have been intimidated by such a small display of wandless power. As it stood, he thought it cute. He doubted anything could shake him now. Not when Tom could bring third years to heal with just his voice alone. One day, that magic would make the world tremble. One day a room like this would be his court, then a ministers desk, and so on and so forth.

The room was of decent size as compared to the split rooms that most Slytherin's shared. The walls, as all dungeon walls, were of hard and hewn stone and white as Salazar had bade them to be. The floor was of lush carpet, deep and green. It matched the silver lined fireplace on the far wall where two great serpents opened jaws to create the hearth's body. Fire highlighted engraved scales and glimmered in dead metallic eyes.

A window looked out into the black waters of the lake where without seaweed swayed. Curtains to either side were softer toned greens trimmed with white. There were two chairs before the mantle looking out at the window. A wide desk sat to the far side of the chairs, with personalized shelving to the side walls, and two doors split to either side. A bathroom and a bedroom respectively. It was enviable, for Hogwarts that is.

He made himself at home in one of the two high backed chairs nearest to where the fire hissed and spit. His spine was ramrod straight with his head held level. His grey eyes locked upon Thaddeus with cold purpose. He thought of his father and mimicked him as naturally as if he were him. Molds from one to another down a line unending. If he was nervous, it did not show readily. In his mind he steeled himself, willed all his authority into this moment. He could not fail, would not fail his Tom. He would be as imperious as any Lord of olde and hopefully, no not hopefully, assuredly he would be victorious.

He would either leave with an ally, or make himself a powerful enemy. He was honestly fine with either outcome, though he preferred the former. He waited until his opponent settled opposite of him. Larger hands than his own steepled before the man's taunting lips. He seemed aloof but his eyes said otherwise for they were perceptive if not calculating. It was time for them to play the great game now that pleasantries had been left behind.

His father always said that it was those that braved the first move who had the best chances of winning.

"I have a proposition, one I doubt you can refuse." He did not think he or anyone else had ever seen such a bemused look cross such a severe face. Lips turned up in before him in a coy smirk and it should have been… endearing or at least enticing but instead, it came off as predatory. The tilt in it was just a shade too dangerous to be well meaning.

The nature of it struck him straight through. Never had he been the subject of such a thing and every instinct screamed at him to run. He wanted then to bolt from the room and forget such games but alas he was a Malfoy and he would not flee at the first hint of difficulty.

"Oh?" Never had a question sounded so lewd.

"Do tell me, my lovely, heir Malfoy what it is you think I would be interested in. What could you offer me besides the obvious." Eyes carefully raked over his proud form. Heat threatened to rise in his cheeks and he felt hotter than he could ever recall being. Even in private. The weight of the room shifted when its owner did, affable into tense.

Thaddeus stood with unsurpassed grace, that damnable smile still dangerous and sharp upon his countenance. He crossed the spaces between them as a great roving shadow until he towered imperiously before Abraxas. His hip leaned slowly into the hand rest making what should have been a large chair suddenly, impossibly small and Abraxas more so under him.

Light and shadows played around broad and bare shoulders reminding the just how little it would take to crush him bodily with or without a wand. The sheer brutal strength that crooned from behind his physical brilliance never ceased to amaze. Merlin, he could hold him down so easily.

'It would only take one hand', he thought absently a shiver pricking underneath the skin of his spine. He had to force himself to breathe regularly even though his heart had begun to race and his chest was so heavy. He had to force himself into focus, to not seem affected. He would show this man that he was not one to be so easily cowed by a handsome face.

Languidly and as if he had no care that Thaddeus was so very near, he slid his gaze up. It was a dirty move to use knowing well how innocent it would seem with how long his own eyelashes were. Then again Nott wasn't playing fair either and this was, after all, just a game. He took his time in parting his lips and tipping up his chin demurely, as if begging, for the threat Thaddeus offered on the edge of his teeth.

"Something precious to you Thaddeus. Something only I can get you right now and seeing as how time is running short for you to act on it, would it not be best to listen? You can do that can't you? Listen?"

Hands came to rest on either side of the chair top, boxing him in. A growl made his insides curl in excitement and adrenaline coursed through him. He had never had so much fun before. He had no idea how wonderful baiting someone could feel when they were supposed to be a threat to you. He now understood why it was that his father so eagerly taunted the Black patriarch because this… this was exhilarating.

He reclined back and almost rudely into the cushion of the chair back, out of the heat he felt coming off the other. He could hear the wood cracking under the pressure of such big and capable hands where anger dominated their direction. He could envision them around his throat, the pressure, he mused, would be amazing.

"I have a way for you to gain Charlus' favor." Blue eyes narrowed under heavy lids, the pupils blew wide and there was just the slightest tick in such a strong jaw. Hook.

"You want him, I know you. We are not so different though age separates our perspectives. Maybe I am yet too young for I have never understood your… eccentric tastes… but I am not so naive as to not know the ways of desire." The air between them was stale, it tasted of advantage.

"I am not without empathy my friend. I too become obsessed just the same as you. I am not nearly as reckless but maybe that is superior breeding." The man before him turned rigid as if all of him was pulled taunt and readying to strike. Muscles roiled like serpents as Thaddeus began to shake in rage. His fingers that gripped so tightly, splintered the crown of the chair. Abraxas wondered briefly if the other had ever crushed bones with such hands, it would have been a beautiful thought.

Then all was contained, siphoned in and bottled up. Malfoy knew victory when he saw it and it was delicious.

"How do I get through to Charlus and how is it that you know such things before myself?" The man was leaning ever more forward into their negative space, icy eyes trying to stab him through. Equal parts frustration and hope. Such was the nature of his desire, the need that was reflected in the pits of his soul from beneath behind his eyes. His breath fanned out over him.

"I am a Malfoy Thaddeus. It would be a mockery if I did not know the most pertinent and useful information in Hogwarts with or without our house. As for the closest way to Charlus' heart… Is he not a Gryffindor? Family is everything to him. Ergo the answer to your conundrum is Tom Riddle." A moment and the shadow retreated.

Thaddeus blinked one and then twice and then laughed. His voice echoed throughout the room it was such a full and open sound, and he grabbed at his abdomen as if Abraxas had told just the most amusing joke. The heir of malfoy straightened himself and smiled an indulging thing, as if it were Nott who were a child. Internally, he reveled in the sound and imagined how Tom's lips would have thinned in such a giving way. Line.

"Tom Riddle? Are you serious? A mudblood like that? I admit you had me going." Eyes took in his face. Abraxas raised his wand, whispered three more privacy charms. The last a contract charm that would ensure secrecy of any within the space affected. With or without consent. That alone made the laughs die for one did not discuss important matter unless at least three privacy charms were in place and especially not without the later of them.

"Well yes most would think so, but they do not know what I know." He sniffed and placed away his wand looking for all the world like this conversation was below him.

"Just between you and I, I doubt Arlow, Eugene, and Bradley would agree with what is supposed to be common knowledge about Mr. Riddle. Such a kind child to most professors and so gentlemanly. Did you know I found them clawing their arm skin off, disgusting. Tom found it… well I am not sure but he was certainly pleased. Apparently they insulted his mother and he took exception to that. I had to have a talk with him about the use of mind magics while under the wards of Hogwarts.

"Also between you and I, I happen to know that he and Charlus Potter are related. I also know that Charlus doesn't know this, and I may or may not also know that the relation is through Charlus' favorite uncle. The exact one that caused Charlus to first start rebelling against his patriarch. The same one he has been desperately if not discretely trying to contact for years now. I dare say he would be so very ecstatic, grateful even, to the one who introduced such an important person to him."

For a long stretch there was a heavy silence. Eyes searched him for deceptions but found only a smug smile. The older slytherin retreated then, sunk into his chair. His earlier arrogance had left, his legs crossed regally. Sinker.

"I see you are finally ready to take me seriously. My proposition is as follows: I allow you to introduce Charlus to this missing link in his family instead of myself. You gain his favor and leverage over him by being in command of how he meets with Tom. As for me, I want you to declare Tom one of yours for the time being as well as myself. I also request that you support me for the candidate of next head boy and give me unrestricted access to your family library. Do we have an accord?"

There was not a second of hesitation, no questions asked. Thaddeus did not look for loopholes or deceptions. That alone spoke volumes of his desperation. In fact, he only asked for one small thing in return. It was disheartening in a way. Anticlimactic.

"I want your support if ever I am asked of an endeavor by Charlus. If you agree to that we have an accord Abraxas Malfoy." The two of them sat for a moment in silence, each staring down the other.

"Then it is so. I look forward to working with you heir Nott."

"And I you heir Malfoy. You can see your way out. Oh and my dear Abraxas, you will of course introduce me to Tom tomorrow morning. Without hesitation. As you said, time is of the essence." Abraxas left without looking back, victory upon his tongue. He traversed down the hardened stone steps careful not to let his pleasure show until he settled into the common room. His gaze locked with that of the room's only occupant. Then, he smiled smugly.

Abyssal eyes pulled him in, the light glinted off void black hair, cherry lips pulled into a shark like maw of perfect teeth.

"He agreed did he not?" The voice was smooth, the magic radiating around them as thick and oily as currant and chocolate. It felt like thick wine and tasted so similar. It was all he could do not to melt under its influence. Such was the power and draw behind it. How others had not noticed was beyond him for it always seemed as if it was too much to fit into the tiny body that was one Tom Marvolo Riddle.

"He didn't even kick up a fuss. He demanded that I present you to him first thing tomorrow morning. No doubt you will be introduced to Charlus by the end of first break if he had his way. Such is the nature of men who love and who do so as he does." Had he not known better he would swear the angelically sweet smile awarded to him was benevolent but he did know better.

He knew that one day this boy would be greater than anyone ever was. One day this boy would be his lord. One day but not just yet. Right now even behind his dark vengeance, powerful displays, deceptions, and prickly nature was a child in need of care as all children need. A starved thing looking for acceptance and guidance. Abraxas was only too happy to be part of that.

"Breathe Tom, he is your family. He won't turn you away. You could walk up to him now and he would no doubt love you as wholeheartedly as I. I am however, so proud of you for deciding to use this as the great opportunity it is to gain not one but two powerful allies. Congratulations on entering the great game and do not fret, Thaddeus can only repeat what you wish him too. I did make sure of that. Get some sleep, you have a long day ahead of you.

It took only two days for Thaddeus to confront Charlus. The halls had held its breath waiting for the oncoming explosion between the two. ever since the end of 'The Duel of Two', as the students came to call it, the tensions between the house of Lions and Snakes had only festered into a great wound. Since then, the two had become forces that rebounded from each other time and time again. Thaddeus' openly lewd antagonizations of Charlus Potter and Charlus' deviation from the tranquil calm he was known for, had reshaped the social norms.

They fought, much like dogs. So it was no surprise that Charlus was tense.

He had been prepared for a fight and as such he had not noticed it at first, and he should have. He damn well should have noticed it right away and yet he had missed it because he had been too busy readying a curse behind closed lips. He blamed his inattention on that and true, he also blamed it also on a variety of other things, most notably the attention he had to expend on dodging Nott between classes but mostly on the social rigmarole that he was now having to navigate with all the care he possessed.

He was exhausted from it so maybe that was why, when Thaddeus had cornered him near the transfiguration classroom, that he had not looked at the boy trailing unsure behind his nemesis. He was much too focused on Thaddeus' soft smile and the brightness of his eyes. He awaited the shoe to drop, a quick spell to take his breath from him. He was anticipating war. His heart was already racing for it.

"Charlus, so nice to see you. You are looking… ravishing today. Have you met Tom? Tom this is Charlus Potter, a cousin of yours. Charlus, this is Tom Riddle. He is quite the pride of his year, just a little darling much like yourself."

Wait… what? His eyes shot to this proclaimed family of his and searched for truth in the statement. The boy was half hiding behind Thaddeus as if afraid of him but he saw it clear as anything, felt it even. The small orb was clenched tightly in a tiny hand as if it was the most important thing in the world and maybe… Maybe it was.

He was a small waifish thing in slytherin green. Much too thin and small for one his age which was concerning. Much too thin indeed, he thought and his heart lurched in sympathy. Hair of darkest black curled almost haphazardly around an aristocratic face. Large black eyes were watching him warily but with unabashed hope. Most noticeably was the way the boy was trying to stand, tall and confident, but failing as he curled defensively towards his keeper.

His world narrowed and he found himself taking a step forward only for the child to flinch. He heard Thaddeus reassure him, telling him that Charlus wouldn't hurt him. Then the older boy pushed the little one forward.

"He is mostly harmless. Not a mean bone in his perfect body. Now be polite and say hello. We don't have long before Abraxas notices you are missing and comes for you. It was hard enough to separate him from you and I won't have my hard work wasted because you have suddenly gotten cold feet." He said but Charlus could not find a single hint of malice in it, not that he was searching for it now. All his focus was on the boy and on the amulet that felt like Hadrian. That was made by Hadrian.

Slowly he knelt and held out his hand. Dorea used to say he looked like a white knight this way. A good man. He hoped that the child saw the same. At first the boy, Tom, did not move but after a moment he reached back. It was a hesitance that he knew well as it was the very same trepidation covered in stubborn pride that Fleamont wore when meeting another lad he desperately wished to befriend.

That was what this was he realized, a child's desperation. The boy feared he would be rejected. Well… there was only one way to cure such doubt. So when he finally held that small hand in his he did not hesitated to pull the boy, Tom, his cousin, to himself and wrap him tightly in his arms. He buried his face in black curls and sighed in contentment.

He pushed from himself all his affection to the surface of his magic and fancied that the child could feel him. Them, he corrected, with their heart beats together. He was relieved when he felt Tom melt little by little into the safety of his arms. It was only when they were both much calmer that he pulled back to look into the stubborn set of a child trying to be strong. So very much like Fleamont indeed.

"Hello Tom. I am Charlus." For an instant he could see the beginnings of a bright smile threaten to show. "Where have you been little one?"

Then the light in that secret smile died.

"The muggle orphanage. Nobody wanted me for a long time."

Hook, line, sinker.