#ii. threads

where: wizengamot chambers, ministry of magic 

Voices echoed around the large chambers, a never ending barrage of point and counter-point, the Wizengamot in session. Despite an ongoing robust discussion of new security protocols, Cassius had never cared less about attempting to listen - even less about attempting to contribute. His eyes were pinned to the figure who had just stepped into the assembly and taken the place several rows behind Astoria. Victoire Weasley had been quick to smugly inform him that Erin Figg was alive, but seeing it for himself was different - the anger coiling itself inside of his veins was different. Burning, like Fiendfyre, almost out of his control. Just like, apparently, Figg was out of his control. 

She didn’t even look as though she should be dead. And she was here, back at Astoria’s side, like nothing had happened. Here, in the Wizengamot, the place where he was supposed to make his mark. Like Cassius hadn’t made her bleed. He stood, moving through the benches to take a seat in the row behind Erin, where he leaned forward, an aggressive lunge. You should be dead, fucking dust and ashes, forgotten. I made a promise. That he’d see her dead at his hands, the first chance he got. He’d failed to keep it. At the last second he managed to control the rage in his voice, spinning it into a whisper in her ear only hinting at resentment, “You’ve recovered then.” 

WHERE: muggle london. ( some time before the kidnapping of hermione granger ). 

Cassius had lost count of how many time he had cursed Archie Fairfax’s name this evening. He had, naturally, been infuriated by the boy’s refusal to obey orders, but Archie would be punished for that. No, by now, he was angry simply over the matter of having to do it himself. An irritant, when there were so many better things he could be doing with his time, but apparently he could trust the task to no-one but himself. 

He had made himself invisible amongst the crowd of Muggles, slipping through the midst as the evening faded into night. It had been easy to track Jordan-Weasley. He made a habit of these late night walks, all alone, undefended. It had made what would otherwise have been an inconvienientt burden for Cassius to add to his troubles very much convenient instead, so Cassius supposed he had to thank the boy, but what a fool he was. One would have thought his family would have taught him better. They’d regret not taking the time for the lesson, he thought, amused. 

Catching sight once more of Felix’s head, Cassius followed him into a quiet street. His mask was in place, leaving him unrecognizable. He’d be traceless. A wispy red jet of light struck out from his wand, immobilising Felix where he stood and Cassius sauntered forth to meet him. There was no rancour in his voice as he spoke - he truly had nothing against the boy, but he was in the way. “Felix, isn’t it? I have a message for you. From Pippa Greengrass.” 

“You’re late,” Cassius announced, neutrally, staring Archie down. He had been waiting in the dark, lurking just outside the Hogsmeade side of the Forbidden Forest for some time. A different person might have started to get nervous. Cassius had only been curious, wondering if Archie would turn up. He had suspected that he would, and was not displeased to be proven right. He had an interest in Archie Fairfax. He and his twin had proved themselves to their organisation with the bloody death of their own guardian. That, Cassius thought, was very interesting indeed - depending on how true it was, which he wanted to see for himself. “Careful,” he warned, slipping into a darker tone, before laughing, “I’m starting to think you’re avoiding me.” 

He turned towards the village in front of them and explained, again resorting to a tone without any cadence. He felt nothing towards violence - no joy in it as some of their fellow Death Eaters felt, but no guilt either. He just carried it out. “I”m afraid Mr. Alderton has refused to give us the information we want. He’s left us no choice but to burn his house down. I hear you’re good at that.” With an assessing smile, he added, “His wife and children are not home; this is simply a friendly warning, but don’t worry - if he refuses us again, we’ll eliminate his family. I hear you’re good at that, too.” No, Cassius did not mind doing his killing himself, but if he could refine a weapon to point at his enemies, why not use him? 

There was still an air of sorrow among the busy streets of Diagon Alley, wan faces passing through. He observed in bemusement. Cassius understood in theory that Shacklebolt and Potter had symbolised peace, properity, victory - that they had meant a great deal to their citizens. In practice, he found it pathetic - even if his own father died, Cassius did not think he would grieve so much as these people did for a stranger. It was when he paused outside the apothecary, having caught sight of a familar face,  that he mutated his features into something passing for sorrow of his own - approaching with little care for how unwelcome he might be. 

“It’s true, then. You’ve come back to England.” Victoire Weasley had hated him, Cassius remembered in amusement, as he stared at the signs of grief in her own face. “I’m glad, truly. I only wish it was under better circumstances. How sorry I was to hear about the death of your uncle. After everything he suffered through - it’s a terrible injustice.” His careful study of passing strangers benefitted him in replicating the all the signs of sincerity, speaking softly to her as he was indeed, moved by the death of Harry Potter. Underneath it was his own private humour at sprouting off sentiments so directly in contrast to what he really thought. “If you need anything - you know we’re old friends,” he added, with only a touch of irony, as if daring her to contradict him. “I’d be happy to be of service.”  

For the discerning customer, who did not want to be seen frequenting Borgin and Burke’s by respectable people, Umbridge’s store was the simple alternative. Not that Sterling went by the name Umbridge anymore - Cassius had considered trying to hide his roots as well, but in the end he had embraced the challenge of returning the Rookwood name to greatness. If it could really be called a challenge -  these people were so easy to deceive. They wanted to believe he was one of them, reformed. All it took was turning into Diagon Alley instead of Knockturn and they were convinced. 

“Sterling,” Cassius greeted, with a nod. He’d been on friendly terms with Sterling since school, though he supposed their break-up with his brother might have changed that. People could be very irrational like that. Cassius rummaged through a stack of books with only a muted expression of distaste; he could not imagine how anyone could be satisfied as a shop-keeper forever, but Sterling appeared to have no interest in the war. Despite that, they were useful for information. Cassius looked up from the books, a questioning edge in his voice,  “I hope our escapees aren’t scaring your business away.” 

 It had been a long night - not unusual for Cassius, he had spent it dedicated to his work, reading through legislative texts with a discerning pen. It did not bring the satisfaction it once had - not now he really knew what it was like to wield power. To make things happen that sent their whole world into upheaval. So he had walked with purpose to the atrium. As he’d expected, given how he tracked his co-workers movements, there was only one wix there, cloaked in Auror robes.  “Coming or going?” The question was friendly, said with all the commiseration of a  fellow hard-working Ministry employee. 

It was early in the morning, so early that inside the Floo stations were the embers of last night’s fires, rather than the fresh flames of a new day. He would know; lingering in the atrium was one of many habits Cassius had picked up over the years, Petra Rosier only his newest target. He’d watched the flames die and be reborn a thousand times over. This time there was more of a thrill in it - an Auror amongst the old families was too irresistable an opportunity to pass by. What he could do with an Auror on his side. For once, he did not need to fake interest. His eyes, alert and intent, were on Petra. “I imagine they have you up all night looking for the killers,” he began, his manner ingratiating. “These are terrible times we live in. I’m sure my grandfather would love revenge on my family, given all the evidence we’ve handed over.” All of which had been misleading, of course, but he didn’t need to reveal that - yet.  “Believe me, the only way I sleep is knowing you’re out there keeping us safe. I hope the investigation’s going well?”