the hunt has just begun.

A crooked grin touched Rodolphus’ lips, humorless, dangerous.

He moved closer, slow, deliberate, wand lifting with the grace of someone who had killed more times than he’d spoken the word sorry.

“You think clever words and schoolyard tricks impress me? Do it. Try. Twist my guts, stop my heart.” A flash of something darker flickered in his eyes -- esentment, challenge, a long-burning fury that finally found a place to land. “Because if you don’t drop me in one -- single -- spell --”

He leaned in now, the air between them crackling, wand pointed dead center of Beck’s chest.

“…I will make what the Aurors did tonight look like charity. I will teach you pain so intimate it will beg you for company.”

Rodolphus’ voice lowered to a whisper, venomous and controlled.

“You don’t scare me, Beck. But keep pushing, and I swear you’ll remember tonight not as a failure, but as your last mistake.”

Rabastan did not need to see Rodolphus's face to know how it shone with elation. Masks covered their expressions, but he knew his brother like the back of his hand. This was their place. There was no cause more worthy, no better purpose for their actions. Their family had raised two sons for the Dark Lord. Rodolphus may have been the favoured heir, but they had both fought to prove their worth and earn their places. At the mention of their father, Rabastan scoffed, knowing full well the look Rodolphus meant. Their upbringing had been harsh and - at times - cruel. But it had been necessary. Rabastan was grateful that their father had the strength of character to raise them correctly. They all knew their duties. Their ambitions were united. Lestranges did not waver.

He tsked, watching with bland amusement as Rodolphus continued his spells. His brother was brilliant. Indulgent and chaotic, but a force that Rabastan admired beyond all others. "Perhaps I look like Father, but you certainly sound like him." The words were wry, scathing yet light. But when he turned to face his older brother, he was completely serious. Meeting Rodolphus's eyes, his pale stare gleamed like ice between the flames. "They are a scourge that threatens our existence; a plague that must be controlled. Do not worry, brother. I feel the joy in restoring order just as much as you, even if my pleasure is not as visible. Our goal is precious. It is holy, indeed. The devout will be revered and the faithless will be damned." Pausing as the daggers still flew around them, he inhaled deeply and anchored himself amid the carnage, considering their next actions. "We leave one alive," he decided solidly, turning his wand to adjust the glass snake still hissing above the building. "One to relay the events. We kill the rest. Slowly, if you want spectacle. The Mark is yours to cast."

His voice, when it came, was thick with triumph, but quiet -- reverent, almost. "It is done." He let the wand fall to his side, fingers curling with restraint he rarely bothered to show. "The Mark will burn itself into their memories, just as the glass will burn into their flesh."

He stepped closer, boots crunching on charred remains of glass and ruin, unbothered by the shrieks still echoing beyond the square. They were distant now. Like insects screaming under a boot that had already fallen.

Rodolphus tilted his head slightly, considering Rabastan's words. “Perhaps I do sound like him,” he admitted with a slow smirk. “But we are better than him. Stronger. He taught us loyalty like it was currency. But we have turned it into legacy.”

His gaze flicked to the woman Rabastan had spared, suspended above the fire like a grotesque angel. Her face was blotched with tears, streaked with soot, but her eyes were wide and fixed on Rodolphus with a terror that delighted him.

“She’ll do,” he said simply, stepping closer to examine her — not the woman herself, but the fear in her. The magic curling from her like smoke from wet leaves. “She saw the snake. She saw us. She heard our names. She’ll carry it with her like a second spine.”

He turned back to Rabastan, and for a heartbeat, the chaos fell away. Just the two of them, surrounded by fire and ruin, their silhouettes sharp against the carnage.

“Do you feel it?” Rodolphus asked softly, his tone shifting to something rare. Solemnity. “The way the world twists beneath us now? Like it knows it’s changing shape to fit us. Like it remembers what it was before the filth dragged it down.”

He reached out suddenly and clasped his brother’s shoulder, fingers tight with the rare sincerity that passed between them only in moments like these.

“Come. Let the snake feed.” He waved his wand again, directing the shards to finish their dance, precise and merciless. The night answered with renewed screams, and the Dark Mark blazed ever brighter above them.

“Tomorrow, they will whisper of tonight,” Rodolphus said, half to himself, half to his brother. “And they will know the Lestranges have returned — not as sons,” his grin cut through the mask, cruel and shining, “But as gods.”

Rodolphus’ eyes flicked to him. Cold, sharp, and slow like a knife.

“Then why don’t you?” he hissed, voice low and venom-laced. “Why don’t you take the lead next time, Beck, since you’re so bloody convinced you’d do better. But you won’t, will you? Because healing curses is all you’re good for — and that only matters when someone else bleeds for your cowardice.”

He took a step forward, despite the pain, ignoring the sting of the gash splitting wider. Magic simmered in his fingertips.

Nick narrowed his eyes, shifting his weight. The respect he had for his elders told him that he should pull back, make sure that he didn't overstep. The part of him that ached for Rodolphus's approval told him to push forward. That part spoke louder. He wasn't going to fail here, or embarrass himself by falling short. Neither was an option.

"Dunno, but it has to be something worth it all behind those doors right?" He asked no one in particular as he pushed the door open.

He didn’t react outwardly. Not right away. Years of practice had taught him to keep his face smooth, impassive. But inside, a thousand instincts stirred: to shield, to strike, to smother the novice’s mind before it could root too deep. And yet — he didn’t. Not fully.

Nick wasn’t entirely unwelcome.

The boy had promise. Foolish, brave promise. And it was brave, to willingly step into the hurricane of Rodolphus’ mind and not recoil from what he found. Most did. Even other Legilimens who should have known better. They flinched at the chaos, the violence, the centuries of memory stacked like bones in a crypt. But Nick had lingered. Not just lingered. Perhaps understood. Or tried to.

Rodolphus turned his head slightly, just enough to glance at him. There was blood under his fingernails still. It wasn’t his, but he couldn’t remember whose. He liked that he couldn’t remember.

“You shouldn’t go looking through doors you’re not ready to open,” Rodolphus said, voice low, unreadable. “Especially when they don’t belong to you.” He teased.

But Nick had already pushed through. Rodolphus felt it like the pressure drop before a storm, the sudden ache behind the eyes.

He was inside. Not deep, but deep enough.

Interesting.

Rodolphus didn’t stop him. Instead, he stepped forward too, silent as a shadow, and met Nick in that space between memory and thought. Where the blood still dripped, where the screaming hadn’t quite faded.

He didn’t speak, not in the physical world, but Nick would feel the weight of it all the same. A presence, vast and heavy, coiling around his mind like smoke and steel.

He narrowed his eyes and focused, keeping himself in Rodolphus' mind and listening to what he found there. Yes, blood and screaming and laughter, bits and pieces of Rodolphus throughout the years. And a door.

Well. He wasn't going back down now, was he? That was out of the question.

Nick grit his teeth and pushed the door open, braced and listening intently for whatever would come at him next.

In his mind, where thoughts twisted like smoke, the door cracked open under Nick’s push. It didn’t creak or groan — it simply yielded, as if it had been waiting.

And that got Rodolphus’ full attention.

“Ah…” he murmured aloud in the physical room, as though commenting on a well-played chess move. His dark eyes locked onto Nick, sharper now. “You found it.”

Inside, the mind recoiled. But not with pain. The door led somewhere …cleaner. Quieter. A long, dim corridor lined with empty picture frames, the walls marked with shallow scars, like something had once clawed at the stone and then forgotten why.

“You shouldn’t be in there,” Rodolphus said, his voice echoing now in both worlds — mind and body. Not angry. Not warning.

Intrigued.

“You see, most Legilimens lose themselves in the noise. Blood, fear, screaming it’s all very easy to get caught in. But you…” His head tilted. “You walked past the theatre, and you found the backstage.”

A low chuckle came out. “Now I’m curious. What is it you’re hoping to find, Nick?”

The corridor stretched further, and deep within something shifted.

Your move.

He hit Rodolphus with a glare, but drew his wand out to perform a diagnostic charm on him and the other wizard. At least there weren't any serious injuries, but he would have to rub bruise paste onto the places where he fell, his shoulder mobiity would need to be seen the next day. The same bad shoulder that he had for many years and the fall had sent more tremors down his arm.

"Agreed. We are on the same page."

He scoffed at Beck’s casual deferral.

When Beck drew his wand, Rodolphus immediately tensed, not in fear but in defiance. He was not the sort who submitted easily, not even to kindness.

The diagnostic charm hit, and he snarled lightly through clenched teeth. “Stop that.” He jerked his arm back when Beck moved to cast again. “Don’t mother me.”

Still, he allowed it. Just barely.

“Touch that bruise paste to me and I will hex you,” he growled. “I don’t need coddling. I need a team that doesn’t let a half-blood slip through a perimeter we set ourselves.”

He took a step closer, their noses almost touching. The fire in his eyes dimmed only slightly.

where : end of summer fayre

A strand of Freya's hair blew from her face as a sigh escaped the woman. It had been a quiet few months at the The Daily Prophet, and for once corruption and scandal seemed to be drying up at the ministry. Or at least, they were becoming sneakier at hiding it from outside sources. Throughout the summer, her articles had moved from opinion pieces on the current political standing, to articles on charms to help deter bugs and pests. While it was a step away from turmoil, and a bit of light reprieve from the darkness of their current world. It wasn't quite what made the adrenaline course through Freya's veins.

As people celebrated, Freya had been assigned to get a general feel for the atmosphere of the fayre. Stopping people at the edge of the crowd seemed like an easy task but in the flurry of fireworks, stalls, and games, it was downright impossible. Exasperated, Freya began to speak to the next person who fell in front of her.

"Freya Macmillan, Daily Prophet. Do you mind giving me your opinion on the fayre?"

He had to get out of there as soon as he possibly could. He couldn’t be seen there, it would ruin his reputation. That is, unless …he could make it worth his while. The thought ran through his mind as he saw all the fish in the barrel. But suddenly his thoughts were disrupted.

“My opinion? It’s boring without proper torture."

They reacted swiftly to each other, every spell cast by one fuelling the next by the other. Restraint was not a Lestrange tendency. The building was imploding with flamboyant extravagance, self-destructing with slowly unfurling glory. It was beginning to kindle even Rabastan's stoic delight. He wanted to complete their task well, and he wanted to enjoy it. The flames danced around them, launching grotesque shadows against the crumbling walls. Furniture was going up in the hellish fire, as it climbed and twisted unnaturally. There was truly nowhere for the muggles to flee. The fire encircled them, and Rabastan did not care.

Watching as the bullet almost hit his brother, he laughed, finding a moment to consider how tragic it would be to die from a muggle-induced wound. The horror. Their parents would be wholly ashamed. "Try not to die yet, won't you?" he said lightly, sending up a block to prevent any further errant bullets. Then he caught the rest in a looping motion and hurled them back towards the officers. They ran, sheltering behind their vehicles and shields. One car exploded, the street now becoming as rampant as the building's interior, just as Rodolphus's curse turned the man's arms into shattering ice.

He felt Rodolphus's spell before he saw it. It breezed past, like a shroud destined to suffocate. The effect was stunning, the crows a fitting tribute to their name and their legacy. House Lestrange bore crows on its armoury. Their father's name honoured them, too. It was the perfect calling card, and it filled Rabastan with swelling pride. The front door continued to slam, sirens continued to wail. Muggles screamed and burned. He dealt with the officers still pounding haplessly at the door, causing the ground to drop into a hole that spread around the building like an abyss. They fell inside, some catching the edge and scrambling to get free, only to be consumed by the burning crows.

"This is easy," he said simply, turning to his older brother while casting a spell that made most of the muggles outside bow down on the ground, as though submitting to the building's magical wrath. "These creatures are not worthy. But if our Lord demands it, they will serve him, whether or not they agree."

He turned to his brother, the firelight flickering wildly in his dark eyes, shadows rippling across his sharp features. His wand still hummed with the remnants of the crow curse, the air itself hissing with lingering traces of dark magic. He stepped forward through the smoke with a predator’s poise, eyes glinting with admiration and something bordering on glee.

Her head tilted at his tease, her serpentine grin expanding with devilish delight. Long hair cascaded forward, trailing against his chest, blood cloying its strands and turning it to an even darker shade of black. Deeper? She scoffed, the noise transmuting to a thrilled hiss as he pushed his thumb into a savage slash that adorned the length of her thigh. Pain didn't trouble her. It made her feel alive, setting cold flesh ablaze with starved anticipation. She loved dancing with death, waltzing from one indulgent gamble to another, gloriously hedonistic. Pain merged with pleasure made a cocktail so potent, she could no longer do without it. It was a goddamned drug and her threshold was sky high.

So she laughed, the sound like a blade cutting silk. "You're a fine one to talk about depth and greed, my love. Any deeper, you'd be fucking me through the bed and into next century." An arching eyebrow, a nail scratching down his chest. She followed its path lazily, watching the way he breathed. She wouldn't deny the thought of stilling his chest entirely made her wet with bloodlust. He'd make a lovely corpse. But she wanted him alive and by her side far more. She trusted no one more greatly. They shared a history and a name, united in their desires and ambitions. A desecration, but unbreakable.

The kiss tremored through her skin. He was bold and unashamed. She valued it. Remaining where she was as he lay back, propped onto her side as their wounds magically began to heal, she did nothing to hide her nakedness. They were equals. They had no secrets - none that mattered, anyway.

"Mm, you always were greedy," he murmured, voice like velvet. "That’s why I love you." His head tilted back, exposing his throat in a gesture that balanced surrender with defiance. “Greedy enough to want everything -- my blood, my breath, the bones. I’d gladly snap if it meant seeing that look in your eyes again.”

His hand scraped across the sheets -- torn and ruined long ago, not unlike them -- fingertips pressing into the carved muscle of her thigh, tracing the arc of her muscle with cruel reverence. Magic hummed faintly in his fingertips.

“You cut like you mean it,” he whispered, lips brushing the shell of her ear. “But if you're going to carve into me, Bella, don’t be delicate about it. You know I don’t flinch. Not for you. Never for you.” His grin was pure menace. “Dig deeper. Make me remember you every time I breathe.”

Then he kissed her -- vicious and possessive. His blood smeared between them as their chests met, raw wounds rubbing like ritual. He was hers as much as she was his. More, maybe. His desire to serve her rivaled his desire to serve the Dark Lord, and if one ever demanded he betray the other, well, the carnage would be beautiful.

At her mention of the goblins, his expression turned from intoxicated lust to contempt.

“Gringotts,” he spat, as though the word burned his tongue. “Slimy, coin-counting little rats. They forget who we are. What we’re capable of. Let them delay us. Let them think their locks and ledgers make them powerful.” He sat up, chest smeared red, eyes aflame with fanatic fire. “When the time comes, we’ll bleed them dry too. For now, patience. For now.”

He ran a bloodied finger along her collarbone, reverent like she was sacred and profane all at once.

“We keep the cup safe. Because he trusted us. Not the Malfoys, not Macnair. Us.”

He leaned closer, his voice dipping into a hushed, electric whisper.

“And when the time comes, when he calls, we will burn villages to the ground to bring him what he desires. And he’ll know we were the only ones strong enough, mad enough, perfect enough to do it.”

Their mission awaited. The world would burn. But for now, the fire was just between them. “Cut me again, Bella,” he murmured, with a smile that bled devotion. “Let’s celebrate being monsters.”

He refused to waste Rodolphus' time. He absolutely refused. Nick wouldn't let him down.

Intent. He could do intent. He could become a storm.

He wanted this, Rodolphus' approval, these lessons, like an ache.

There was a barrier around Rodolphus' thoughts, and Nick pushed at it, making his thoughts into needles and knives as he did so. Barriers could break with enough pressure. He would get in, he had to. He would not waste the older man's time.

When he did manage to forge a crack, a small sliver to force his way in, Nick almost stumbled back with the sheer force of will and power that was Rodolphus' thoughts.

"I want it. I am not wasting your time."

It felt like shouting into a hurricane, but at least he had done it.

Rodolphus’ voice filled Nick’s head. Not spoken, but thought, clear and cold as winter steel.

“You got in.”

There was no praise in it, just acknowledgment. Barely that.

“And yet you hesitate. You feel awe? Good. Respect for power keeps you from foolishness. But awe doesn’t break minds.”

He studied Nick with the gaze of someone appraising a weapon in the making.

“You want my approval?” His lip curled slightly, just enough to show a hint of disdain. “Then take it. Rip it from my mind. If you can.”

Suddenly, he pushed back. Hard. His mind lashed out. No subtlety now. He wanted to crush Nick, to drown him in thought, memory, will. There were flashes: blood in snow, laughter twisted into screams, whispers behind locked doors. Then silence. A wall.

“I have killed men who could not hold my gaze. If you're to learn this art, you must learn that sentiment is weakness. Focus is everything. You will master this. Or you will break.”

He drew back, both mentally and physically, folding his arms behind his back, gaze as sharp as ever.

“Try again. And this time, don't just push. Listen.”

A test, perhaps. Or bait. Would Nick see it? Would he dare take it?

Rodolphus said nothing more. He was watching now. Measuring.

She let out a soft, unimpressed sigh and walked calmly toward the window, pushing it open as if to air the place out from his presence. "You’re not wrong about the world taking notice. People like you tend to drag the spotlight whether we want it or not." She turned to face him again, arms crossing loosely. "But let’s be clear: I’m not playing anything. I live. I work. I drink a bit too much. And I sleep like a rock—usually without unwanted visitors whispering riddles in my ear."

There was a flicker of steel behind her words now, subtle but unmistakable. "Whatever you think you know, whatever it is you’re trying to scare out of me—I hope it’s worth the trouble. Because I’m not in the habit of handing out pieces of myself to men with a flair for dramatics."

Her chin lifted just a touch. An invitation to strike her down, if that’s what he wanted. But no fear crossed her features.

"Now, if you're quite done breathing on my neck and monologuing about inevitability, there’s the door. I won’t stop you. I won’t beg you to stay either." A pause. "But I do suggest you use it before the neighbors start asking questions, or before I remember where I put my wand."

“Charming,” he murmured, the word curling from his lips. “You mistake this for a conversation. That’s adorable.” He stepped forward, slow and deliberate, boots silent against the floorboards, but every motion etched with intent. “You draw lines in the sand, little shopkeeper, as if I give a damn.”

His eyes, cold and pale, lingered on the open window behind her. “You speak of sleeping like a rock,” he mused, voice low. “But rocks can be broken. Or buried. Or used as gravestones,” he whispered in her ear. It was intimate, threatening and suffocating. “Do you really believe I need to scare something out of you?” His fingers flexed once at his side, and the lights flickered -- just briefly. “You’ve already handed me more than you realize. That sigh, that pretty speech -- it’s all theatre too, isn’t it? I almost applaud it.”

He leaned in. “I’m not here for tricks and pranks, Charity. I’m here because your name was spoken in a place it doesn't belong. Just like dear old dad's.”

He straightened with unsettling grace. “So you can fetch your wand. Summon your neighbors. Whatever you like, but there's no escaping me."

A ghost of a smile touched his lips, all cold teeth. “Because sleeping like a rock only lasts until the ground begins to quake.”

At least it was just a duel and the Order didn't take anything important. Maybe if they were lucky, the Order also managed to get some cuts in to slow them down. Beck hated thinking like that, not wanting harm on anyone. "I didn't scream," he snapped. "We just fell. We have to say something." He came to the realization slowly. "What are you saying to Bellatrix and I'll get my story to sound the same."

He turned slightly, scanning the area in case anyone was still lurking, then leaned closer, more conspiratorial than kind. “We say the Order came through loud, fast, and gone before we could catch more than the back of a cloak. That it wasn’t worth pursuit. That nothing was taken. That neither of us fell.”

A smirk tugged at his mouth, crooked and cruel. “And you didn’t scream. I didn’t hear it.” That last line had the weight of a pact -- dangerously fragile.

He tilted his head at Beck. “If Bellatrix smells weakness on either of us,” his expression darkened, “we’ll wish the Order had done more than scratch us.”

Rodolphus turned, walking a few steps before pausing again. “Say we scouted. Say we saw movement and held back. But we agree: the evening was uneventful.”

Set aside his shame. He could do that. It took a moment to recalibrate himself and set aside what was from what could be. This would work because it had to. Letting Rodolphus down simply wasn’t an option. He didn’t allow himself to entertain the concept.

He took a deep purposeful breath. One. Two. He put his hand on top of Rodolphus’s hand, looked into the man’s eyes, and pushed with his mind. ‘Like this, sir?’

He felt the brush of thought, tentative but directed, pressing against his barriers. A whisper of intent. A tap at the door -- not a knock, not yet a true entry. His voice did not rise, but it cut.

“No.”

Sharp. Final. And then, quieter --

“But better.”

A flicker of pride passed through him, invisible on his face but unmistakable in the current of his mind. It was not approval. Not yet. But it was not disappointment either. And for Rodolphus Lestrange, that was rare currency indeed.

He reached, not with his hands, but with his will -- grasping at the boy’s thoughts with precision honed by years of unrelenting discipline. Not to invade, not this time. To test.

“Again. But this time -- mean it. I don’t want obedience, I want intent.”

He leaned in the smallest measure, enough that Nick could feel the intensity like a storm about to break.

“Because if you can’t want it -- truly -- then you’re wasting my time.”

And Rodolphus Lestrange had no time to waste.

His parents had barely made a first soldier, just an heir. One hell of an heir if he did say so himself, but not that great a soldier. "He's always been mouthy, it's true. He's smart, though. That ought to help him know when to shut up."

Clyde snorted. "That just sounds like a standard martial dispute in your household. She's truly a credit to her sex, honestly. A powerhouse of a woman. I'm glad she chose you. You suit each other."

He cleared his throat. "Your brother. He is smart but I have a question for you. You admit that he's mouthy -- true. You also say he's smart and it should help him keep his mouth shut. If he's mouthy how smart can he truly be when it comes to shutting up?" Rodolphus wanted more intel on Beck. He always needed to know more about those surrounding him.

"Bellatrix is a credit to either sex. And a powerhouse, yes. Nothing gets by her. She's smart, volatile, calculating, chaotic, stunning -- should I continue? There's certainly a reason we belong together, don't you think? She has won some awards in her day as well. You should see her trophy room."

God, Bellatrix hated Rodolphus. Fuck, she wanted him. The bastard.

There was something divine about riling him up to the point of violent agony, his face twisting between rage and tortured lust. Having that power over him only vaguely made up for the way that he pinned her down, using brute masculinity against her female frame. But no matter. She got what she wanted, reaching her pleasure with her knife digging between his ribs at the same time. He would pay for the liberties he took, and he would enjoy it, just as she did.

The blood on the sheets certainly wasn't only theirs. Objectively speaking, the night was still young. They'd returned from a battlefield and ended up where they usually did, sating feral urges in the only way they knew. Lying back, she caught her breath, her hair like a tangled black halo as she gave her weapon a final perfunctory twist before pushing her husband onto his back and stretching like a cat. A few moments, then she rolled over, smirking as she looked upon her handiwork. She'd cut him up good and proper this time. She was hardly unblemished, either. Drawing the blade up his torso, she dashed just a little extra scrape for fun, then threw the knife aside, done with all the excitement.