──────────────────────────────────────(- TWO WEEKS PRIOR -)──────────────────────────────────────
Dawn strains as it shudders through the gaps between the curtains; creeping slowly amid spiderwebbed walls; catching on cracks and too-large spaces stained with the memory of absent portraits and the things they used to hold.
Its feeble light casts the chamber aglow; illuminating the particles of dust that settles in the air between the two men.
Stale, strained, silent.
Neither of them speaks: he of the clenched jaw and the stiff upper lip, standing straight and tall and catatonic, with sweat dripping into quivering lids; pupils blown wide and dark; focused only on silver-streaked blue. Glacial and resolute. Its owner shrouded in the only place the sunlight never quite manages to reach.
Silence prevails, but only just.
•
•
[--No one can hear you screaming when you’re trapped inside your mind.--]
•
•
There is a flash of crystal and the slight sloshing of liquids as the edge of a rosé-filled coupe is pressed unto waiting lips.
Artemius has seen all that needs to be seen; has dug his fingers into every notch, every crevice etched into the man—Selwyn’s—brain; spooling and unspooling, opening and closing, revealing and thrusting further and further towards the light the reason—the sole explanation—why several months of careful, scrupulous planning could ever achieve terminus in five of their number—dead.
Five attacks for five Heads of five different Departments in the Ministry—all simultaneous, all supposedly seamless in their orchestration. Yet the Resistance stood waiting when the Unmentionables came, successfully overwhelming their number despite their significant lack of skill, and sending five of their youngest to their graves with none but two enemy casualties to atone for it.
And this man—this single, insignificant worm who dared reveal their schemes—is accountable.
The hand curled around his psyche tightens, but only Artemius can revel at the sound of his agony. And by the time he is finished, the sun already sits high and proud above the clouds—catching the red pooling in the corners of his eyes, the sweat gathering on the surface of his skin.
Selwyn is still, but inside, he is in pieces.
••◇••
Artemius takes a generous sip of champagne, and blinks.
Instantly, the illusion shatters. Stillness gives way to action as Selwyn staggers back, colour flooding his eyes into its usual burnished hue as Artemius withdraws his grip on his mind.
There is terror clear in the wretched man's gaze, but there is not a hint of remorse. Not even the slightest bit of regret.
Artemius draws his arm back, and sees only black.
•
•
•
There is a moment—as the champagne glass bullets past his head—where Selwyn’s mouth drops open in precedence to a scream.
•
•
•
It peters out to die in the back of his throat, managing only the slightest hint of a sob before it—and the crash of fine crystal shattering against stone—is drowned out by the sickening blast of bones splintering outwards through flesh—the mentally-cast expulso bathing the chamber’s cold and weathered grey a vibrant shade of red.
••◇••
Artemius doesn’t quite realise what he’s done until he feels the warmth of blood and guts spattering against his skin, nor does he realise he is standing until his legs give way from beneath him and his wearied frame meets the high-backed armchair in a muted thump.
His eyes drag towards the mess of glass and mangled flesh decorating a spot by the wall, and all at once the crystalline shards come slithering out of every corner, coming together to reform upon his waiting hand.
Champagne pools bottom of the glass, his favoured rosé mixing with the scarlet streaking the sides until it’s filled to the brim. He takes a long, indulgent drink, and breathes.
Disappointment tastes bitter on his tongue; metallic.
But the sweetness of the promise of retribution is stronger.
──────────────────────────────────────────(- PRESENT -)──────────────────────────────────────────
The cogs have been set into motion.
Thick, black smoke pervades the atmosphere as all around him, Unmentionables shoot towards the clouds, followed by an ear-splitting crack as each of them disapparates one after the other like a string of firecrackers lighting up the empty November sky.
Far below them, Artemius watches, and after all of them have gone, so too will he.
For tonight, Diagon Alley will burn.
Dawn strains as it shudders through the gaps between the curtains; creeping slowly amid spiderwebbed walls; catching on cracks and too-large spaces stained with the memory of absent portraits and the things they used to hold.
Its feeble light casts the chamber aglow; illuminating the particles of dust that settles in the air between the two men.
Stale, strained, silent.
Neither of them speaks: he of the clenched jaw and the stiff upper lip, standing straight and tall and catatonic, with sweat dripping into quivering lids; pupils blown wide and dark; focused only on silver-streaked blue. Glacial and resolute. Its owner shrouded in the only place the sunlight never quite manages to reach.
Silence prevails, but only just.
•
•
[--No one can hear you screaming when you’re trapped inside your mind.--]
•
•
There is a flash of crystal and the slight sloshing of liquids as the edge of a rosé-filled coupe is pressed unto waiting lips.
Artemius has seen all that needs to be seen; has dug his fingers into every notch, every crevice etched into the man—Selwyn’s—brain; spooling and unspooling, opening and closing, revealing and thrusting further and further towards the light the reason—the sole explanation—why several months of careful, scrupulous planning could ever achieve terminus in five of their number—dead.
Five attacks for five Heads of five different Departments in the Ministry—all simultaneous, all supposedly seamless in their orchestration. Yet the Resistance stood waiting when the Unmentionables came, successfully overwhelming their number despite their significant lack of skill, and sending five of their youngest to their graves with none but two enemy casualties to atone for it.
And this man—this single, insignificant worm who dared reveal their schemes—is accountable.
The hand curled around his psyche tightens, but only Artemius can revel at the sound of his agony. And by the time he is finished, the sun already sits high and proud above the clouds—catching the red pooling in the corners of his eyes, the sweat gathering on the surface of his skin.
Selwyn is still, but inside, he is in pieces.
••◇••
Artemius takes a generous sip of champagne, and blinks.
Instantly, the illusion shatters. Stillness gives way to action as Selwyn staggers back, colour flooding his eyes into its usual burnished hue as Artemius withdraws his grip on his mind.
There is terror clear in the wretched man's gaze, but there is not a hint of remorse. Not even the slightest bit of regret.
Artemius draws his arm back, and sees only black.
•
•
•
There is a moment—as the champagne glass bullets past his head—where Selwyn’s mouth drops open in precedence to a scream.
•
•
•
It peters out to die in the back of his throat, managing only the slightest hint of a sob before it—and the crash of fine crystal shattering against stone—is drowned out by the sickening blast of bones splintering outwards through flesh—the mentally-cast expulso bathing the chamber’s cold and weathered grey a vibrant shade of red.
••◇••
Artemius doesn’t quite realise what he’s done until he feels the warmth of blood and guts spattering against his skin, nor does he realise he is standing until his legs give way from beneath him and his wearied frame meets the high-backed armchair in a muted thump.
His eyes drag towards the mess of glass and mangled flesh decorating a spot by the wall, and all at once the crystalline shards come slithering out of every corner, coming together to reform upon his waiting hand.
Champagne pools bottom of the glass, his favoured rosé mixing with the scarlet streaking the sides until it’s filled to the brim. He takes a long, indulgent drink, and breathes.
Disappointment tastes bitter on his tongue; metallic.
But the sweetness of the promise of retribution is stronger.
──────────────────────────────────────────(- PRESENT -)──────────────────────────────────────────
The cogs have been set into motion.
Thick, black smoke pervades the atmosphere as all around him, Unmentionables shoot towards the clouds, followed by an ear-splitting crack as each of them disapparates one after the other like a string of firecrackers lighting up the empty November sky.
Far below them, Artemius watches, and after all of them have gone, so too will he.
For tonight, Diagon Alley will burn.