142 Years Before Part 2

"COME OUT!"

Stephen felt the words reverberate through him as he held his ears. Turning toward Lord Lupin, he saw a sea of a thousand gray metal spears seeping out of him. They began to glow red hot like blades, ready to be molded before becoming brighter and filled to the brim with vengeful power.

Looking at the power he gathered, he faintly felt the wards around the house. Stephen knew what was coming.

Heir Weasley had been told there were three ways to get past any ward: Be the guarantor of the ward, therefore keyed in, and be able to cross without issue. Use curse-breaking and carefully dissect Magic, harmful or otherwise, until one knows just how to cut the trap. Finally, be so strong as to punch through any barrier.

Or, as Theodore always liked to simplify it: Be the creator, Be subtle, or Be strong.

His teacher was going to try the strong approach, and unfortunately, he had already gathered enough Magic to sunder a small mountain. That was problematic because Stephen liked living.

The competition of power between the Archmage and the powerful ward was not conducive to that continued life he so craved. No, in fact, it was predictably bad. Bad In the same way, letting a melon fall from the sky into hardened pavement was sure to result in obliterated melon chunks.

Only the result of this conflict was likely more akin to two trains chugging headlong at each other. It wasn't difficult to imagine the crash that would result, the terrible crumpling of metal as their smoke boxes collided. Coal and dust flinging through the air so fast it would rip air. Piston rods with their connecting rods attached carry train wheels like a caravan of axe-saw blades cutting through metal and people as quickly as Sectumsempra would soft tube foam. He could even imagine the last screech of the train whistle as Metal bits scattered, becoming thousands of bullets, killing all observers.

"Stop! " Stephen blurted out, feeling that familiar numbness that usually came with danger.

An artificial calm took hold, and a small part of Stephen, the reasonable part, knew that nothing could stop Theodore now. The more panicked rest of him thought that the man could still be reasoned with. He had almost convinced himself to try when Theodore's glowering eyes met his.

His violet eyes shone with determined violence as his face was shifted, becoming indistinct, inhumanly sharp, and angular. His hair was like an octopus caught in a particularly engaging dream, Chromatophores shifting, first pink, then yellow, then a blinding azure. Signaling danger

Stephen grunted, feeling as if he had stepped into the non-entropic part of the Chaotic sea. Then, without looking back, he began running.

Memories of dragonfire exploding overhead chased him. Theodore's indifferent voice telling Stephen to go exploring the ruins of Gringotts, forgetting to mention the fire-breathing monsters that lay within, sounded in his head.

In a dead sprint, Stephen eventually reached a solid-looking house. He hoped that it would provide some measure of cover. He fell into step quickly behind a slanted wall meant to hold up the oddly shaped house and hid so it partially shielded his body while enabling him to see still what would happen.

Blue light glinted off of Theodore's signet ring as he reached out for an invisible wall in front of him. With a crack, Magic sparked into fractals. The Alderman's wards shattered in seconds.

Then, the aftershock came. A wall of air sprung out, pushing against the redhead and insistent on making him do deathly cartwheels.

The winds, with their immediate intensity, nearly succeeded. Stephen, using a sticking charm, glued his feet to the ground to keep himself from moving. He leaned against the wind so he could cut through it properly.

Still, it buffeted him, lashing his hair about, the wind throwing dust that managed to make his eyes sting even as he held them shut.

Still, Stephen strained against its pull, pushing himself forward, knowing that if he let off even for a second, he would likely bash his head several times against the ground behind him.

Death by bludgeoning. Stephen could see the headlines now, 'soulless redhead turned into meat pinata by mistral winds.' The journalists who wrote Dark Tidings always did like their spiffy catchlines. Heir Weasley was sure he would get a good tribute somewhere on the third page of the Daily Prophet. He was, after all, 'technically' royalty, and that was the best kind of royalty to write about without consequences.

The winds took any thoughts from him as they bayed at his ears. It felt like they were trying to deafen him. A sense of unreality took hold. His mouth tasted of ash as if the frayed edges of ward magic had fallen into it. He could barely feel the blood run from his ear down the side of his neck as if the overstimulation of the wind had worn his ability to feel his skin. Then the sound stopped.

The wind had calmed, but the world didn't stop spinning. Stephen felt himself swaying slowly, taking stock of his situation.

He heard indistinct shouting, a thunder of explosive snaps. It was a familiar sound he had heard a thousand times before.'Someone had apparated in?' Smoke filled the air. Stephen, playing a fool, took a breath in and began coughing loudly, unable to stop. His breathing became ragged with nervous shock.

Stephen tried his best to stifle his coughing and look for Theodore through the smoke, only to realize he was caught in the middle of an apocalyptic battle. There was an explosion of rock and a stinging pain near his right ankle as a two-meter hole made itself known next to him. Someone had unleashed a blasting curse, and one tiny shard of stone broken off by the spell had whizzed by his ankle, drawing a spurt of blood and making him badly want to cry in pain, but there wasn't time for that.

Cursing, Stephen unstuck his legs. Steadying himself on his left leg, he Transfigured a bit of solid rock into a thick obsidian mirror before hiding behind it. Cradling his head and pulling his hands and feet close to him to make sure they wouldn't stick out.

Explosive curses, flashes of green, and the sounds of flapping wings and gnashing fangs reached Stephen across pandemonium, along with the sounds of animals dying and metal striking metal.

Gathering his courage, he decided to peek out from behind cover. Stephen rose just enough to be at eye level with the top of his obsidian mirror. To his relief, the smoke had cleared, and finally, vaguely, he could see the fighting.

Two dozen figures covered from head to toe in ruby-red armor slashed gleaming wands at Theodore. They had surrounded him in a near semicircle, with only his back free. The two at the farthest sides edged closer to surround him and were only kept back by Theodore's barely controlled bursts of fiendfyre.

Even from a distance, Stephen could feel the heat coming off bits of all-consuming fire. Somehow, it managed to lick the ground barren, Leaving a reflective glossy surface in its pursuit of fuel. Stephen's heartbeat quickened at hearing the crunching of grieves breaking glass as the assassins, relentlessly in their pursuit, snuffed Theodore's flames, trying to force themselves closer only for more fire to push them back.

Stephen could just barely make out Dragons and Phoenixes in the process of forming in each blaze, barely beaten back before they fully manifested. Many barely squashed just before they would become uncontrollable intelligent infernos cloying for corpses.

'These assassins should try apparating directly behind him,' Stephen thought, but for some reason, none seemed willing to try. 'Why did neither the assassins nor Theodore seem willing to apparate?' Stephen could only guess they knew something he didn't. Perhaps the space was unstable. It may not be tactically sound to zip across a battlefield with so many combatants. Stephen thought it was much more likely that there were spells to prevent it or perhaps….

Stephen decided to see just who their enemy was. Spurts of fiendfyre obscured parts of the fight, and Stephen's distance made it difficult to make out anything, but neither obstacle was something that a supersensory charm and some time wouldn't fix. Straining his eyes and waiting for an opening in the flames, he finally got a good look and groaned in recognition.

Men of violence carrying armor, with sharp lines and detailed scaled patterns along their breastplates, all dripped in different shades of blood from arterial spray too long dried. They had Helms that were monstrous Masks—some faces of ordinary animals, others mythical or magical beasts, All with menacing fangs.

Stephen searched for one particular helm and, with it, confirmed his guess.

An assassin larger than the rest, presumably their leader, had an oni face plate with broad saber-like teeth, a mask well known in noble circles. This was a squad of Needlemen. Assassins that exclusively slaughtered nobles.

Stephen felt a shiver go through him. These men dripped with a powerful bloodlust and held a bearing Stephen recognized, a killer's gait. There was a confidence that came with being tested and making the choice of death over life.

The leader stank the worst of it. Stephen could barely follow his blur of casual spellfire. He used a casting style similar to what one would use for house chores. His arm and wand were the only things that moved as he made the curse and transfigured needles he hurled seem perfunctory and unimportant. 'He is a cold-blooded killer, to be sure.'

A stake glowed in their leader's off-hand, giving off sickly anti-light. Likely, that was what kept the battle so contained.'Assassination of influential figures is a challenging art. Indeed, the most essential part of the assassination was likely ensuring a target stuck around long enough to get adequately murdered.' Stephen thought.

'Despicable.'

Everything about them, from their helmet-covered faces with dark slits for eyes to their sharp nail-like pauldrons, was absolutely horrifying. These were the boogiemen Stephen's father told him never to attract. The older man liked to exaggerate, but he had been explicitly clear about this. 'If Needlemen come for you, it is likely already too late to run.'

That man had been really bad at telling bedtime stories. The story of needlemen is one he had been told many times. He had always had trouble sleeping afterward, worried that one of them would come stalking out of his closet.

'Fuck, How had Theodore pissed someone off this badly? The man hadn't even left his mansion in almost a decade. All he does is sit around practicing alchemy and reading. Honestly, if Theodore weren't so interesting, he would have been downright boring. By that, he meant if he wasn't an Archmage, The adoptive son of the Dominions Emperor, called Duke of War, and didn't constantly discover secrets that upturned the world over the last four centuries, Stephen would have abandoned him in fear of suicide by boredom. Even then, he'd come close. The man was more arcanist than adventurer.'

Tossing such thoughts aside, for now, Stephen took a closer look at the fight itself as it unfolded, noting how the Needlemen moved, the spells they used, and how his teacher countered them—trying to soak it in and treat it like another one of Theodore's lessons rather than his possible execution. It made him feel a little less panicked. It made him feel a little less like he was suffocating.

'Wait, was he suffocating?' Did fiendfyre eat breathable air fast enough? Would he need a bubble-headed charm to survive? 'No,' Stephen thought, firm in his conviction, he no longer needed air. No, things like oxygen were for humans and other animated objects. They were for people and things that didn't get thrown around in the wind and blasted with explosive charms. Stephen felt more like a test dummy now. Yes, he would have no choice but to embrace the zen of the test dummy.

These Needlemen used some form of advanced body enhancement magic as their hands blurred, throwing a slurry of spells as fast as a Gatling gun would bullets. Stephen was sure ritual armor enhanced their movements, but Heir Weasley could tell that even without their armored advantage, these men were exceptional. Their attack was controlled and disciplined like soldiers or mercenaries of the highest tier. They took turns attacking so they wouldn't tire themselves.

These assassins were likely better experts in killing curses and battle transfiguration than even Death Knights.

Throwing an Avada Kedavra was usually impractical. It usually took time to gather the necessary emotions and intent to kill. These assassins, seeming somewhat oblivious of this, threw killing curses as fast as one could use expelliarmus.

Transfiguration, likewise, was an exacting discipline. The two conjurers among the assassins seemed to solve this by Transfiguring something very similar multiple times.

One seemed to prefer dogs, and the other birds both proved helpful in distraction. Their limbs and ability to change direction allowed multifaceted attacks that needed to be directly addressed. In fact, out of all of them, those two were more effective than the rest of their squad combined in capturing Theodore's attention.

Both spit out dozens of transfigured beasts a second, some misshapen and limping because of their haphazard form, but they were no less dangerous for it. Their sheer volume was only held back by Theodore's own transfigured spears or beasts that used quality rather than quantity.

Stephen watched his teacher and noticed that, somehow, he still seemed to hold up under their onslaught. He easily caught their spells on a silver shield while sending his own looping curses, occasionally managing to hit a Needleman. However, even his successful spells splashed off their armor harmlessly.

It seemed the two forces had fallen into a stalemate. The oni leader of the Needlemen seemed eager to break it. Giving some signal, the two conjuring wizards worked together, creating a mass of stone that began rising into the air. Together, they pushed it far above them, and with the downward swing of their wands, it fell, gaining speed.

A booming impact came. That amalgamation of stone and flame made an impact so strong an earthquake erupted. Stone and rock were thrown in all directions, and Stephen hid behind his Obsidian shield and cowered like a rat in its corner hole. Flames washed over him, and a wave of it threw away everything surrounding him. It was so hot Theodore thought his blood would boil, killing him with everything else despite his obsidian shield's protection. He held his breath, using his zen of the test dummy to center himself.

Stephen expected more explosions to come, and when he heard none, he peaked up from behind his now slightly ruined obsidian mirror. To his relief, he noticed that Theodore, while disoriented, was still alive. He managed to hide behind a silver dome likely formed from the shield he had held before.

Taking stock of the fallout, Stephen saw the meteor from before had leveled every house, including ruining the one against which Stephen had formed his obsidian mirror. The Weasley could only be glad all of it had fallen away from him.

Panicked screams could be heard in the distance, along with cries of pain. Thankfully, none came closer, as in seconds, the fighting started up again.

The two conjurers, as well as all the other Needlemen assassins, including their leader, abandoned discipline in a desperate bid to overwhelm Lord Lupin before he could fully gather his bearings. Vicious green spells, as well as an array of multicolored curses, were thrown out, hundreds of spells per second colliding with a silver shield.

To Stephen's astonishment, they were partially successful. They made Theodore, gods damned, Lupin take steps back. The road had long been ruined around him and was covered in pockmarks. They would have him if he tripped. Stephen screwed his face in concentration and, through a subtle use of transfiguration, made a smooth path for his teacher to retreat in. Even still, Stephen began to sweat. Theodore wasn't wounded, but he did seem desperately outmatched.

The Archmage was cradling a silver shield that blazed with his Magic, ducking underneath it so that none of his body would be vulnerable. That thin, enchanted metal was his only protection under their torrential onslaught.

The Needlemen had fought powerful men before and were prepared. They knew now was their best chance to slay their Archmage. They pressed harder, destroying distant buildings and, in turn, transfiguring missiles from their broken wreckage. A few threw looping spells and transfigured weapons, aiming to sneak behind his shield, but all of them were inexplicably attracted to Theodore's silver shield, which promptly began to deform.

The assassins eventually began to tire, and Stephen watched as they went from an all-out attack to taking turns assaulting his shield, becoming more disciplined once again. All but two of them worked in turns to keep him on the defensive. The last two, the ones that made that meteor before, worked together to form something bigger, dragging it higher into the sky. They were preparing for a second descent.

They were close to winning, Stephen realized. He clenched his teeth in frustration but still held back waiting. Though he wasn't entirely sure what he was waiting for, he was helpless to intervene. That which could slay his teacher would surely kill him. Stephen was a powerful wizard, but he didn't have the skill to fight dozens of assassins at once. Go figure. Theodore, however, was known to have fought more dangerous things. Stephen could only trust he had a way out.

The two transfiguration masters were almost ready, their comet at its pinnacle. The other assassins, smelling blood, began to swarm Theodore with irregular spellfire. It seemed Exhaustion had started to take its toll on the assassins. Their spells began to slow as they edged closer to victory. Their confidence was growing.

Then it came. Stephen could see the silver shield Theodore held in front of him, hiding silver nettles that glowed to bursting with thorn runes. Thrusting forward in a moment where the salvo of spells paused for just a second too long, Theodore's shield took off like a missile at two armored comet bearers standing too close to one another, still preparing its descent.

Stephen watched as they abandoned their spell and moved with unnatural speed to dodge the coming silver missile, But despite that speed, Theodore's silver shield was too fast for them. Stephen heard metal grind metal as ritual armor clashed against enchanted silver.

Ritual armor snatched victory, shattering the conjured shield. Still, the force behind the blow staggered both assassins, and the sudden noise was enough to shock the rest enough to give Theodore the opportunity to release his runed nettles. Like beams of light, They rushed forward, slicing through the ritual armor of the two like a heated knife through butter, and with it, killing The assassin's only protection against what would come next.

There was no blood, only a dozen inch-sized holes and the smell of cooked meat. Both of them flopped to the ground like stringless puppets. There had been no clinking of metal on metal; each hole was carved into the armor as if it was always meant to be there. Then, frictionless flaming rock exploded on top of them.

Their companions unsurprisingly froze in shock, pausing for less than a second, But it was all the time Theodore required. A wave of force fell over them, and their blood-red armor locked into place. Gray metal, in an instant, swamped over all of them, seeping into the joints and crevices of their armors, preventing movement. All but their black eye holes lost their detail under the dull metal's bearing.

They still lived. Stephen could hear their muffled screams of terror. Standing from cover, brushing off the dirt and soot that had managed to make its way on his clothes, He walked over to his teacher, who finally seemed calm.

Theodore's hair retook its Weasley red finish. His eyes turned that deep azure blue that he seemed to like. His face still shifted as if unsure how to settle.

"Well, that went well."

Theodore looked at him, amused, "Yes, exactly as planned."

The man didn't seem much worse for wear. Stephen supposed it was the advantage of being powerful. Stephen, on the other hand, must look dreadful. The fire had singed his clothes, and blood dripped freely onto his pants from his bloody right ankle.

'Yes, a plan that would have been nice.' Stephen thought, still looking at the frozen assassins with caution. Then he saw that cursed stake from before still alight in the Oni's hands. Reaching for it, he managed to slide it out of the statue's grip. It dimmed as soon as he held it.

Distracted, he moved away from the assassins, still looking at the stake, when he felt a prickling pain at the back of his hand. Somehow, he had managed to scrape against the tip of one of the impossibly sharp wands. A Dribble of ruby liquid slid down his hand as Stephen cursed his carelessness and their impossibly sharp wand tips. With a quick Episkey, the prick sealed, but the embarrassment lingered.

That look of disappointment Theodore gave him made Stephen want to crawl into a corner and cry. Instead, He managed a cocky smile. Immunity to his glare would build over time. For now, Stephen knew it would be best to pretend he already had it.

The Archmage grumbled something unpleasant under his breath as he casually healed Stephen's still-gushing leg wound before walking among his armored captives. He didn't look at all like the rampaging monster from before. Instead, despite his youthful appearance, he was a curmudgeonly old man. Stephen could almost convince himself that man was harmless. The smell of burnt humans made him know differently.

"Shouldn't we be running?" Stephen asked, following his teacher instead of following his instincts to flee.

"Why would we ever do that, Weasley?" Theodore sounded genuinely curious, and Stephen began to wonder if the man was serious. Indeed, he, of all people, knew who these assassins were. Lord Lupin, seeming oblivious to his distress, removed any remnants of Stephen's blood that found smoked-soaked ground.

"These are Needlemen 'professional' assassins." Stephen stressed 'professional' for emphasis, unsure he was dealing with a sane person. In fact, Stephen started to regret his choice of teachers. All he had done since joining Lord Lupin in his glorious adventures was visit old tired ruins on earth, sit around and read in Summer's Kindness, and 'wait for it' almost get assassinated. The worst part about it was how accidental it was. He had nearly been slaughtered as an afterthought. 'What an ignoble ending for the tale of Stephen Weasley.'

"They likely have either more coming or some kind of secondary plan. There is no way those weaklings were all they had going for them. I mean, have you heard of Needlemen before? Those people are supposed to be a nightmare to deal with. Have I mentioned their hundred percent success rate?"

Stephen paused, looking at Theodore, who seemed completely unconcerned, "Why am I the only one who seems to be panicking right now."

"Do you know who can afford to hire Needlemen?" Theodore asked, still not bothering to face him. Instead, he examined one of the Needlemen in particular—the Oni who had been shouting orders before.

Stephen, who decided that playing along would be best for now, shook his head before remembering Theodore wasn't looking at him.

"No, I don't." Stephen waited, expecting Theodore to explain. The Archmage made some ambiguous humming noise before annoyingly deciding not to answer. Stephen could feel a panicked anger build inside him until he couldn't help but blurt out, "Answer me!"

"Where are your manners, Weasley," said Theodore in a cold tone, looking at Stephen with a dangerous twinkle in his eyes.

Stephen looked back defiant, despite the way Theodore's eyes made him feel like he was arguing with an ancient eldritch monster. Stephen supposed that wasn't far from the truth.

The older man was exceptionally good at guilt-tripping, but he refused to apologize for asking sane questions. Besides, What could he do to him? An unbreakable oath kept him from any deliberate harm during this apprenticeship.

It wasn't like he could turn him into a frog, keep him in a cage, and tell his family he died of a particularly potent case of dragon pox. Well, he did experiment with magical diseases, and Stephen's family was big, so they might not question his disappearance. Stephen looked away first and did his best impression of 'I'm not pouting, just kissing something in a direction away from you that is invisible while my eyes are closed.'

Theodore moved away from his favored statue and began examining the Alderman's house. Surprisingly, the building still stood despite all the magical devastation and craters in its surroundings. In fact, it looked the same as before.

Stephen made a looping motion with his wand, muttering a Homenum Revelio charm, and quickly detected a presence shivering inside. Likely the Alderman satyre had talked about before.

Theodore wand out began casting complex wards Stephen couldn't even begin to understand around the house. With their completion, the house hummed with a layer of Magic, inches of gun metal from every part of its surface.

After that, Theodore made a wide sweeping motion with his arms, and Stephen could feel an antiapparation barrier take hold.

"Where was I?" Theodore asked.

"You were going to explain who could have hired the Needlemen."

Theodore looked at Stephen warningly before nodding.

"It's probably better to show you rather than tell."

Theodore, despite the situation, took time to explain the mechanism involved in ritual armor. Stephen grudgingly accepted the sudden shift in topic. Heir Weasley had already heard something of ritual armor having his own set of it, but much of it still fascinated him.

Knowledge of its creation was a taboo subject. Even his father had refused to tell him how it was made, only indicating to him that their power and durability were not uniform. However, as Stephen was well aware, they were all highly resistant to physical and magical attacks.

"The grade and strength of the armor depended greatly on the method used and the amount of sacrifices. Human lives are spent. Only the lowest grade armors use animal lives, and those are only used by lesser lineages." Theodore explained as the frozen soldiers slowly shifted into four neat rows.

Stephen was suddenly very aware of why the subject was taboo. His thoughts became muddy at his father's possible reasoning for not telling him. Did he think Stephen Cruel enough he would make his own armor or that he would give away such a secret, Or did Pernelius want to ensure his son wore his armor instead of throwing it away in disgust? The thought was so distracting Stephen almost missed Theodore's continued elucidation.

"Those armors of the lowest grade can barely prevent mild curses. They were also extremely magically impeding. They blocked Magic both ways. Many of these still use mundane materials. It was also called Goblin armor. I think I showed you some of that type before. I hope you remember the ruins of the original Gringotts. Their smiths had been forging armor like this for centuries. All of those Armored statues you saw were examples." Theodore, with a flick of his wand, created a small throne for himself. Stephen looked on, jealous of the intricate detail engraved in what seemed like a haphazard transfiguration. It even had iconography; a waning moon crest of the Lupin family was prominent on the headrest, outlined with what looked like resplendent rays. He yearned for the days when he could do the same.

"Mid-grade armors require at least ten human sacrifices and have no dual magical blockage. It was also much more protective. It will usually stop anything short of killing curses and fiendfyre. Both of which are typically slow and obvious to protect against

High-grade armors require mass murder of hundreds,"

Stephen felt a shiver down his spine as Theodore said that.

"It's powerful, having a nonhuman intelligence about it. Given time, it becomes more akin to symbiotic creatures than only armor. This armor can only be wielded by those of select bloodlines. It is usually bonded to pureblood family lines. I also can protect against almost anything besides killing curses and other death magics and are even highly resistant to those two."

Stephen felt like he would be sick. That almost perfectly described his armor. It had a malleable component. Its ability to bond to an owner.

Stephen had never indeed seen war. He had no part in any Muggles Bane. The redhead despised wizards who threw away the lives of muggles or wizards. To think hundreds had been slaughtered simply so he could have fancy, unbreakable armor. Such a thing was unthinkable and disgusting on a level Stephen wasn't sure he was ready to deal with currently.

Theodore paused for dramatic effect, "Then there are God-Clads; only two exist, and no one is sure how they were made."

Stephen looked at Theodore skeptically as he said that. Knowing well that if anyone would know, it was likely him. Theodore caught his eye, giving his 'apprentice' a coy smile. Stephen gathered his courage, knowing he had broken all rules of politeness already and that he hadn't been transfigured into a frog yet.

"Do you own one of the God-Clads?" Stephen asked bluntly.

Theodore raised an eyebrow, and Stephen grinned shamelessly. He looked at Theodore expectantly but was studiously ignored. He felt his cheeks burn in embarrassment at the casual dismissal.

"These assassins, while immobile, are still dangerous. Do you know the best method to disable ritual armor when they are in such a vulnerable state, nonlethally, of course?" Theodore asked, gathering a cloud of black at the tip of his Hawthorne wand. Slowly, it began to condense.

"Couldn't we just remove their helms?" Stephen asked with genuine confusion.

Theodore shook his head, "armor always bonds to its wearer's intent. It protects against anything they think could do it harm. Including removing their armor."

Stephen Shook his head with confusion. It must be impossible, then. A mental fog caused by panic and fear began to clear, and he remembered something his father had said. 'When wearing a plate, only death can be your end.' Stephen remembered his expression, his tone that seemed to hide nightmares. To immobilize or capture those who wore such armor was to be exceedingly tricky. It was not impossible, as Theodore had shown, but Archmages were weird.

"It's not surprising that many people with power want this hidden. Most don't even know it exists." Strands of black stretched forth, slowly entering the blackened eyelids of each assassin's ritual armor.

"What is that?" Stephen asked and was studiously ignored.

"The key is powerful control and knowledge of things invisible to the naked eye. It isn't true Magic." Stephen watched in shock as dark materials breached the gap, phasing through The armor's vital barrier.

"Magic can be conducted through these threads, though it takes time and concentration to do it properly. It is not something one can do in battle." Theodore closed his eyes as he said that. Nothing visibly seemed to happen, but the prisoners went silent, "For them, it should feel like a hair poking the back of their throat. It is important to enter through the mouth when using this method. Ritual armor protects the interior as well as exterior; the only way past that barrier is through naturally closed concave entrances."

Theodore's wand moved away, but the black threads remained, connecting to his body rather than his wand tip.

"Mipsy."

"Yes, master."

Theodore's house elf suddenly appeared in front of them. She wore a familiar Lupin family crest and acted differently than other elves. Something about her was prim, proper, even noble. The way that creature spoke didn't have the same downtrodden tone as other elves.

Stephen found himself wishing his own family had elves like her. It was such a drag to see any creature walking around using worn-out rice sacks as clothes.

"Can you bring me my skull flask?"

"The talking one, Master… Or the Memories one?"

'Or perhaps not.' Had the house elf just hinted at murder? A house elf running around with a headsman's axe made itself into his head, and oddly, it fit. How would wizard kind defend itself from near-invisible servants popping around and killing them? Stephen shuttered at the thought.

Theodore narrowed his eyes and glared at the house elf.

"Mipsy was only Joking," the house elf said loudly, clearing her throat. Of course, you meant the memory one—Mipsy's mistake." The house elf disappeared with another snap, much too pleased with herself.

It didn't take long before the house elf popped in again with a broken skull. Its entire bottom jaw was missing, along with piecemeal teeth from the top jaw. Words in black ink written in a language Stephen couldn't read were scrawled all over the skull, tracing like lines to the nub at the back of the skull, to a black-knotted hose Capped with a silver mouthpiece.

Theodore lifted its metallic tip to his mouth; the skull's eyes gave off a dangerous glow, like embers given breath. Then he blew out, and smoke filled the air. It lingered for a bit formless before drawing itself around them, immersing them in a small, barely lit room.

The tall needleman who had given orders before was talking now with one of his fellow Needlemen. A shorter man was wearing the same Needleman armor; only the Needles that stuck out of both of their pauldrons were dulled for him, and his mask was plain without teeth.

"Do you think this is wise?" The shorter Needleman said, his voice nasally and condescending.

The tall Oni-faced assassin made a half turn, glaring at the man who spoke, "I think not to do this would be far more unwise. Unless you prefer execution, Demos." The tall Needleman seemed uncaring of that possibility.

"Surely he wouldn't go so far." The shorter man seemed to hesitate, suddenly flustered. The faceless man seemed less used to the assassin trade or in a different line of work entirely for the organization. Stephen heard fear in his voice that was out of place for an assassin.

"There is nothing he would not do," the tall assassin said in a monotone voice as he turned toward the door as if waiting for something. Stephen joined them in looking, feeling tension build as they waited.

Theodore gripped Stephen's shoulder. The physical sensation reminded him they weren't indeed in this room and that this was a projection. The scene they saw had such weight and gravity to it that Stephen couldn't help but become completely engrossed. The anticipation that filled the room caused him to adopt a stiff posture; his muscles were tight and sore from holding it.

"This is an ancestral chamber for the Needlemen used for high-class customers." Theodore said, his voice barely above a whisper as if afraid the assassins might hear them, though Stephen thought it was more likely done so his voice wouldn't occlude anything the two assassins said, "They are standing near the lip of the room without any weapons so that when someone enters, the assassins will be lit up and made obviously weaker by their inability to hide, while the person that enters, their customer will be able to hide in his own shadows. It's part of their tradition called Setsujoku, a path is made to wash away shame and live in the light however fleetingly."

"How do you know that?" Stephen asked, using the same whisper. The room was dark, but light still shone dimly directly behind the two assassins. Theodore looked at Stephen, pointing at his head rather than answering verbally. The dim light was enough for Stephen to understand the gesture.

The door opened with a resounding clatter, and red light spilled into the room from behind a large, elegant, bearded figure who had to duck to make it past the doorway's ceiling. The overcast figure paused after entering his shadow spilling into the room, throwing Theodore, Stephen, and the two assassins into darkness.

The door stood up a flight of stairs from them, so as the man walked closer, the shadow receded, allowing the assassins to be bathed in the red light coming from what seemed like hell's gate.

A chill ran down his spine as Footsteps resounded. The man seemed to be in the middle of speaking when Stephen felt the world freeze.

"Come, we should inspect our suspect," Theodore said as he walked closer to the man cloaked in his own shadow. Stephen followed his lead. Soon, they were eclipsed by the tall man's shadow once again, and even in the darkness, he could make out his face.

It was the Emperor's right hand, Ambrose Dumbledore. The projection started moving again. He spoke, and Stephen heard the same speech-honed voice he was familiar with.

"The time has come when the son of many summers has outlived his usefulness." The way he glared, that cold-blooded look in his eyes, couldn't have been more different from how they had been whenever Stephen had met him.

The man, looking no older than forty, pompous and self-important without flinching, demanded the execution of Theodore Lupin should he leave his estate.

The Needleman seemed cowed by just who he was and, without even asking for a price, agreed instantly.

'Wait, but that meant.'

"Yes," Theodore said as if having read Stephen's mind. My father or the Arcane Consortium likely ordered this hit. Now you understand the gravity of the situation. There will likely be more assassins sent, but now is not the time to focus on assassins. Remember, Stephen, the best way to stop an order of assassins is to kill their customer."

Stephen couldn't help but look at Theodore strangely. Thinking to himself, 'That man is too calm.' What had been revealed was no small thing. Somehow, his teacher managed to have no reaction to finding out his own father, adopted or not, might have ordered his execution. Stephen could not help but think his lesson might be a coping mechanism. 'He had to feel something about his own father ordering his execution, right?'

"What now?"

"Now, we find out why. It is time I head home. Are you coming? Don't feel obligated, Heir Weasley." Theodore said, his lips puckering in a way that told Stephen he would most definitely be judged if he decided not to march into certain danger with him. 'How characteristically selfish of him.'

"However, could I leave the Prince of Summer to adventure alone," Stephen said idly before instantly realizing he had made a mistake. Stephen had never been explicitly told why, but it was apparent to those who paid any attention that Theodore hated that title.

Theodore's expression shifted as if he had just tasted a lousy brew of butterbeer. The way His fists clenched showed an irrationally intense anger.

A muttered killing curse and a flash of green death went through Theodore's black threads before Theodore casually popped his own ward of anti-apparition. Stephen felt a chill go down his spine at the act of cold-blooded murder. He gritted his teeth, and his Gryffindor tendencies wanted him to call out Theodore about the injustice of it. Stephen held his mouth shut, however. There were limits to mercy. This was the way of the world. One could not let their own assassins free.

At least the killing curse was a kind death compared to most. There was no suffering for its victims; its effects were sudden and total. Stephen, despite his want not to, had seen worse.

"Come, we don't have much time and much to do."

"What about the Alderman's house?" Stephen looked behind him, able to see the dull silver glow still surrounding it.

"It will take him time to break that barrier. That man foolishly used adamantine outside of his house." Theodore shook his head, his tone dripped in derision, " That metal will act as fuel for any ward placed on it. Unless he is as powerful as me, able to overwhelm barriers in an instant, it isn't likely for him to escape. We will… return for him." Screams of pain still resounded in the distance, and some particularly loud soured Theodore's expression, "There is nothing we can do for the people right now. We will only bring more assassins if we delay."

Theodore stowed away the skull, pulling Stephen to his side—space twisted around them, spitting the two out a hundred meters away from a Stygian Gate.

They had left the continent of Tirnanoc far behind. They had arrived in the once-thriving metropolis of the former Burgish republic, and before them stood a straight black tower reaching five hundred feet tall with an entrance leading into a spatially extended interior. It was the Stygian Gate Keep, the Dominions' entrance and exit to this world.

It was strangely quiet—more than it should be. Stephen didn't see guards at the gate as there should have been, though he supposed they could have become somewhat lax with their security. There weren't, after all, many severe threats in this Fae world.

Stephen felt eyes watching him. His sixth sense tingled with premonitions of danger. He looked at Theodore questioningly. The man nodded his head.

With a whispered Revelio, Stephen could feel seven small forms stealthily hidden behind them. The spell whispered that they were faerie and possibly dangerous. How curious.

There were Death Guards, and all manner of armed forces staffed the gates. He couldn't see them now, not from behind the tower's entrance. Nor could he feel them with his Magic, but he was sure they were there, concealed beneath the tower's wards.

That made what these faeries were doing very risky.

Looking around, ignoring the tower for now, Stephen could not see a single building still standing. There were bits of metal that used to be fences as well as ruins, but they hardly could be considered buildings. The streets, cobbled and otherwise, were cracked beyond belief. In many places, trees had already grown out of spots of concrete, along with clasps of dandelions and other weeds. There was little doubt that in twenty more years, all appearance of civilization would have fled.

Stephen paid closer attention to a spot of broken buildings grouped together with missing roofs. He could see the outlines of their forms through the walls they hid behind.

Stephen was just about to call out when Theodore strode forward toward the tower. Not wanting to be left behind, he followed, glancing behind him to try and see a glimpse of them before running to keep pace with Theodore's enormous steps.

Theodore reached the gates and pushed them open. Both noticed in an instant no wards held them closed. Stephen could see worry in Theodore's eyes.

"Are you looking for your men in black?"

Stephen whirled around and winced upon seeing a faerie, one with paint-stripped wings and a bow with an oily arrow strung. No, not oil, Poison Stephen realized.

The woman was short in stature yet poised and ready for violence. She had short brown hair that curled at its end like the fraying edges of a storm. Her eyes were striking blue, almost white, like the sun's flicker at the water's edge. Her wings stood ready behind her, half-height, prepared to catch air.

'Merlin's beard, was she beautiful.' Stephen caught himself. He couldn't be actually attracted to a creature—one of those of impure blood deprived of Magic.

Theodore turned slowly, glaring at the pix. The man looked angry. Stephen felt fear on the faerie's behalf, knowing the danger she now faced.

"Where did they go? Death guard are loyal and would not easily abandon their post. What disaster fell on this place?...No, not a disaster." Theodore looked around, and he, like Stephen, recognized This place was abandoned but unscathed by the chaos of battle, "When did they leave."

"I don't answer to you, minks." The faerie drew back further as if ready to lose her arrow but held, "Why are you here?"

"I think I'm the one who should be asking that question. This is not Tirninac, your little nature reserve. This is Dominion-held land. Actually, that is a wonderful question. Would you like to tell me why you and your friends are here?" he said, giving a dark chuckle.

The pix looked shocked that he had found out about her companions. Stephen was honestly surprised the dull creatures didn't expect it at this point. His attraction aside, this pix's approach was stunningly stupid, especially considering wizards had landed here decades ago. The battles they had fought in these lands had been brutal and telling of their powers.

They had faced almost no resistance as the blade of their military carved out vast swaths of land.

The pix's eyes seemed to harden. Stephen prepared to deflect her arrow, but Theodore was having none of it. The bow and arrow disappeared from her hand and were replaced with an enormous anaconda. The faerie screeched in surprise but was helpless to stop it as it wrapped itself around her.

"Come out."

The anaconda hissed, snuggling itself tighter around the pix. The faerie made a valiant effort to escape, managing to pull out a crude curved knife. Still, the anaconda's transfigured weight and powerful muscles restricted the otherkin from her full range of motion. The knife soon dropped to the ground from blood-deprived hands. There was no movement, and so the anaconda began to strain the pix harder. Stephen hid a wince as she made a wounded whiney sound.

"Okay, we'll come out. Please just don't kill her," a voice said, followed by a hushed argument. Stephen silently used a supersensory charm to overhear it.

"There is no point. Stonespray is already dead. Besides, the idiot girl got herself into this mess." Said a shrill feminine voice.

"We should have never come on this blasted mission. I don't know why the Ravens ever thought we could spy on these minks, but we are better off taking our chances and flying away." A thin, gruff voice whispered. One of them sighed loudly as if this was an old argument.

Stephen's ears perked up as he heard Ravens. He had read about them. Resistance fighters, and last he heard of, served some dark 'god' in the north. His teacher talked about it. Apparently, dominion agents couldn't be bothered to investigate it.

"You can leave, your fucking coward, but I refuse to leave without Emer. I've known that girl all her life. She ain't dying to those stupid minks. Not if I can help it." It was the voice from before.

Then, there was a pause and some silence before an uncharacteristically deep, commanding voice sounded.

"No, we will go together." The man said this with finality, as if it was his decision alone.

Then, out they came the other five pixes Stephen had sensed. All of them had the same paint-stripped wings as Emer, whose own wings were cramped against her back by an anaconda bow.

Their wings were painted uniformly black. A color that ran like bands along the width of both wings. They had wide eyes and thick brows, which were characteristic of most pixes, but there was a sharpness about them that Stephen had never seen in Berg. The pixes on Dominion land seemed different somehow.

They all had bows and wore dark, forbidding outfits. At their waists were daggers but neither weapon was held ready by any of them. A short, broad-shouldered pix at the front of the group carried a pack, a small worn thing, but he gripped it tightly as if it held something of great importance.

"You are black ravens? I had thought that your dark gods would have made you more gaunt and gloomy." Stephen said, his voice filled with unsurprising ridicule as he said it. He had thought that servants proclaiming a dark god would somehow look more impressive. The five that stood before him did not look in any way like avenging warriors.

"Now, Stephen, there is no need to be rude."

Theodore flicked his pointer forward, and the five pixes fell forward into a heap, along with Theodore's feet.

Holding out his hand, the world lost color as a black dagger formed in his hand, condensed water dripping down its length.

"Now we don't have much time, and so I'd like you not to waste it. Tell me where the Death guard went and if you know why."

Theodore crossed his arms, his dagger pointed out, ready to act at a moment's notice, ready to part flesh.

The pix knew that now was the time to talk, and so all of them, except Emer, who was still anaconda-bound, scrambled to their feet. Some gave shifty looks, caught off guard by Theodore's overbearing nature, but all of them seemed to feel the tension of something bad happening if they did speak. Quickly.

In a flood, three different voices spoke up at the same time.

"Nothing we.."

"We were sent to spy."

"Please don't kill us."

Stephen noticed the man clutching the worn bag had yet to speak up. In fact, he seemed to be preparing for something. His body seemed to coil like a snake, ready to spring on prey. Stephen felt he was dangerous but couldn't quite put his finger on why.

Theodore held up his hand, and all the pixes stopped talking.

"You do realize this would have been a suicide mission. If there had been a troop of death guards here, you would have been killed." Theodore said this as a fact, cold and logical, as if such a thing was the implicitly understood reality of what would have happened. Stephen happened to agree with him,

"I have heard nothing of regular patrols of pixes being slaughtered, so tell me your names first. " Theodore held up a finger to Forestall, talking, "One at a time. How did you know the death guard had abandoned their posts?"

There was a moment of silence with the pixes unsure of how to respond. Even the broad-shoulder pix that seemed ready to pounce before was caught off guard by Theodore's reasonable questions.

"I am Sienna Morbreak. We came here with explicit permission from our god, and we were told that the invaders would not be there to stop us. Now, please, I've been honest, can you release Emer."

Theodore glanced at Emer, who was still struggling quietly against the snake. With a flick of his wrist, the snake was immolated, turning to ashes that completely covered the faerie. Emer fell flat to the ground, exhausted and dazed by her sudden ability to breathe again.

"Now tell me what were the invaders unable to stop you from doing. I doubt gods would be involved in something so simple as spying."

The woman caught out and began to back away as Theodore stalked closer. He loomed over her, not touching the pix, but his dagger was inches from her throat, a pinprick away from spilling her ruby essence all over the stygian tower floor.

All the pix were tense, some reaching for their weapons. Stephen watched to make sure none drew. He was ready to slaughter the creatures should they attack Theodore. Stephen would find it regrettable to do so, but he also knew his hand would grant the kinder death. Theodore liked to use disemboweling curses when he was angry. A killing curse was held at the tip of his tongue, ready to give gentle death instead.

The faerie, Seinna, sputtered out some excuse about only spying. It wasn't convincing, but Theodore seemed willing to let the pydragon slumber, so to speak, for now at least.

Theodore pulled away his dagger, and everyone, including Stephen, felt they could breathe easier.

"So, was it your soothsayer or the Unseen Emissary who told you it was safe to go on this mission?"

The broad-shouldered faerie came forward, pushing Sienna back. The pix seemed to regain his confidence as he spoke.

"You ask too much and yet give too little, sir mink," the broad-shouldered man said. He spoke with a thick northern Tirnanac accent that Stephen had trouble understanding.

'The pix must have either recently learned English or hadn't bothered becoming fully fluent.' Stephen thought.

"And what would be your name, pix?" Theodore said mildly, deceptively so. He was being kinder to these Fae than he wanted to be. Stephen saw it in the way that man's fingers tightened around his ritual dagger's handle. He was fighting an urge to bungle that Faerishman about.

'He must have some use for them,' Stephen thought. Though he supposed it wasn't impossible or even unlikely that he was playing with his mouse before he gorged himself on it.

These Fae had no magic, so he didn't have any martial use for them against other wizards. Their being Ravens, not like most other faeries, meant they might have some trick, but it would be difficult to make up the difference. On the other hand, it was always challenging to aim at flying targets.

"Dion Hillcrest, your turn," Dion said, speaking with a brashness Stephen would have attributed to unfamiliarity with the language if not for the way he stood. His feet were held broad like a bull, ready to charge. His words had a finality that seemed to settle among the faeries oddly; it seemed to comfort them as if the man taking control of the situation would ensure their safety.

Theodore glared at the broad-shouldered creature, and the pix held out his palm open in a sign of surrender. Somehow, it seemed false. Admirably, the pix actually had the nerve to be mocking despite his circumstances.

"I am Theodore Lupin former Duke of War, preminate archmage of Dominion. I have also been seeking out the mysteries of the arcane longer than any of you have been alive. I don't appreciate being talked down to faerie. You may use my name or sir, but don't call me mink again unless you have a death wish. Now answer my question."

The faerie grunted, seeming obstinate and ready to refuse his request. Theodore, with a snap of his finger, lit a ring of fire around Emer. The threat was obvious: ' Tell me what I want to know or else.'

"The soothsayer told us. He told us no one would guard the gates and that we would find a key lying in place of the gate. That it would provide us an opportunity to spy on our enemy, which was not possible before." Seinna's clipped sentences seemed to move faster than her thoughts, expelling secrets with a desperate quickness, "See there now I have told you, now please stop."

Theodore let his ring of fire simmer, the flames drawing low, stopping just short of fully extinguished. His eyes met Seinna's, causing the woman to gasp in pain. A tremor went through her before her hand went to her head, and she began crying in pain.

Theodore grimaced, mirroring Seinna's pain. Unsatisfied but mollified, he extinguished his flame.

"Go, you can have her."

Sienna ran over to her, ignoring her traumatic wrenching.

Dion gave another grunt. He seemed to like doing that, but Stephen couldn't tell what this one meant. Was it grunt, 'You shouldn't have said that,' or grunt more like, 'Well, that just happened,' or perhaps it was a more sophisticated one like, 'fuck, she really spilled the beans there, but not all the beans so I'm not too mad.'

Theodore allowed all but Dion to rush to Emer's side. Sienna was particularly affectionate despite the circumstance crattling the girl in a crushing embrace that Emer was still too weak to shake off. The girl's hands trembled even now, and they were still pale, deprived of blood.

Theodore dragged Dion off to the side, leaving Stephen alone with the faerie. Reaching into his pocket, he felt two vials of the elixir of life, and he fingered one of them, looking at Emer's pale visage.

Impulsively, Heir Weasley walked closer. Glares of hostility greeted him, making him feel foolish, but he continued forward.

They looked at his wand with fear, and others held the hilts of blades in anger, but none drew on him, for which Stephen was thankful. It would have made what he did next challenging to justify.

Pulling one of his golden vials from his pocket, he unstoppered and held it out to Sienna, who had at some point become a feral mother bear and began growling at him. The faerie snatched it from him and took a sniff at the liquid before looking at him critically. Stephen tried his best to make his face embody concern. It wasn't hard. Strangely enough, he felt genuine concern for the otherkin.

Something must have bled through because Sienna quickly understood his intention. The Fae held the Elixer of Life to Emer's blue lips, making sure the faerie drank every drop as she slowly tipped the vial bottoms up. A rush of color came rushing back to her face, and with a leap, she stood tall again, nearly toppling Seina over in the process. Her wings fluttered with a shock of life.

She looked around with startling alertness until she caught him looking. Those bright blue eyes were almost piercing as they drank him in.

"What are you looking at mink."

"Nothing." Stephen felt his face flush but didn't look away. My name is Stephen Weasley." He held out his hand.

Emer looked around at the rest of the faerie in confusion. Seeing her confusion reflected, she seemed to shrug. She gripped his hand with surprising strength. He felt her bone and sinew stretch around his. He had thought it would feel fragile because of how thin and small her hand was in his. Instead, it felt greater than life. Her hand was hot, like a flame burned just beneath her skin.

"Names Emer Stonespray." She said, her voice bright as if she hadn't just almost asphyxiated.

—-

"You would take my people and me to your world?" Dion's voice was gruff and filled with suspicion.

"Yes," Theodore said, matching the man's blunt nature.

"Why?"

"I am the key you're Soothe sayer spoke of."

Dion grunted acceptance.

"So 'Key,' what do you get out of it."

"You will become my distraction so that I can slay the Emperor."

The faerishman seemed shocked at this but seemed to accept that reasoning just as quickly.

"We are weak. We are no good against minks."

Theodore glanced at the worn sack Dion still carried at his side, noticing how reverently he held it as he spoke lies.

"I will give you things to ensure you won't die, but you must agree. You will become my distraction, or you will remain here, unable to fulfill your mission."

Dion looked at him sharply, then paused consideringly. His hand came over his coal-black beard as he fell deep in thought, plucking at hairs occasionally with frustration. 'He was close,' Theodore thought. He was inches from saying yes.

"You wouldn't want to disappoint your god, Dion. Old 'Spex' doesn't deal well with disappointment. Dark gods rarely stop at only killing, as you well know." Theodore gave a smug grin, " I'd love to see what kind of Darkasher you would make."

Dion gave a murderous glare as he said that but quickly deflated, likely realizing the truth of Theodore's words.

Theodore's face gave nothing away about the victory he felt as Dion nodded his assent. The Faerishman walked away to join his group and tell them of their new task, and Theodore stood there watching.

Anger burned inside him, escaping in waves of force that lapped at his ego. He let his Occulumency fall away from him. He listened to the voice of the whiney child everyone hid inside of them. 'How could his father do this to him? How could Harry betray his son?'

Adamantine hard resolve took hold, 'He would pay. They would all pay.'

"and that world would burn."

For Theodore knew that even if Harry hadn't sent these assassins he still had to have let this happen.

—-

The Present:

Brook looked to the side at Gram, son of Vermund Grimstborith of clan Dûrgrimst Az Sweldn rak Anhûin, and glared at the annoyingly tall dwarf in tired frustration.

Not only had that dwarf angered Garb enough to make him give them night postings, but somehow, the man had managed to nap on his spear through it all, Leaving Brook to guard the pass all on his lonesome as he waited for Gram's dangerous snoring to wake an avalanche. At some point, he began hoping for it—a good avalanche or bandit attack or even a dragon lusting for treasure. Anything would do. He was just that bored.

Never mind that today was important.

Brook looked past the snow into the distance. A procession of thousands of grieves clattered in the distance and the orderly rank and file of troops. The dwarven army was finally visible. And with them came an oversized carriage. Brook could make out its stark black tarp against pure snow.

A deep rumbling growl sounded, drowning out Gram's horrible snoring.

Brook leaned forward, trying to see its source. The army was still far away, but for a dwarf, Brook had keen eyes. He could see a Tail sticking out of the wagon's undercarriage.

'It seems excitement isn't far off.'

Brook looked at Gram, who still hadn't woken after that dragon's sky-piercing roar. With a careful poke of his spear, Brook knocked the tall dwarf off balance. Gram sputtered in the snow as Brook did his best to look innocent, hiding his grin.