Did you hear the one about the owl? It was a real hoot.

1st February 2018. Hogwarts Ruins.

Bloody, slow, painful and ineffective were some of the few words used to describe my first kill at the beginning of my Auror career. Yet, by the age of twenty-nine, I was as experienced a killer as they came. Dark wizards, muggle criminals and likely more than a few innocent bystanders had lost their lives under my care.

Ignorance can change a life; the truth can ruin it. So as the pieces of the puzzle I called my existence fell into place, and the events of 31st October 2008 were unveiled before me - something snapped... or instead broke within me.

The human psyche is a wondrous thing; when a void appears, we do our best to fill it. Mine was as cavernous as the depths of hell, and I filled it with the screams of those who had sinned against me.

They say things are forbidden for a reason, and the dark curses I learnt were more than addictive. They satisfied a craving I never knew needed fulfilling.

The red of blood was a colour I was old friends with, but when I tell you the scarlet liquid that seeped out of Kingsley Shacklebolt was more attractive to me than gold to a goblin, you can begin to understand how magic is powerful in more ways than one.

As a former confidant of Dumbledore and their advisor in the ministry, he seemed like an appropriate interrogation target for an aspiring terrorist and Dark Lord to learn the truth.

Weasley and Granger made Jekyll & Hyde look like a child's tale. They had tortured her for weeks, allowing her to suffer in agony from an illness I thought incurable.

So I became a pestilence that caused them and the Wizarding world that supported them to suffer.

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31st May 1993. Malfoy Manor. Master Bedroom.

Green silk curtains lay open, revealing the morning sun's glory as Lucius Malfoy awoke with a frightful start. At his window sat an owl of unusual size carrying a letter, a somewhat irregular occurrence within a system of standardised wizarding post practices but not uncommon for the quirkier purebloods. Seeing Malfoy Sr. awake, the creature let loose the loudest hoots, urging him to open the window.

The master of the manor urgently called for assistance, only to be met by silence. No house elf to be seen. With a clenched fist and a heart full of anger, Lord Malfoy wrenched his dressing gown as he leapt out of bed, striding toward the unexpected creature. Fuelled by the irritation of his loss at the hands of a child and the subsequent chaos it had created in his domestic life, the letter was snatched and ripped open abruptly.

The unknown Sigel upon its crest raised hardly more than a second of hesitation before he was reading in simple terms:

Lord Malfoy,

It is to my horror that we have yet to be introduced properly, and I wanted to enquire as to whether I could meet with you this coming week at a time and place of your choosing.

Most sincerely,

Ares Peverell

Lord of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Peverell

The socio-political ramifications of a new Lord in the Wizengamoat were practically incalculable, whether positive or negative, depending on the new party's relationships and political leanings. All of which needed to be ascertained as soon as possible.

As a traditional pureblood and de-facto leader of the faction, it was his duty to meet any new purebloods of significant influence. So he penned a letter quickly in response.

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1st June 1993. Peverell Manor.

To be a good Dark Lord, one must have committed theft at least once. It was a valuable skill, mused the Lord of the Manor as he watched the group of house elves he had 'borrowed' from Hogwarts take over the domestic side of his home life. He'd hired Dobby for twice his weekly salary and told him to convince as many of his fellow elves as possible to come and work for the illustrious Lord Peverell, a descendant of death. Ares reflected propaganda was also an invaluable part of any campaign against the establishment.

Writing letters, however, was not.

Having been greeted by Lucius Malfoy's disgustingly warm response upon his arrival back at the manor, the Dark Lord had begun to enact the first of many grand schemes.

Unfortunately, this required quills, ink and an immense amount of patience. As a result, pureblood epistolary etiquette was one of a few special skills he had never pursued beyond surface-level knowledge.

Alcohol, Ares noted, was one topic he knew much about. His new accounts manager had sent over a congratulatory bottle of thirty-year-old fire whisky, reminding the depressed Dark Lord of the dire state of his current wine cellar and liquor cabinet.

World domination would have to wait until after his weekly shop at this rate, which is unacceptable for any half-decent overlord.

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2nd June. St Mungo's Hospital. Janus Thickey Ward.

Gilderoy Lockhart, Owner of the Order of Merlin, Third class; Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defence League; and winner of the Witch Weekly's Most Charming Smile Award five times in a row - was distraught.

He'd been through several incredibly invasive exams administered by doctors better suited for death eater dungeons than a hospital ward.

Only his extensive knowledge of the memory charm, its effects, consequences and symptoms had allowed him to maintain his guise of innocent ignorance.

The consequences of suddenly recovering now were not ones he could scarce afford, especially if Harry Potter came forward to accuse him... or worse yet, that unknown man in the Chamber of secrets.

No matter how gruelling the experience, he'd settle in and plan his escape to another wizarding country. One far away from what his acute sense of danger warned was soon to be a tumultuous Wizarding Britain.