❝ FOR FREEDOM.
FOR T R U T H.
AND FOR LOVE. ❞
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
𝐁𝐑𝐎𝐊𝐄𝐍 𝐂𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐍.
1978. Where a squib and a mischief-maker cross
paths at the crux of a war that would eventually
tear apart everything - and everyone - they...
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THE MORNING'S MOURNFUL stillness cracked as a man appeared out of thin air. Without so much as a glance around his surroundings, he set off down the narrow, winding lane that stretched before him.
A light breeze whistled through the drooping branches of the lush weeping willows which lined the length of the avenue. Thick fog drenched the air, obscuring his view of the mansion, though it did not matter. He knew what he'd find at the end of the avenue: a great, gothic mansion that had housed one of the oldest Wizarding families for centuries now.
The foliage under him barely made a sound as he glided over it, his black cloak streaming languidly behind him, unresponsive to the push and pull of the breeze around it.
He had not done this for years. He had others to do his bidding now, others who would gladly undertake the task he was about to. Still, at times the situation warranted his presence. It would surely move things along much faster if he himself were to tend to this small hindrance. And it was so much easier.
Purpose and power thrumming through his veins, he moved swiftly down the avenue, through the dense mist so characteristic to this part of Wales, and there. There it lay, a magnificent, olden mansion. Lush vines of ivy and shockingly pink bougainvillea tumbled wantonly over the high, weather-beaten walls. It might have been a thing of beauty once, but even the blooming flora could not disguise the wasted nature of the house. Years of decay and neglect shone visibly in the rusted iron of the gates and the lichen covered steps leading up to the house.
It was a pity they had not joined him earlier. The family, the house, could all have benefited from the glory and power he could bestow upon them. But no matter, for he was here to set things right at long last.
He reached the front door, and, without wasting any time, his long, pale fingers reached out from under his traveling cloak and grasped the brass doorknob.
He knocked twice, sharply.
There was scuffling inside, the floorboards creaking as someone drew nearer. He could sense them approaching; the hour was upon them at long last. Had they really thought he would not notice their absence? That he would not guess what they were planning to do? Were they, of noble blood and shrewd minds, truly this naive?
The door swung open.
"Who is..."
The question died in the girl's throat, as he had known it would.
Her eyes grew wide, mouth agape.
He smiled.
"Good afternoon." His high, cold voice cut through the dusty, silent hallway beyond.
