Whispers of a Raven by TheBlack'sResurgence

Chapter 33

It was late in the evening that Marcus Avery found himself in his study. With Thomas gone and his wife having passed years prior due to Dragonpox, the house was empty. His life was empty.

Thomas had been a bright boy, quiet for the most part, but Marcus appreciated that about his son. He was observant and had grown to be a credit to the name he carried.

When word of the Dark Lord and his cause had reached them, Thomas had been amongst the first to offer his support, a proud moment for the Avery patriarch who had raised his son with traditional pureblood values, but the pride had been short-lived.

In a matter of months, Thomas had been killed.

"Peverell," Marcus slurred, draining his glass of rum.

The Avery's were an old family, one of the oldest, and yet, none on the Wizengamot had cared that its heir had been murdered by an upstart Lord of an extinct family.

What the hell had the Peverells done for any of them?

Nothing. Not in almost a thousand years had a single one of them presided over a meeting of the Wizengamot, had made any contribution to Wizarding Britain, and now, they all fell to their knees before the man.

Not Marcus. He would never lower himself to such a level to any, let alone the man responsible for the end of his line.

He snorted derisively as he noticed his bottle was empty and threw it into the fire, sending shards of glass all over the carpet in front of the hearth.

"Bastard," he grunted.

He wanted Peverell dead, wanted him to pay for what he had done to Thomas, but there was none willing to help him.

Abraxus had ignored his letters, as had all the other lords he had reached out to for assistance at the time he needed it most.

Silence. None had even deigned him with a response other than Selwyn who had his own axe to grind with his foe.

Marcus shook his head.

Selwyn was a fool, and in truth, Marcus had found what Peverell had done to his nephew rather amusing. The idiot had overstepped in a public place and had been found lacking when confronted about his unseemly behaviour.

"Selwyn the ass," he chuckled before frowning and shaking his head.

No. He would find no amount of joy in anything Peverell had done. The man needed to die for what he had done, but how?

He eyed the missive that sat atop his desk he had received from Selwyn that offered the man's support in dealing with the matter.

Could the two of them concoct something to be rid of him?

Marcus had his doubts.

Selwyn barely knew one end of his wand from the other, but beggars could not be choosers.

He couldn't believe he was doing it, but in his desperation, he began scratching a reply to what appeared to be his only ally.

Marcus had considered following in Thomas's footsteps and throwing his lot in with the Dark Lord, but he refused to serve the man who had shown no care for the death of his son.