Being a Greengrass after all should sound pretty serene.
But being a part of "the Emeralds" should not, especially when hearts become entangled with the infamous Regulus Black.
Goodness, lawfulness, or evilness. Which path will they tread in the ti...
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August 18th, 1978
It had been a month since Avery joined the Order of the Phoenix, and the adrenaline of her first days had simmered into something steadier—discipline, training, and purpose. She was sharper now. Quicker. The late-night dueling sessions with Marlene and Frank had toughened her reflexes. Moody's brutal drills had rewired her instincts. Even the skeptical glances from older members had quieted.
But the silence from the other side haunted her. No word from Regulus. No messages from Barty. Not even Evan.
Every time a barn owl soared overhead, she paused. Every time a mission ended, her eyes skimmed the debrief parchments for familiar names. Nothing. They were either deep undercover... or worse.
Tonight, the meeting room buzzed with unease.
A weathered scroll lay sprawled across the table, its edges still smoldering faintly with curse residue. Ink shimmered in patterns that shifted when looked at directly, like a mirage on heat-warped cobblestones.
"Another one," Emmeline mutters, arms crossed. "Same markings as the one in Bruges."
"They're mocking us," James says. "We're missing something obvious."
"I've seen this type of sigil magic before," Moody growls. "It's layered. Designed to confuse. Old school—Rhunic mixed with Arithmancy."
The room fell into a tense hush. Avery leaned closer, frowning at the curling script. The letters didn't sit right. They moved, yes—but not randomly. There was rhythm. She narrowed her eyes.
"What are you doing?" Dorcas asks, peering over her shoulder.
"Listening," Avery replies softly, tilting her head. "It's... humming."
The others exchanged puzzled looks. Avery traced the markings with her wand tip, not touching—just sensing. She mutters under her breath, "This isn't Rhunic. It's phonetic mimicry. Whoever wrote this wants us to read the sound, not the text."
She taps her wand lightly. "Fehu... Kenaz... Raidō... repeated once, reversed. It's not a curse. It's a locational anchor."
Lily raises a brow. "You're saying this is... coordinates, Ave?"
Avery nods slowly. "Hidden in how the runes are pronounced in Old Norse. If you speak them aloud—twice, backward on the second round—it maps to a leyline cross near Tintagel."
The scroll suddenly flared, then burned cleanly to ash, revealing a sliver of parchment beneath it. On it: a single word, carved in ghostly ink.
"Varnholdt."
Moody stares at it for a few seconds. "There's an old hideout there. Forgotten since years ago."
"They want us to come," Marlene says grimly.
"Or they want us dead," Moody adds.
Avery straightens. "Then we go ready."
A moment of stunned silence. And then, Emmeline cracks a grin. "There is no wonder you're a Ravenclaw."
