Silk Roads

Chapter 9

Chapter 9: Never hurt one of ours, and the assistant

February 1967
Location: Hogwarts

It was safe to say that Marcaunon had always been a picky person –no matter if it's about torture methods or constant company. His majestic mahogany desk was littered with opened folders, containing information, and photos.

Selecting an assistant was as enjoyable as dissecting a flobberworm, and Marcaunon would rather do the latter –at least there was gore, no matter how small. After he had sent out a newspaper clipping in search of an experiencedwith Potions assistant, a lot of Experts had owled him, and majority of them don't even know the difference between Monkshood and Wolfsbane (he swore to himself that he would administer detention to any of his students that did not know they're one and the same). No wonder Britain was made fun of when they competed in the IPC (International Potions' Competition) last year.

With a frustrated groan, he closed his eyes and dug one random folder. He raised a brow at the person's selfie and skimmed through the person's resume and working experience –it was decent enough and he could work with this. Not wanting to delay any longer, he wrote a short note, telling the person to come to Hogwarts for an interview the next day.

The walk to the owlery was peaceful –the children were busy watching a Slytherin vs Gryffindor quidditch match. Whilst he on the other hand, was having a day off due to a Potions' accident (not his, mind you) that ruined his classroom –the elves are cleaning it this very moment. He scowled in remembrance, how anyone could cause an explosion when making an anti-paralysis potion was beyond him.

He now understood the constant frowns and permanent worry lines on his ex-Potions Professor's face. He gave too little credit to the overgrown dungeon bat and felt that this was Karma biting him back in the arse.

If he could age properly, he would already be worried about pre wrinkles and probably a permanent scowl carved onto his face –not to mention the grey hairs that'll appear before he physically reached thirty. Contrary to what Mrs. Cole believed, he was aware about his appearance (it was easier to manipulate people with first impressions after all). Just because his hair was at a constant state of disarray, and that he disliked wearing shoes doesn't make him a slob –just eccentric.

Besides, he got into the habit of not wearing footwear due to Voldemort. He recalled the time when The Dark Lord had all but thrown the shoes he wore back inside his cupboard, disgust in those crimson eyes. The vision of his soul-brother throwing a tantrum because Nagini had ordered him to wear shoes to a raid (safety measures to avoid stepping on wayward bones) made him burst out laughing at random moments that month.

But back to the present, he tied the note to one of the owl's leg before throwing the big fella out the window. He turned on his heels and sauntered to the Great Hall, not minding that he was a little early for lunch.

He raised a brow when he noted that all his Slytherins were already seated, their shoulders stiff and their expression closed off.

"Father." His son greeted just as he sat down. To any outsider, Marchosias was the picture of innocence and relaxation, but to him, his son was filled with tension.

"Chaos." He smiled in greeting and piled up some food onto his plate. "Any reason as to why my Slytherins seemed... tense?" He was glad that the food would always appear as he sat down, so very different from the students –which they had to wait for the Headmaster.

"United front."

The answer made him pause as he slowly turned towards his Snakes. He scanned them and noticed that all but three were present –being the Head meant that he knew all his Snakes by heart. He narrowed his eyes –something had happened and they were angry.