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[ol-plots-blog]

The dungeons were dark, damp, and silent, and Lysander’s skin was prickled with goosebumps from the moment they entered.

It was strange to walk through Hogwarts castle at night - the stone hallways were so devoid of life. Each footstep echoed, but not with the chattering or laughter of students going to or from class, as Lysander could remember; it was as though a blanket had been laid over everyone and everything, muting it beneath layers of heavy fabric. They’d all been nervous and put off by the nothingness of Hogwarts, instinctively on high alert and wands drawn, even though they knew the castle had been secured, save for one or two persons of question.

It didn’t ease the jumpiness of their demeanour when Corbin Elloway led them down into the sealed-off dungeons, the oppressive silence even more pronounced. Lysander had given the instruction for the dungeons to be evacuated, to make way for their party, as well as to dislodge the great blathering idiot that is Samwell Whitmore, but even still - they’re so quiet that Lysander can feel the back of his neck prickle. He isn’t a man that fears much; he prides himself on being unshakeable, persevering through the worst of it with a grin, and it would take more than an empty labyrinth of dungeons to spook him. And yet - it unsettles him, because Lysander, better than most, knows what’s possible down here.

The solid presence of Henry at his side calms Lysander. He senses him there, rather than sees him, though all of Lysander’s other senses ring with the familiarity of him, too: the smell of him, like wooden sawdust, crushed fall leaves, the salt of the ocean, clinging to him from home, or what’s become home since this whole thing began. The steady gait of his walk, heavy and measured, his long legs always keeping stride with Lysander’s own. And the feel of him, like Lysander’s body and his are in a constant orbit, push and pull, gravitating both toward and around one another. It comes from being life long friends; it comes from being bonded mates within a pack. Lysander needs no other.

But others, he has, filing in behind them in lines of two, their wands clutched at their sides. It’s been years since any of them had a chance to step inside the walls of Hogwarts again; not since their ill-fated attempt at guarding it before the riot in London had they set foot here. Back then, they’d been a group barely out of its infancy stage, still learning how to be together, fight together; they’ve had ten good years since, and Lysander knows all of them deeply, each of them earning their place within his pack and proving themselves over and over again.

And prove themselves they must.

They duck their heads as they enter a tunnel, Lysander in the lead behind Elloway, noticing the way the man seems a little more ragged than when they’d seen each other last. His letters had betrayed nothing of the weariness that hangs on Elloway’s shoulders, the grey at his temples; there had been trials at Hogwarts, but Lysander couldn’t have guessed the toll.

“Straight down, only a little further,” Elloway says, navigating a path through the rocky tunnel, dotted with the misshapen boulders of hard granite, protruding from the tunnel walls.

It’s not the most homely place that Lysander’s ever stayed, and speaking as someone who’s lived out in the open forest for months on end at one point, he knows uncomfortable when he sees it. And the deeper they go, tunneling further under the castle, the more Lysander feels trapped. He’s never been claustrophobic, but then again he’s never been so far from the grass and trees and sky; he’s never had to go without, not like this, and it already messes with his head to feel no wind, carrying the scent of wild prey and the last gasps of winter.

“It’s alright,” Henry says, voice a low rumble as his hand falls onto Lysander’s shoulder. “It’s not forever.”

“Feels like a fuckin’ tomb,” Lysander snaps, eyes darting around, seeing better in the dark than most of the others.

“But not ours,” says Henry, fingers tightening, grounding Lysander.

Lysander’s jaw is tight but he nods, a small jerk of his head to let Henry know he’s alright, that he’ll keep it together, and his eyes have to readjust when they step into a cavernous room.

It looks like its been hollowed out by a giant ice cream scoop, the sides smooth and the room feeling rather circular. Lysander’s eyes trace the walls up, up, to a pointed ceiling somewhere in the distance - but it never touches the ground nor the light beyond. The knowledge of that sits heavy in his gut as the rest of the Order spread out among the space.

“It used to be the Chamber of Secrets,” Elloway says casually, and all eyes turn to him sharply. He doesn’t seem to notice, busy inspecting one of the many tunnel mouths that lead away into the darkness. “Funny that, isn’t it?”

“Hilarious,” drawls Lexie, dumping her large bag down in the centre of the room, where several beds have been set up. “I can’t think of anywhere else I’d rather sleep than the same place a giant serpent did.”

“Actually--”

“Not now, Knox,” June says gently, cutting Knox off before he can start.

Lysander doesn’t like it much more than the rest of them, but he keeps his mouth shut, eyeing the surrounds carefully. They’ve got a lot of exits, but each one is also a potential entrance.

“Where do these lead?” he says, pointing to the two in the back wall.

“We’ve yet to complete an exploration of each in full,” Elloway says, bashful, “but as far as we can tell, they lead into the castle. Some are caved in, while others remain functional.”

Lysander drops his things without care and walks toward one of the tunnels, its great, gaping black mouth yawning open, larger and larger as he walks closer. The myths and legends about the basilisk that had once roamed these tunnels doesn’t frighten Lysander, even though he’s not of pure blood. He figures his odds are better than the average.

“We’re going to need a full search of each tunnel as soon as can be arranged,” Lysander says, looking over his shoulder at Henry, who nods. “I want each of them mapped by distance and time taken to travel, as well as its condition and potential entrances or exits to the greater castle beyond.”

“Of course,” says Henry.

“Once we’ve established that, we’ll ward each of them so that students are not able to enter,” Lysander continues, feeling himself get back into the groove of it. “We might also be able to use one or two as a rigged trap.”

Henry nods, and starts taking notes by hand in a notepad, muggle pen scratching across the paper.

“We’ll also simultaneously establish our base down here, with a clear means of communication with the outside world. We’re expecting letters,” he says, adding the last bit to Elloway, who nods.

“If you need anything, we have the usual means of communication,” Elloway says.

Henry keeps writing, and Lysander wanders from tunnel to tunnel, looking at each of them. They’re intimidating, and he’d feel a lot better if he knew where each of them went.

“I should get back, I’m supposed to be patrolling the second floor,” says Elloway, rocking nervously, the dark circles under his eyes catching the shadows. “Georgette said she’d come in the morning, to see how things are.”

“Right,” Lysander says, preoccupied by the twists of one tunnel that make him crane his neck.

By the time he straightens, Elloway’s gone, and everyone is spread among the beds that have been erected for them. They look listless and dispassionate, and Lysander sort of knows the feeling - Skylar and Lexie undoubtedly missing the outside world as much as he.

“Come on, get off your ass,” he calls, and they perk up at the sound of his voice, but only slightly. “We’ve got a job to do.”

Lexie groans, but June makes a show of standing up, wand in hand, and brushing herself off. Always demure and spotless, June competes daily with Henry for most loyal, which makes Lysander smile.

Henry steps in.

“Alright, we’re going to assign each tunnel a number, and you will each be given a number and expected to explore, map, and catalogue it within the hour,” he says, voice authoritative, carrying around the cavernous space.

Lysander folds his arms and watches from the back.

“Lexie, tunnel one,” Henry calls, as though he’s raffling off prizes, pointing with the end of his pen to the tunnel on his right. “Tunnel two, Knox with Violet.”

Knox gives Violet a weak smile, but Lysander’s sure he can see sweat forming on his upper lip.

“Tunnel three, Skylar. Tunnel four, Demetria.”

They don’t look happy to be split up, and Skylar looks as though he’s about to protest when he catches Lysander’s eye. Lysander stares him down until Skylar’s mouth closes and his brow furrows.

“Tunnel five, June. And I’ll take tunnel six,” finishes Henry, looking up from his notepad while pushing up the frame of his glasses by the bridge. “Questions?”

Skylar looks to Lysander, who stares back coolly, and no one says anything.

“Great. Within the hour, people,” Henry says, and everyone jumps to action, wands in hand.

Lysander stays where he is, propped against the cold stone that bites into his shoulder, watching his pack split up, taking their assigned tunnels with quiet determination. Knox takes Violet’s hand, allowing her to help him into the tunnel mouth, while Lexie strides into the darkness of her tunnel without so much as lighting her wand. They’re an odd bunch, no denying, but they’re as close to family as Lysander has allowed himself to get.

Once they’re all gone, swallowed up by the darkness, Henry walks over. He’s taller than Lysander - shot up like a string bean in their third year and hasn’t slowed down since.

“You coming?” Henry asks, jerking his chin to the tunnel to Lysander’s left. “Might lead somewhere interesting.”

“Pass,” Lysander says. “Thought I’d stay and unpack the essentials.”

Henry snorts. “You mean that stash of whiskey you smuggled in? Not sure that counts as essential, Lys.”

Lysander just grins, pushing off the wall and closing the space between them. “That’s for me to decide.”

“And I don’t think it’s going to last you,” Henry adds, a thoughtful frown on his face. “You’ll have to get more from somewhere.”

“Hogsmeade is only a short walk away, and I’m positive I could get a crate or two brought over,” says Lysander, shrugging. “Where there’s a will.”

Henry doesn’t smile, even though Lysander knows he’s being downright charming.

“Stop worrying so much,” Lysander says, bringing his hands to Henry’s robe, smoothing out the lapels. “We’re going to be fine here.”

“I think you’re being a bit too nonchalant about things.” Henry keeps frowning this small little Lysander-specific frown, for when he can’t work something out about him. “Did you forget why we’re here in the first place?”

Now it’s Lysander’s turn to darken, pulling away from Henry. “Stop the bad guy, save the day. What other heroics would you ask of me, Hen?”

“I’m not asking you to do anything--”

“Aren’t you?” snaps Lysander, staring Henry down. To his credit, Henry stands his ground. “Isn’t the whole fucking reason why we’re here because of you?”

“No, we--”

“No,” Lysander says, cutting him off. “You. You wanted this, and I agreed. You wanted to do more. You were the one tired of waiting. You were the one who thought being more proactive is what we needed. Well, we’re here, aren’t we?”

Henry says nothing, watching Lysander, who shoves past Henry to kick open his trunk. From within, he pulls out one of the bottles he’s stashed within, and instead of reaching for a glass, takes a mouthful directly from the bottle.

“You happy now, Hen? Got what you wanted?” he says, taking another mouthful, eyes closed as he swallows, relishing the feeling of his throat burning and lungs screaming for air.

“Lys,” say Henry, coming closer. “Lys, stop.”

Lysander doesn’t.

“Lys--” and Henry snatches the bottle from Lysander’s hand, spilling some of it, and Lysander can’t help but watch the liquid fall to the floor, anger swelling up. “Christ, Lysander,” Henry murmurs, looking at him.

He feels the concern radiating off Henry, but doesn’t meet his gaze.

“Just go,” Lysander says, and when Henry doesn’t move, Lysander turns to look at him properly. “Go.”

It’s not an order - not an alpha order, anyway - but Henry nods, placing the bottle on the ground and walking away, over to his assigned tunnel. Lysander watches him go, slipping into the darkness, and when he turns to look at Lysander, their eyes meeting, it’s Lysander who looks away first.

The silence once Henry’s gone is absolute.

Exhaling loudly, running a hand through his long hair, pushing it back away from his face, Lysander sits heavily on one of the beds. He misses home - the sea air, the sound of the gulls in the morning, the crash of waves whenever there’s a pause in conversation. He misses the woods that butt their home, knowing an escape is always possible. He misses his room, his study, his bed - Henry beside him, the others around.

Lysander never wanted this war - he never wanted to have to do any of this. But the war came to him in the form of Lowell Tegus, a face that had become twisted with revenge and determination, and Lysander knew that he was the only one who could stop this world from imploding. Because Lowell was more than capable of doing everything he did - and didn’t - promise; he would make it happen, because that’s what he did. He got things done.

The weight of it all sits heavily on Lysander’s shoulders, and he reaches forward for the bottle, now lighter than when he’d last held it. Without thinking, he drinks - drinks until his throat burns in that beautiful way, and his lungs beg for air. He drunks until his head rings, and when he surfaces, eyes watering, the ex-Chamber doesn’t look half bad.

It’s just another place, it’s just another job. He’ll get through this, and they’ll be one step closer to finishing the whole thing.

Or Lysander tells himself, taking another swig from the bottle, anything to feel the burn, anything to feel something other than this - the gnawing ache for release, for this to be over. He drinks until it goes, and then he drinks a little more to make sure it stays that way.

He’s drunk by the time the others return, but it’s nothing they haven’t seen before. They’ve come to expect it from him, stumbling, propped up by Henry to make it to the bathroom. Lysander might be their leader, but it’s Henry that takes care of everyone, not him.

There’s a hand easing him into a bed, water pressed against his lips, and then he’s out, the sound of voices bubbling around him, none quite penetrating the fog in his brain.

And when Lysander dreams, it’s of the past, rather than the future - why dream of something and torture yourself with a promise you’ll never keep?

[ol-plots-blog]

TELL-ALL BIOGRAPHY OF MINISTER TO BE RELEASED

The first biography of the Minister of Magic - a mysterious and unknown figure for most of the wizarding world - is set to hit shelves next month. While the book has not been endorsed by the Minister himself, it’s expected to include revelatory facts, information, and interviews with some of the Minister’s friends and family that shed light on his childhood and years at Hogwarts.

“People want to know more about the man that’s leading us,” said author Charlene Witting, a writer who has been studying the Minister for more than a decade. “I hope that my book is able to do that.”

Witting, who was first introduced to Minister Tegus during his time at the Department of Mysteries, said she was “charmed and intrigued” by the man, even before he began a campaign for the top position.

“There’s no denying that Minister Tegus is charming and personable. He remembers names and faces, and facts, too,” she said. “His conversation was effortless and polite, and I could tell from the start that he was very intelligent - but all this was like a mask that he wore. I wanted to get underneath.”

When Lowell Tegus rose to popularity in 2014, it was under dire circumstances: the then-Minister had just been murdered by werewolves in his London home, and the wizarding world looked set to plummet into chaos. From the shadows came Tegus, promising safety and stability.

“He really gained momentum within the Ministry, with some other employees very vocal in their support for his election,” said Witting. “It was amazing to see how such an elusive figure had managed to rally people together, from all Departments. It was then that my research really started.”

Documenting Lowell Tegus’ rise to the top and his subsequent election by the Wizengamot as Minister of Magic, Witting’s book brings together interviews, photographs, and documents from those early years to shed light on Tegus the man, as well as Tegus the Minister.

“I knew I was witnessing history,” she said, “and I wasn’t about to let it slip by. I collected like mad, anything I could get my hands on.”

Over the years, her collection grew - and her narrative of Minister Tegus began taking shape.

“I began noticing a theme throughout everything I was hearing: Lowell Tegus has done some remarkable things, and that his time as Minister has both defined and reshaped the standard to which we’ll forever hold other Ministers.”

Including photographs and interviews from Tegus’ early childhood - information by which Witting does not share her method - this exclusive and informative biography reimagines the Minister as someone who struggled from an early age, but overcame all obstacles.

The Man Beyond the Minister: the Lowell Tegus Story will hit shelves next month.

[ol-plots-blog]

IN THE PRESENCE OF VAMPIRES pt. 2 (read pt. 1)

The morning had been taxing, and Lowell was exhausted. After speaking to the press about Prida’s murder - which had caused not only shockwaves through the press room, but owls had started flooding in after the WWN’s report - he’d had to endure meeting after meeting of concerned ministers. They’d each pressed his hand in condolence, and Lowell had grimaced and reassured them all in turn that this was a freak accident, that it wouldn’t be repeated, that he would take care of it.

But the parallel trails of blood that Lowell had followed like a twisted trail of bread crumbs to find Prida’s body had stuck with him. It wasn’t that Lowell had never been exposed to blood or death; he had, numerous times, but this was Prida. Lowell wanted to believe that he could protect those within his employ, and even those he cared about. There was also the fact that it looked terrible for his image as a Minister, and as unfeeling as it seemed, Lowell cared a great deal about that, too.

After shaking the hand of a sweaty-palmed wizard who explained, for ten minutes, about the time Prida had made him a cup of coffee, Lowell excused himself to his office. The floor was quiet as he stepped out of the elevator, the marble floor suddenly echoing with the silence of Prida’s loss. Lowell had gotten used to her there; to the smell of her perfume filling the foyer as she walked to and from her office, or the exact way she made coffee, or the sound of her laughter while entertaining a minister. She’d been loyal to the very end, Lowell was sure of that - she’d fought and died by what she believed, which was that the creatures of this world must be controlled and contained.

She had paid the ultimate price. Lowell knew he should’ve tried harder to shield her from harm; should’ve made sure she didn’t live so far from the aurors, that she should’ve been properly trained herself. But in truth, Lowell had been blindsided by this - he had expected attempts on his own life, of course, but his secretary? It was a murder that showed these creatures and beasts had no humanity or reason left.

His office was dark and as he’d left it that morning, though the severed hand had been removed, taken by the aurors who were investigating. Lowering himself into his well-worn chair, Lowell pressed a hand to his face, drawing in a slow breath. He knew what he had to do next, but the execution would cost him a great deal - and he would need to wait til sun down.

“Sir?”

Lowell glanced up, tired eyes taking in Fischer and Blackwood standing there.

“Report,” he ordered, waving them in.

They nodded, taking two steps inside the office, before beginning the debrief. It was short, the investigation still in its preliminary stages, they said. But the creature that had murdered her was confirmed: vampire.

“As suspected,” Lowell murmured, rubbing his forehead again. He would like a strong drink, but dared not allow himself. “Very good. Head back to the manor and I’ll meet with you there in an hour. Tell the others.”

Fischer and Blackwood didn’t argue, though Fischer did hesitate for a second, as though debating whether to say what was on her mind.

“What is it, Fischer?”

Her mouth thinned into a line, and Blackwood looked on from the doorway. “I’m sorry, sir,” she said, a moment of rare gentility. “About Prida.”

It was the first time that day that Lowell had actually believed anyone to be sincere about the loss, and Lowell met her eye.

“Thank you,” he said. “She was a good person.”

There was nothing more to say, and Fischer left with Blackwood, the two of them already bickering before they’d even entered the elevator, Lowell listening remotely to their heated words before there was silence once more.

He wasn’t used to feeling like this - like he was on the backfoot, like there was something he was missing. He understood the anger of these creatures - that they’d made very clear - but this was unexpected. Lowell usually planned for every possibility; strategised for every move that someone could make, every variable that could crop up. Was he losing his touch? The thought bothered him more than he would’ve liked to admit, and the itch for a drink was strong - just something to burn his throat, distract him from his thoughts.

Instead, Lowell stood and grabbed his wand, his coat, and headed out. He couldn’t be here, not when everything was so open ended, and with several more hours until the sun set, there was time to kill.

*

The Bowery was dark when Lowell apparated in.

Leaving the confines of the manor house after discussing the murder of Prida with his team, Lowell had allowed the sun to set and the night to settle before he’d grabbed his coat once more. The others had been exhausted as they wrapped up, though he was glad to see they fought through it - Winterbourne squeezing Walcott’s hand periodically, Caomh chattering small comments to Fitzpatrick in Gaelic that kept them both awake and engaged. Lowell had to admit that the team he’d chosen were strong and dedicated, and he was grateful for each of them.

And true to their nature, they’d offered to accompany him to the Bowery, some of them knowing its filth better than Lowell - some of them having worked there, bled out on the cobblestones, grew up knowing its twists and turns. But the destination that Lowell sought was not for the others to know about; his business was a private one, even from the people that he trusted most.

Of course, not many people in full possession of their rationality and sanity would walk into the Bowery at night; even the citizens knew which spots to avoid. They knew that Stabbing Street was nicknamed that for a reason; knew that the sound of cheers and screams from The Basement could lure you in like a siren and just as quickly take your money. They knew that the Meatlocker had whatever you needed, for a price, but the selection was more varied at Sade’s. They knew a decent drink could be found at Shelley’s Leg, but if you were after something less than legal, The Sabbat could provide.

Lowell knew all this and walked through the Bowery anyway. He knew the kind of people that lived and worked here - knew exactly which of laws were being flaunted, broken, abused. And he allowed it, because that was the way the Bowery worked. Besides, if he raided Sade’s, he’d find more than a dozen of his Minister’s with their pants around their ankles, and then he’d have to go through the hassle of employing more.

No; the Bowery was a teeming underbelly that worked to its own code, and the less Lowell and his Ministry disturbed it, the better off they all were. Besides, most of the Bowery remained self-contained: if you walked through it, then you knew what you were going to get. Newcomers never made the same mistake twice. Unlike Knockturn Alley - with its cheap criminals and shattered families trying to make the most of things, the Bowery was unforgiving. It made no pretense like Knockturn; it hard no well-meaning foil to it the way Diagon Alley was to Knockturn. There was no redemption on the streets of the Bowery - this is where people came when they were at their end, and the monsters came to toy with them.

The idea was of some comfort to Lowell as he walked through the main street of the Bowery, keeping his eyes straight forward but not from cowardice. At least he knew where to go to find the monsters in the world - and here, there was some control, some order to their reign. And, Lowell reasoned, a chance at negotiation.

The sources of light came from the glowing windows of the Bowery - the neon of Sade’s, kept further back for complete discretion versus the unabashed display that the Meatlocker put on. The pubs glowed invitingly, while the other establishments provided light through greasy, stained windows - dim and alluring. But Lowell would not be swayed tonight by the temptations of the Bowery, though he could not say he never had before - every man had his weakness, after all, and his eyes lingered in the direction of Sade’s before he picked up his step. Lowell had always prided himself on being stronger than his vices, for which his family had fallen prey - he would not be the same, and he would not end up dead like them.

His presence in the Bowery drew more attention than he would have liked, but Lowell knew that nothing in the quarter would go unnoticed. Someone, somewhere, was always watching - eyes followed all passers-through, and everything was reported back to the metaphorical beating heart of the Bowery: the Duchess. Lowell knew her blood slaves were reporting his movements to her at this moment, webs of information that she used as puppet strings to control the Bowery and everyone in it.

Nothing happened without her knowing, and much less happened without her permission.

Only fools ignored the other powers in charge in their quest for complete dominance. Lowell was no such fool. He understand that in order to get what he wanted, there were times when sacrifices and compromises must be made - when he had to bow his head to another major player and hope they bowed in return.

The Duchess had manners - built over centuries of being alive, she was one of the only people that had ever gotten under Lowell’s skin and could play him in a way that landed him humiliated and vulnerable. It was why he delayed meeting her as often as possible; why he came only now, when he needed to.

Her manor was, as always, darkly-lit with torches of fire rather than muggle electricity, which many wizards had adopted. Lowell’s eyes adjusted to the light quickly as he walked inside, meeting soft music that immediately culled the outside world away. A blood slave - pale, thin, drawn - closed the door behind Lowell with a click, and he was entombed.

It was warm, and Lowell began walking, taking the hallways by memory from the times when he’d been here before.

The Duchess’ manor house was beautiful and old-fashioned, but less in a gaudy way than in a legitimate and decadent fashion. There were objects collected from all over the world - cultures that Lowell would’ve loved to have studied as a boy, and trinkets that he is sure would’ve swallowed him whole. The Duchess was a collector, of sorts - her manor held some of those things. Books and objects and carvings and paintings of all sorts were neatly arranged along the walls and display cabinets; weapons, jewellery, and in one glass case, a hand.

It made Lowell think of Prida’s hand from that morning, and he turned away.

“Mistress will see you in her chamber,” came a voice from the doorway, and Lowell turned to see the blood slave from the door staring at him, dead-eyed.

Lowell said nothing to this man, who was, in most respects, no longer a man; he had given himself over to the Duchess’ power in exchange for a drop or two of her blood. It had been his choice - yet another vice that had claimed another life.

He followed the slave through the room and down the hall, the music still a gentle swell in the background - not loud enough to discern exactly what was playing, but enough to be reminded of something from a long time ago that you couldn’t quite grasp at the memory of. It made Lowell think of many things; things that prickled at his spine, of a lifetime ago before things had become what they were.

He shook the thoughts immediately. This was why he hated coming here. Vampires had an unsettling power over people - it was no coincidence that they called her the Bathory of the Bowery.

The Duchess’ chambers were warm and dimly lit, and from where Lowell stood, staring up the length of the room to where she sat, he could see a dozen or so blood slaves around her. Some were lying prostrate on the stone, either in worship or a state of pleading, Lowell couldn’t be sure. Others, possibly higher in her favour at the moment, sat closer to her, around her feet and scattered like puppies. One lucky blood slave was kneeling in front of her, the slave’s long red hair falling over her back as she offered up her wrist.

“Care for a drink?” came the velvet-smooth voice of the Duchess as Lowell entered, not looking up from where she was working on draining the slave’s wrist into a wine goblet.

When she was satisfied with the amount, she looked at the slave, who immediately bowed her head. The Duchess’ painted lips curved up in a smile, and she leaned down. Lowell watched, intrigued, as the Duchess licked over the wound in the slave’s arm gently - and the wound closed, slowly, as though magic knitted the skin back together.

“No, thank you,” Lowell replied once this intimate moment between master and slave was over, his eyes lingering on the girl as she cradled her wrist to her chest, as though it were a precious gift, before leaving.

“Are you sure?” pressed the Duchess, fondly watching the naked slave leave before her dark eyes lifted to Lowell. “I thought a drink was something you people couldn’t refuse.”

Lowell let the taunt glance off him. “I came to speak to you about business,” he said, seeing no reason to delay, though he gave a wary glance to the blood slaves still spread around the Duchess like toys.

She gave a dry roll of her eyes and took a sip from the goblet. When the goblet lowered, he couldn’t tell if it were blood on her lips or the colour of her lipstick. “It’s always business with you, Lowell, darling. That’s the problem: you take no time to find joy in the little things.”

“I’m afraid I have not much cause for joy today.”

The Duchess raised her eyebrows behind the goblet she drank from, and their eyes met. He held her gaze, and nor did she waver.

“Leave us,” she said once she’d swallowed the mouthful of blood, and the slaves around her hastened to follow the command, each of them thin and pale, all bone and hollow eyes, lank hair trailing after them as they left the chamber. “Are you going to make me ask what this is about, or shall I begin guessing?”

The idea that she didn’t already know what this was about didn’t seem possible.

“And I didn’t want to do you the dishonour by assuming you were that poorly informed,” Lowell returned, his face impassive and belying the emotion he felt about Prida.

Her lips quirked. “Smart man,” she said, nails catching the light where they held the goblet. “I assume this is about your hired help.”

“She was more than help, and I would appreciate if you didn’t speak of her so callously,” Lowell said, voice heated. “As far as my team and I are aware, she was murdered.”

The Duchess looked at Lowell, daring him to say it. “Yes, so I heard.”

“By vampires,” Lowell continued. “Tortured, even.”

“The lives of humans are so very fragile,” sighed the Duchess, mockery evident.

Lowell took a step closer - he hated feeling on the back foot around her; if it had been anyone else, he would’ve found a way around her and her power. Undercut her, manipulated her, blackmailed her, threatened her - anything that gave him a bit more leverage. Lowell had gotten good at that over the years, digging and clawing his way in secret to circumvent the people around him. But the Duchess? There was no going around her, because she was everywhere, and she wasn’t just one person.

She was an army.

“Our lives are not a joke,” Lowell said, voice cutting. “And for someone whose own future depends upon that of my own, I would expect that you’d take more care.”

The Duchess sobered. “You truly are no fun today,” she drawled, as though tired of his presence. “Very well, let us talk business. I know nothing of the murder of your human.”

“I don’t believe you,” Lowell countered immediately. “You know everything the vampires do.”

Her smile was thin. “You give me much more credit than I deserve, Lowell,” she said. After taking a sip from the goblet and swallowing, she continued. “Not all vampires recognise a leader. Some are angry.”

“With my leadership.”

“In part,” she allowed. “But you are one man, serving for ten years. What many of us have endured is centuries-long confinement. For some, torture. Enslavement. You’ve just tightened the leash.”

“Speak plainly,” Lowell said. “Who did this?”

“No one under my control, but as I told you when we struck our bargain, not all vampires are under my control, Lowell darling. I have a majority, at least when it comes down to it, but there are some beyond even my reach.”

The Duchess didn’t seem happy about admitting it, and Lowell took that as a sign that she was telling the truth.

“And where might I find those beyond your reach?” Lowell pressed. “Names, locations, I’ll take whatever you have.”

Her smile, when it appeared, was wicked and sharp, curving at the corners like the thorn on a rose. She had power, and she was more than capable of wielding it; you didn’t get into a position like hers without it. And though Lowell knew he could more than hold his own against her - you didn’t become Minister without being able to pull strings yourself - he felt fragile and new, a newborn babe at the mercy of a predator.

“That sounds like you’re asking for something,” she said coyly. “What will you give me?”

“What do you want?”

She knew she had him in the palm of her hand, but Lowell held firm, neither shrinking nor cowering.

“Blood,” she said, raising her chin. “Our dens and bars are running short, and my own personal supply is low -- lower than I am comfortable with.”

Lowell frowned. “You have your slaves.”

“Despite what you think of me, I am not a cruel master,” she laughed. “I won’t bleed them dry.”

There were strings Lowell could pull - it would be difficult, but he could do it.

“You’ll have the same amount as the last order,” he said.

“Double it or I’ll leave you to chase your tail.”

It felt like a fist was closing around Lowell’s lungs, a struggle with what he wanted and his own morals. To give in would set a precedent; to resist would destroy his sanity. The bottom line was that Lowell could not get answers from any other source than the Duchess; the cost might rise, but he would have to pay it.

“Double and no higher,” Lowell relented. “Tell me what you know.”

“With pleasure.”

And when she spoke, weaving the story of rogue vampires conspiring together, planning attacks and pointedly targeting people and places, Lowell understood that this war was going to be a lot harder than he thought. Now battling a war on two fronts - werewolves and vampires - he would be stretched thin as it already is. He would need more people, and a better strategy. He would need time to think.

“Thank you,” Lowell said, once he’d gotten a few names that he could go on. “You’ll have the supply by week’s end.”

His mind was full and already beginning to compartmentalise, and Lowell needed to leave. His study called to him, a roaring fire that would warm his knees while his mind turned over everything he’d been told, making plan after plan, going through each possibility. Strategy was his strong suit, and Lowell needed space to do what he was best at.

Turning to leave, Lowell had almost left the room when she called him back, a name on her tongue that made his spine straighten.

“I saw Lysander the other day.”

Lowell’s feet froze, and his heart thumped twice, three times, before he turned. “Oh?”

She was the picture of delighted, eyes lively and gleaming with humour. “He is well,” she said, picking up her goblet. “He, at least, stayed for a drink.”

He wouldn’t let this sway him, and he dropped his eyes from the Duchess’ and left, walking past the blood slaves who rushed into the room he’d just vacated, as though unable to breathe a moment longer without their master.

Lowell would not think of Lysander; today was not about him. It was about Prida, and finding those responsible for her death. He would have justice for her death, and if it took the form of the most brutal punishment possible, then Lowell would not apologise.

[ol-plots-blog]

IN THE PRESENCE OF VAMPIRES pt. 1

The Ministry was a flurry of activity, and Lowell Tegus had the satisfaction of knowing it simply wasn’t because he entered the building. Productivity and spirit had never been higher than now, a victory close, practically within their gasp. With both the prison and school beginning to whir to life, there was a renewed vigor among the witches and wizards at the Ministry that made them walk with their heads held high and spines soldered with iron. Lowell had never doubted their cause, but he knew the years had been a trial for many; they’d lost some brilliant and promising minds and wands along the way. The result, he realised as he looked around the grand foyer on the way to his office, was a government constructed - from bottom to top - with people he could trust. Like-minded, loyal, and driven, they would bring his vision to life.

The pride that flourished in Lowell’s chest as he rode the elevator continued as he received salutations from the various members who came and went.

“Hopkins,” Lowell said warmly when a red-headed witch entered on the second floor. “How’s your daughter?”

Her cheeks warmed, clearly overwhelmed at the thought that the Minister had remembered a conversation they’d had in passing.

“She’s well, Sir. The pox cleared right up.” She smiled. “Thank you again for speaking to Healer Fields for us.”

“My pleasure,” Lowell replied, and squeezed her arm. “Anything for our family here at the Ministry.”

He held her eye, and she lowered hers, flushing harder. Lowell knew that the others in the elevator were listening, but that was the point; politics couldn’t be done like any other job behind closed doors. No - it must be seen to be done; it was performative, like a play, a dance, a ballad. Lowell had worked hard to cultivate a relationship with the people who worked for him, carefully spreading himself among their ranks - favours here, a small deal there. It helped that he confided in some people, testing not only their ability to keep a secret but building up a loyal base of colleagues. Those that failed were quickly moved on.

Hopkins, thanking Lowell again, left on the fifth floor, and he was left alone with a few others, who met his eyes before glancing away.

“Peters,” Lowell said, addressing a particularly short wizard by the doors. “I personally looked over your report from last week,” and he carefully wove through the small space to be by the small man’s side. “You raised many constructive points that I think your Department might be able to begin implementing if we’re going to make a real difference.”

Peters was no blushing young woman whose face glowed pink under Lowell’s gaze - he was a seasoned wizard in the Department of Misuse of Muggle Artifacts, having worked for forty years under countless other ill-fated Ministers. Lowell could respect that kind of man; someone who worked hard, placing his loyalty with the reigning power - pure dedication to the job at hand, a kind of narrow-sighted tunnel vision that allowed him to excel at his job where others let their morals blind them. Harder to win on a deeper level, of course, but Lowell Tegus was never one to shy away from a challenge.

“Really, sir?” Peters said, eyebrows rising behind his round spectacles.

“Indeed,” Lowell replied, bowing his head. “And if you had some time this week, I’d love to discuss it further with you. Could you contact my secretary to organise a time? Whatever works best for you, I’m happy to work to your schedule.”

The small wizard, dressed in tailored robes of a fashionable aquamarine that didn’t quite brush the floor, gave a small bow. “Very good, very good,” he said, flustered words running into each other. “I’ll-- yes, I will, sir.”

“Good man,” Lowell said, his trademark smile creeping across his face as the doors opened.

His floor.

He nodded to the elevator’s other occupants as he left, breezing onto the marble foyer. Every Minister put their own spin on the floor - redecorated according to their tastes and preferences, and Lowell had been no different. He hadn’t wanted to go extravagant so as to alienate people to seem as though he were flaunting his power and position, but he wanted some distinction - some flair of personality in the space that he worked within. The marble had remained from the previous Minister, but he’d instead opted for more wood textures, as well as plants - the green foliage was everywhere, bordering the sides and available spaces, some even hanging from the ceiling and curling down in blooming tendrils. It reminded Lowell of his favourite places to hike; it calmed him, seeing so much nature.

Normally there was the scent of coffee brewing, but today there was nothing; Lowell deflated a little thinking about how he would have to make his own if Prida was going to be late. His suspicions were confirmed when her office was empty, door open and lights off within.

Lowell frowned. He’d known Prida for almost a decade, and the only time she’d ever been late had been once when a muggle car had killed her cat, and another time when the water pipes burst and her apartment was flooded. Though it were unusual, Lowell shrugged it off, deciding that Prida would owl when she was able, and until then, he was perfectly capable of making his own coffee.

His own office was cool and dark, and as he entered, Lowell lifted a hand to turn the lights on.

It was a large office, bigger than he’d ever had in the Department of Mysteries. There was a lot of glass and wood and his signature plants, potted and hanging and growing of their own accord around the office. And books - they featured prominently, stacked and sorted and alphabetised meticulously on their shelves. Some were indeed dull books of law and history and politics that Lowell had dutifully read in his first year as Minister, lugging them home and reading by lamplight into the early hours of the morning, but others -- others were his private collection. Books on herbology, bestiaries of supernatural creatures, astronomy. The turn of the world, the stars, the animals. And, among their number, a few guilty pleasure muggle novels that Lowell enjoyed reading during lunch.

Everything was as it should be, except his desk. Among the paper and folders and quills sat a box.

Lowell frowned at it as he placed his briefcase on a chair and shrugged off his robe, placing it on the hook by the door. Rolling up his shirt sleeves to the elbow, Lowell sat down in his well-worn leather chair and pulled the box closer. It had some weight to it, and he frowned deeper.

The box opened at Lowell’s touch, the lid parting back and the smell-- The smell hit him first, Lowell recoiling at the shock of it, before leaning forward to confirm what he already knew.

Within sat a severed hand, cut just above the wrist, none too cleanly. In its palm were letters, and Lowell had to reach inside the box to push back the hand’s fingers to read it.

FREEDOM.

Lowell pulled back his hand, the cold touch of the corpse’s fingers lingering on his skin. His heart beat once, twice, leaping in his throat with such a strong pulse that he feared it might stop, before he moved.

Wand out, Lowell ran from his office, sending a fire message on the way. The elevator came immediately at the touch of his finger, and he rode in tense silence on the way down, solitarily staring at himself in the mirrored surface. His face was furrowed dark brows and cutting jaw - he knew who this was. He knew what it meant. And he knew what had happened.

Callow and Sinclair met him on the ground floor, their own wands out and eyes alert for such an early hour.

“Get the others,” Lowell demanded.

“Sir--”

“Get them,” he snapped.

Sinclair glanced at Callow before nodding and dashing off, dark robes billowing behind him. Lowell turned to Callow.

“We’ll leave before them,” he said, and Callow was smart enough to nod once and fall into step beside Lowell, matching his pace.

“Sir, though I understand the urgency, might I suggest that we approach this tactically?” said Callow, and Lowell spared him a look, noting the way Callow looked serious, features morphed into the determined grimace of a soldier. “It could be a trap.”

“Then we walk into it with full knowledge,” Lowell said. “We won’t let one of our own down, Callow. Not today.”

Callow nodded and fell silent as they took the fireplace exit out of the Ministry, landing on the street before disapparating to the other side of London where the houses were close and the streets narrow. They landed quietly in an alleyway, scaring a stray cat and making it jump before fleeing. Lowell watched it dash off before following it to the mouth of the alley, glancing both ways, wand still out.

“Our plan, sir?”

Lowell looked back into the alley. “We walk inside, Callow, and if anyone’s waiting, we give them hell.”

There was a righteous anger that burned in Lowell’s chest, a kind of moth with barbed wing tips that scratched at his insides as it fluttered. Strength and adrenaline coursed through him as he walked forward, remembering which house was Prida’s from the Christmas party she’d had in his third year as Minister. She’d given him a sweater.

It had been too long since Lowell had been like this - burning from the inside out, heart rate up; he’d shied away from it on purpose, not wanting to be like them, but he could not deny that there was a certain rush to it; the thrill of the chase. But whatever joy he might’ve felt - the heightened awareness of his body, his surroundings - was overshadowed by the loss he was already feeling. Prida, he knew, was dead; the blood on the severed hand had been clotted before it had been parted from the arm, meaning Prida had been killed before dismembered. A small mercy, Lowell knew, but a mercy nonetheless.

The front door was unlocked, and Lowell didn’t hesitate as he opened it, wand arm raised as he walked inside, Callow on his heels.

He was not a fearing man - it wasn’t in his nature. It wasn’t born out of his position as Minister - on the contrary, that had given him more reason to fear than ever before - but instead a confidence in his skills and a surety that his experiences had given him. Lowell knew what his strengths were, and with a wand in his hand, there was not much he feared.

Prida’s home was a two storey townhouse with a clean, modest layout. Lowell remembered her taking a day off work in order to move in, the brightness to her eyes betraying how excited she was to finally leave her parents’ home. It was quiet now, the only sound the ticking of a clock in another room and the hum of traffic outside, distant and other-worldly.

Lowell could feel Callow behind him, and he went right, nodding his head to the left, indicating Callow should take it. The auror had his wand raised and gave a stern, terse nod. They parted.

It was too quiet, Lowell’s own breathing seeming harsh in his ears as he threaded through the dining room - a small table, barely able to seat four, was crammed in a corner while Prida’s yoga mat was still stretched on the floor - then into the kitchen. It looked hardly touched, everything in its exact spot, minus a used mug sitting in the sink, the dregs of tea glued to the bottom.

Lowell moved on, circling through to the back of the house where he found Callow, leaving the laundry room with a shake of his head.

Upstairs, then.

Heart thudding, Lowell climbed, the carpeted stairs muffling his footsteps. He wasn’t sure what he’d find, but he knew that it wouldn’t be Prida alive - somewhere, somehow, he’d already accepted that. Lowell had felt her loss from the moment he realised the hand was hers - the same burnt gold shade of the skin, the perfectly filed nails. He’d always been good at compartmentalising, and losing Prida had been stored away perfectly.

The top of the stairs heralded the first sign: two lines of blood, almost shoulder-width apart. The blood was dried and soaked into the carpet, a dark red that burgeoned on black, inconsistent in some places while thicker in others. The pool at the top of the stairs was larger than where he traced the lines up the hallway, as though he were standing where the bleeding first began.

Adjusting his grip on his wand, Lowell entered the hallway, walking alongside the parallel lines of blood, careful not to tread on them, lest they were still wet. They weren’t straight or perfect, but wavered, as though whatever had made them had struggled to do so at all.

They led past the study, past the bathroom, and ended at the end of the hall, tapering off inside the bedroom. And there, Lowell entered, wand raised and searching the room for any sign of the person - or thing, rather - that had done this, but the room was still. And yet, for all the quiet, it raged with a kind of angry chaos that stole Lowell’s breath.

Prida lay crumpled on the floor, face down, her bare legs bleeding from the ankle where he could see the tendons had been cut. She was wearing one of her work skirts and blouses, as though she’d been mid-way through her morning routine, minutes away from leaving to go to the Ministry, when they’d attacked her. But what made Lowell’s stomach clench was not the sight of Prida’s eyes wide open nad her skin blanched of colour, nor was it the cruelty that they’d made her suffer before dying. Across the wall, painted in blood, was an echo of the word they’d carved into Prida’s palm.

FREEDOM.

“Fuck,” came Callow’s whisper from the doorway, and Lowell saw him lower his wand. “Prida.”

She was dead, and Lowell stared at the word on the wall for a moment longer before getting to one knee beside her. Her hand was missing, and when Lowell reached out to feel for a pulse in her neck - just to be sure - he felt the depth of cold in her body. There was no pulse, and he held her eye for a moment before forcing hers closed.

“I’m sorry,” he said, trying hard to compartmentalise this - the brutality of it, the savagery. It struggled up inside him, threatening to choke him right then and there, and he stood up swiftly, turning from her body.

Lowell was saved from having to think of something to say - a word of comfort to Callow, maybe, who had worked with Prida just as long as he - when there were feet on the stairs. Sinclair and the others filed into the room, and suddenly there was no space to grieve, no time for sentimentality when Lowell was faced with his most loyal of aurors, who all wore matching grim looks.

Walcott took Winterbourne’s hand, while Caomh turned away.

“We lost one of our own here today,” Lowell said, looking at each of them. “She didn’t fight, not in the way you do, but she was part of what we’re trying to do here.”

Only Deighton met Lowell’s eye, the defiance and anger seeping behind his ink-black irises.

“You will remain here while the Ministry investigates and collects her body to ensure she and her possessions are treated with respect,” Lowell ordered. “You operate under my command, and override that of the Auror Department. Understood?”

Callow nodded for them, and Lowell nodded back.

“Once they finish here, I want you to collect their findings and head to HQ to begin research. I want information on every who, what, and why within a ten kilometre radius.”

Without looking back, Lowell strode from the house, leaving his team huddled around Prida’s body. Out in the sunshine, the warmth of it failed to reach Lowell’s skin, but instead it kept crawling with an unshakable chill. He could not suppress the fact that he was-- shocked. Yes, that was the emotion. It had been some time since Lowell had felt this out of control - like he was a passenger in a car while someone else was driving. The sensation unsettled him, struck him down deep, reminding him of when he was younger--

He started walking. Physical exertion helped the brain slow down and go quiet, and it was a foolproof method that Lowell had been using all his life - keep doing something so that you never have to look back.

And he didn’t.

[ol-plots-blog]

THE STATE OF THE WORLD AS WE KNOW IT

The tragedy that shook the Ministry of Magic within the last week was the death of the Minister of Magic’s personal secretary, Prida Ferrars. The work of what appears to be vampires, Ms. Ferrars’ death comes as a shock to the nation, not only because of her close ties to the Minister, but the involvement of vampires.

For the last several decades, the problem facing the United Kingdom was that of werewolves. Where to put them? How to control them? And how could we make sure they never saw the light of day again? It was such questions as these that allowed Lowell Tegus to become the Minister of Magic, playing on the fears and paranoias of a war-torn country still reeling from the Second Wizarding War. A people who had been ravaged by a dark wizard and his legion of followers, the UK sought to stop any “budding Voldemorts” in their tracks - and to do so, we needed a strong leader. Tegus became the man for the job, and we praised him for his alarmist and manipulative tactics that led to the creation of a new prison specifically designed to house any potential threat.

But the Ministry, who attempted to squash every creature and beast in the country with one stone, ended up spreading themselves too thin. While they watched the werewolves, the vampires came out to play - and, inevitably, while the focus is on the vampire “problem,” a new species will find their time in the sun and run amok.

Of course, we say this with tongue in cheek. The Ministry is attempting to control everything, and has now let things slip. The death of Ms. Ferrars heralds the beginning of the slackening of the rope. As the personal secretary to the Minister, the public was led to believe that she had exclusive knowledge about the movements of creatures, preventative measures for protection against them, as well as extra security on her living quarters, given her status in the Ministry itself.

How, then, could she be murdered? And if she could be - and she has, remember - what hope do the rest of us have? What can Minister Tegus offer us when he can’t protect his own?

Here lies the crux of the problem. The Minister cannot promise us safety from creatures, because he does not control them (as uncomfortable as that fact might be to him). He does not know where they are, when they will strike, and supposedly how strong of a force they even are. He does not know how to stop them, how to protect us, or even what can be done to ensure we aren’t completely overrun. Laws and prisons keep a few in place, but not all; a slap across the wrist might chastise some, but it only angers others.

We here at the Quibbler believe that the wizarding world has been pushed into an impossible situation due to the laws and regulations created by the Minister of Magic. We cannot move forward, nor can we move back to a more peaceful time - the damage has been done, and we are now seeing the beginnings of the oppressed lashing out. Is it only a matter of time? Are we all sitting on top of a bubbling potion that could boil over at any moment? And if so, what can we do to neutralise the situation on all sides?

The answer, we are sure, lies with the people - not the Minister.

[ol-plots-blog]

MINISTER’S SECRETARY MURDERED BY VAMPIRES

The Minister of Magic’s secretary was this morning found murdered in her London apartment with what aurors are describing as bite marks on her body, Julia Turnbrook reports.

Prida Ferrars, 34, was found this morning at 9am local time in her London apartment when she failed to turn up for work. When the Minister personally dispatched an auror to check on her, it was reported that she was deceased. Aurors have identified the marks as belonging to that of a vampire - or multiple vampires.

“Ms. Ferrars was an honest, loyal, and hard-working woman,” said the Minister today after the news broke. “She had been working with me since my campaign began some ten years ago, and I’m proud to say that she was more than just my secretary - she was my friend.”

Aurors swarmed the apartment building all morning, questioning muggles in the neighbouring rooms to ascertain whether they saw or heard anything that might contribute to the case. So far, they have turned up no leads.

“Muggles are, more often than not, ignorant to the happenings within our world,” said Auror Sinclair outside the crime scene. “We’ve questioned all residents and obliviated them where necessary. For now, the death of Ms. Ferrars remains an on-going investigation.”

Sources within the auror department have speculated that the bite marks on Ms. Ferrars’ body belong to not one, but multiple vampires.

“The teeth marks of no two vampires are identical, much like fingerprints,” said one source, who wished to remain anonymous. “From my preliminary examination of the body, there are at least four vampires involved in this attack, if not more.”

The behaviour of vampires are known to most in the wizarding world, especially their predatory hunting lifestyle, but vampire attacks have in recent years declined, thanks to the hard laws enforced by the Minister. These laws prevent vampires from turning and “creating” new vampires, as well as feeding on humans or human blood. The creation of Greywatch - the prison for supernatural creatures and beasts - now plays host to several notorious vampires who broke these laws.

“It’s only a matter of time before we catch the vampire responsible for her death, and I will personally ensure that justice is served to the maximum extent,” said the Minister, who appeared to get emotional during his press conference. “Prida will not have died in vain, and not without justice being served in her name.”

Friends of Ms. Ferrars have confirmed that she was not the type to invite strangers into her house, nor did she frequent any of the “bleeding dens” known to have cropped up around the country since the harsh laws.

“She was a good person, and believed whole-heartedly in what Lowell Tegus is doing,” said her close friend, Amanda Spirling. “We all miss Prida, and hope that she finds peace.”

The Prophet will update with news on this tragedy as it occurs.

[ol-plots-blog]

Plot Masterlist: now available

For quick access - and a way to catch up on everything that you might’ve missed - there is now a plot masterlist! HERE, you will find links to every plot posted on the OL plots sideblog, in a rough chronological order of how they happened. All posts are grouped together in their plot category - for example, all articles and paras about Greywatch are together, while all articles about the attack in Falmouth are together. Hopefully it’s clear and error free, but please message if there are any mistakes or questions about a particular plot.

[ol-plots-blog]

The grass was wet with dew underfoot as Lowell Tegus apparated lightly onto solid earth. It had been a rare moment of sun in London when he’d left, but Scotland was dismal, just as he always remembered it - grey overhead, with clouds brewing as far as the eye could see. With a cane in the palm of his right hand, Lowell took in a deep lungful of fresh air - always so much crisper out here than in the city - and started forward.

Scotland was familiar to him from his years at Hogwarts, though the country had always been there in the background. Like a forgotten land or a utopia, Lowell could remember going back to Scotland each year with an unbridled happiness that was matched by nothing else, in his teenage years. True, anything would have sufficed if it had meant getting away from his family, but he was thankful it had been Hogwarts. It wasn’t just a place to learn, but a testing ground, too - where Lowell had found himself and, at heart, who he was. Hogwarts had given him purpose and direction, and here he stood, holding the highest position in the wizarding world.

The Minister of Magic drew a second deep breath and pushed forward on, down the slight slope of green grass and across the plain. It was wide and open to the naked eye, but with a wave of Lowell’s hand, it filled as though he were a polished and well-honed key in a lock.

Greyfield.

The name was a misnomer; there was nothing particularly grey about either the institution or the field upon which it sat. What Lowell saw in it was instead his legacy; his life’s work. Greyfield was a possibility - an opportunity. It was a fresh beginning, a new page, the very first step on a much-anticipated journey. This school would be for creatures, beasts, and halfbreeds what Hogwarts was for him, and Lowell knew that that meant it had to be perfect. Greyfield would be a hallowed place of learning for those that couldn’t - and shouldn’t - be taught at Hogwarts, but it shouldn’t be Hogwarts. No; there was no replicating the school that had raised him and so many others - it would need to be something else.

The school was empty, and Lowell’s shoes echoed off the tall ceilings and vacant hallways. Everything was brand new, no expense spared - tall, open windows that let the light through; the stone was scrubbed clean beneath his shoes, and when he walked past the open-doored classrooms, they were stocked, desks at the ready, as though a class of students had vanished in their seats. Everywhere he looked, Lowell saw signs of life waiting in the wings: the plants that grew in the gardens, the fresh, off-the-print textbooks stacked, the dorm beds made and ready. Everything in Greyfield was poised, holding its breath for the exact moment when it would be delivered into the hands of those who came to learn.

Lowell made his way to the lower levels, the dungeons cool and familiar, almost inviting. Here, there was life where there should be none - already staff had begun work at Greyfield, and Lowell watched them in their labs and offices through the glass. Yes, there would be good work being done here - very good work.

By the time he shook hands with the staff already on duty, examined the laboratories and examination rooms, equipment, and supplies, and climbed back out of the dungeons, the grey had intensified overhead. His blue eyes followed the direction of the clouds’ movement, their slow, mournful march to the east - the same direction that Lowell knew Hogwarts laid. How he longed to go back, even for the small, brief visits he’d had in the years since leaving. Not a day had gone by that he had taken Hogwarts for granted, or the safe months spent within it’s walls as a boy. It felt as though his heart were being tugged by invisible strings, the ends tied to the front gates of Hogwarts castle. To go back would be bliss; to see the face of--

Lowell tore his eyes from the clouds. It did not do well to dwell on what he’d lost since Hogwarts, but instead to focus on all he’d gained. He looked to Greyfield castle and its wide, open arches - this would be someone else’s fresh start, their safe place. He may never get to return to Hogwarts for any long period of time, but he would always be welcome here - this would be his place, his seat, his court.

Hogwarts might’ve been where his dream began, but Greyfield is where it would begin to come true.

“Sir,” came a voice from behind him, and Lowell, hands clasped behind his back, turned. It was Taejin Callow, looking harried. “Sir, the reporters are here.”

“Noon already?” Lowell asked, eyebrows raised, and Taejin bobbed his head. “The weather is dismal enough you wouldn’t tell dawn from dusk. Never mind,” and he waved a hand, reorganising his thoughts. “Escort them down to the courtyard. No wanderers, Callow.”

Callow nodded again and disappeared, leaving Lowell to make his own way to the courtyard at the front of the school, where lush green grass cushioned his feet. The reporters were eager and rounded up into a small herd ushered forward by Callow. There were familiar faces in the gathering - some Daily Prophet journalists from various sections of the paper, each desperate for a first hand tour of the school. The Quibbler had also provided a journalist, their shrewd eyes taking everything in, while a few other publications - and even a white-haired witch from the WWN - had arrived. Pleased by their willingness, Lowell welcomed them.

“Greyfield, though not yet open for students or to the public, today stands ready to give you all one peek behind its stone exterior before the doors officially open. I’m proud to stand before all of you today and announce that as the Minister of Magic, I, Lowell Tegus, hereby announce Greyfield open.”

There was a smattering of applause, to which Lowell ducked his head in thanks. There was such pride in his chest it felt like a balloon inflating behind his rib cage - it threatened to start levitating him. It was a dangerous feeling, of course; one should never become complacent in their happiness and let their guard down, but Lowell wanted this - just for a moment. He shook the hands extended his way and, with the reporters on his heels, led them into the school. With Callow following at a distance, Lowell took them on the above-board, best foot forward tour of Greyfield - one that left them in no doubt about the good work being done there in weeks and months to come.

He answered their questions, gave pull quotes as easy as breathing, laughed at the jokes the journalists made. He felt radiant, alive; nothing had been this electrifying in years.

“Minister, if I may,” said a Daily Prophet reporter, catching Lowell in a brief moment between others.

“Of course, speak freely,” he said.

“You have created a very beautiful institute here,” she said, and the levitating quill and parchment began to scribble notes without agency. “May I ask what role you intend to play in the school’s day to day functioning?”

Lowell gave her a charming smile. “Other than having a hand in creating the classes, subject material, and the very castle they live in?”

She returned the smile. “Other than that, yes. Will your position be an official one here?”

“Not as such,” he hedged. “I will be here more frequently than at Hogwarts, as I am on the board of trustees, but I’m not the Headmaster, if that was what you were hinting at.”

The witch flushed, caught in her scheme. “And why not, if I may ask? I’m sure parents would feel relieved to have you at the helm.”

“Of that, I’m not sure,” he said with a smile. “But it is my duties at the Ministry which must be my first priority. I was elected to run the wizarding world, and that is where my focus lies. Greyfield is but one part of it, and I can assure you, it will be in the safest of hands.”

“Any word on who’s hands, Minister?”

They shared a smile. “All in good time,” Lowell said. “But you won’t be disappointed.”

Lunch was served in the courtyard as the weather worsened, but no one’s spirits were dampened, even when rain began to spot the material of Lowell’s suit jacket. The journalists were escorted out of the grounds by Callow, all accounted for, leaving only Lowell with the wind whistling across the empty grounds and the silent work going on beneath his feet, many levels down.

When Callow returned, he was silent, falling into step with Lowell as they took a turn around the grounds. In truth, Lowell didn’t mind Callow; he was a stickler for rules and the way of things, but loyal - Lowell knew that if he asked Callow to take his own wand and hex himself, he would. Lowell needed loyalty, now more than ever.

“This is going to be a fine place, Callow,” he said, hands behind his back again, eyes cast around the rolling hills and deep woods. The plans inside his head were like fireworks, each exploding into possibility as he looked around. There was so much left to come that Lowell could hardly bear to wait.

“Yes, Sir. You’ve worked hard.”

Lowell looked away from the trees to his friend, his soldier, his guard. “We’ve worked hard,” he corrected, and with one firm grip on Callow’s shoulder, Lowell led them on, one step after the other toward the future that stretched ever on.

[ol-plots-blog]

The first look at Minister Lowell Tegus’ new school for creatures and halfbreeds was today given to journalists from around the country. Unveiled in the Scottish countryside, Greyfield stood as an impressive and lively castle that awaits its new students eagerly.

“Greyfield marks the beginning of a new era for the wizarding world,” Minister Tegus said at the grand opening of the school. “For the first time, we have specialised classes, professors, and equipment that will help serve these young people best in their transitional state between childhood and adulthood. We will have a chance to shape them for the better, as Hogwarts does.”

The school features wide, open grounds, state of the art classrooms and supplies, and comfortable living spaces. No expense has been spared with Greyfield, and it shows - if not in the school itself, than in the Minister’s pride.

“I feel very passionate about making Greyfield work,” he said during a tour of the school. “I want this to be the fresh start that these people need in order to make their lives richer. What Hogwarts is for most, Greyfield will be for the rest.”

Opposition to the school has not died down, despite construction going ahead. The Universal Rights of Non-Humans (URN) group have spoken out against the school, calling it “a wall.”

“Greyfield seeks only to divide us further from one another than we already are,” said leader and founder, Dahlia Thompson. “The Minister believes he does us a favour by creating Greyfield, but all he’s doing is creating a fissure between our worlds where there should be none.”

URN intends to rally and form a protest against Greyfield, demonstrating on the spot where, a decade ago, so many werewolves lost their lives.

“We plan to peacefully but loudly protest this school until we can have an audience with the Minister,” said Mrs. Thompson. “From there, we will urge him to reconsider the move to separate our children - why shouldn’t they have an equal opportunity to learn together?”

Despite the opposition, Minister Tegus’ plans don’t seem to be slowing down anytime soon - Greyfield has already begun to receive acceptance letters from students, committing themselves to the school when it opens. The Minister also plans to continue to enforce the law, which would require anyone over the age of sixteen to attend, meaning that over the course of the next month, Greyfield will be the word on everyone’s lips.

[ol-plots-blog]

U.R.N | A Call to Arms

The community hall was alive with voices rising and falling over the top of one another. It was warm inside, the press of bodies and the sound of laughter filling out the room, right up to its lofty ceiling. With a table offering drinks and snacks, witches and wizards – and some muggles, though few in number – milled around in small clusters.

Dahlia Thompson moved between them, welcoming familiar faces back to the meeting, having her hand pressed and squeezed for ten minutes. Her cheeks, tight from smiling, begged for release, and it was only when she slipped away to the stage, standing behind the lectern, that she was allowed to relax.

“Can we begin?” she called, voice magically magnified to get everyone’s attention.

They moved as one toward the fold out seats, sitting in their groups and leaving gaps between each other – less a united group than a cluster of other united groups. URN had a long way to go, Dahlia thought to herself as she looked out at the people before her. Even now, a decade after the London attack, the wizarding world was still divided – even here, in a place that was supposed to be safe. She had tried her best to be the leader that held people together, but it didn’t come naturally; before this, she’d been a typist and stay at home mother, pulling odd freelance jobs to earn a bit of extra money to pay for diapers and canned food.

Now, she regularly stood before a couple hundred people and answered questions from the media almost daily.

It was no use in questioning where or how her life had turned so drastically, because everything always came back to that day in London – the peaceful protest that hadn’t ended so peacefully. Her memories of it were so clear that at night, her eyes closed and sweat beating her forehead, she swore her hands could feel the stickiness of blood or the smell of it, metallic and raw. She could never stop losing her Jonathan, night after night. The pain never had a chance to go away.

“Thank you for coming today,” Dahlia said, looking across at the scattered group of over two hundred people, mostly the leaders of smaller factions and groups. “I understand that it was last minute, and I appreciate you being here.”

A few inclined their heads; others, like Archie, were stone faced. Dahlia pushed on.

“I called this meeting to discuss what our next approach is, and to bring together ideas for what we can do next.”

URN attempted democracy, but that didn’t mean it was always successful, especially when it was impossible to ignore the fact that Dahlia reigned supreme over the group as a whole. She had the authority to shut anything down, and she had used it – refused to let bad press be connected to URN and in any way diminish the good work they’d been doing in the name of those they’d lost. It was the thought of what Jonathan would have wanted that kept her moral compass correctly aligned; it helped her to never stray from the path of justice, to never be tempted by the ideas of those with less than sincere hearts. They were in a war, but that didn’t mean they had to resort to the enemy’s tactics.

“I would like to propose a rally,” came Archie’s voice from within the crowd, and he stood up. “Greyfield has been doing nothing but pushing ahead with its agenda, and if we don’t take a stand and stop it, soon they’ll be knocking on our doors, asking for our children.”

Murmurs of agreement rose from the crowd, many nodding their heads. Dahlia’s eyes flashed to where Sammy sat, her daughter looking composed and steely-eyed. Just like her father.

“And what would this rally consist of?” Dahlia asked, looking back to Archie, whose copper-coloured hair made him stand out.

“A protest in London.” Archie looked solely back at Dahlia now. “On the site of the massacre. In their memory, we fight. For their children, for their legacy.”

The hall filled with noise, and as Dahlia watched, people began getting to their feet – assent rose, voices merging together to form a unified voice of agreement. Dahlia’s mind was stuck on the idea of going back there.

“After what happened?” she asked, frowning. “You think that wise?”

“What would you have us do, Dahlia?” Archie challenged. “Too long have we sat here, safe in our halls and homes, doing nothing. Without a hard stance and show of unity, we have nothing. We might as well be nothing.”

Dahlia frowned. “We’re not nothing because we choose a more passive and legal form of action,” she reminded him. “If we shun the rules, then we’re no better than the monsters they paint us to be. We need to work within the constraints provided if we want to win this.”

“And how has that worked so far for us?” Archie said. “We’re still exactly where we were a year ago – five years ago. We need action.”

People nod, voices rising.

“Then there are groups out there willing to accommodate you, Archie,” Dahlia said, staring him down. “Those anarchist wolves are likely recruiting. Why don’t you try there?” Frustrated, Dahlia shakes her head. “We created URN with the intention of doing things correctly. By the book – above board. Or have you all forgotten that?”

Most back down into a muttering silence, but Archie holds firm.

“Those who died that day in London were doing that, too, and look what happened to them.” He folded his arms, jaw tight. “If the rules aren’t working, we need to break them and create new ones.”

Dahlia can feel the tide of popular opinion shifting toward Archie’s cause, and her own grip on the group slipping. She knows that she had respect here, and that if she ordered a cease and desist on the rally idea, they would follow it. But looking around, she also knows that they need a win – something to boost their morale. Something to keep them fired up and directing their passion toward the right way of doing things – there’s a fine line between doing good with good intentions and doing bad with the same.

“A rally, then,” Dahlia relented. “On the site in London.”

Smiles broke out across the faces of people, though a small few are apprehensive. Sammy watched her carefully.

“Let’s reconvene tomorrow and discuss the details,” Dahlia said. “Meeting adjourned.”

They pick themselves up and immediately disintegrate into their smaller groups, already discussing the rally. Slogans, banners, supplies. But there’s something in Dahlia’s gut that twisted at the idea of going back. She’d been there, of course – a memorial had been established, and she’d lain a wreath there for Jonathan every year – but never for too long, and never with the intention of recreating the protest that had taken his life.

Her hands shook as she smoothed back the hair from her face, trying to steady herself. Dahlia knew that whoever caused that massacre in 2014 wouldn’t dare repeat the same events – wouldn’t dare to risk a second attack. That would be sloppy; too obvious. But there’s something else about it that feels off, like maybe it’s inviting trouble in a way that URN has never garnered before.

“Mum?”

Dahlia looked over to her daughter as she walked over, face a feminine replica of her father’s. Same brown eyes; same smattering of freckles across her nose. She takes her daughter into her arms, holding her tightly for a moment, wondering what she would do if she ever lost Sammy. The thought is incomprehensible – but it had been just as painful to imagine losing Jonathan, and yet it had happened.

“I don’t want you at the rally when it happens,” Dahlia said, keeping Sammy tight in her arms. “Okay?”

Sammy’s hands curled into the material of Dahlia’s shirt, and she nodded into her mother’s shoulder. “Okay.”

The hall emptied, leaving silence in its wake. And where excitement lingered in the hearts of the other members of URN, Dahlia only felt the apprehension that comes with the calm before a storm.

Lightning might strike twice in the same place after all.

[ol-plots-blog]

WEREWOLF ATTACKS RISE: CORNWALL HIT AGAIN

Cornwall, England was this morning the subject of another werewolf attack, this time in Portreath, a small fishing village. Devastated townsfolk woke to find the centre of their town covered in blood with the bodies of several noteable families “on display.” The Ministry were quick to react and quickly obliviated muggles who had stumbled upon the scene, as well as secured the area for further investigation. The infamous Mark of the Werewolf is said to have been etched into many surfaces at the scene.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” said Jasmine Dunleary, a witch who has lived in Portreath all her life. “I didn’t know that anything like that was possible. To see the way the people had been killed... I hope I never see anything like it gain.”

Ms. Dunleary was one of the first witches on the scene in Portreath after two muggle men raised the alarm. Sensing that something was wrong, Ms. Dunleary followed the men to the Millennium Community Hall to find what she described as “a bloodbath.”

“The entire parking lot and footpath had been painted with blood,” she said, recounting the scene that she uncovered. “And on the fence, which were tipped with wrought iron spikes, there were bodies. People.” 

The Ministry has so far kept a tight lid on the identities of the victims in this attack, but Ms. Dunleary was one of the first to look for survivors and was able to identify many of them. Portreath, with only a two thousand strong population, is a tight-knit community, especially among its wizarding folk.

“I saw the entire Jamison family,” Ms. Dunleary said. “Glenda and Michael, and their two small children, Duncan and Pria. They were five and three. The four of them were strung up together.”

Among the other victims that Ms. Dunleary saw were members of the Birchstock family, Dressen family, and VIssic family.  

“They were my friends,” she said. “Just last week we’d had a meeting between the wizarding families in Portreath to look into organising a fundraising event for a boy who’d contracted dragonpox in Redruth. I simply can’t believe that something like this has happened.���

Ms. Dunleary’s shock has been echoed among other members of the community, who described the victims as “good people” with “upstanding morals.”

“Michael Jamison was a good man,” said a neighbour. “He and his family deserved better than this.”

At the moment, details and backgrounds on the victims remain shrouded in mystery, as does evidence for those responsible. The Mark of the Werewolf, as it has been dubbed by the general public, hints at the possibility of it being the work of rebel, guerilla werewolf extremists - as does the general destruction and brutality of the attacks. Much like the attack in Falmouth, Cornwall, this attack was unprovoked and brutal in its execution. The Quibbler won’t stop digging until it uncovers more detail on why this occurred, and who might be next.

[ol-plots-blog]

The Universal Rights for Non-Humans Group (URN) will today protest Minister Lowell Tegus’ decision to establish a segregated school for the wizarding world’s creature and half-breed population.

“We have campaigned for over ten years to have the Ministry acknowledge the importance of education for the people in our world,” said URN founder, Dahlia Thompson. “But we never imagined that it would take the form of a prison for our children.”

Ms. Thompson’s words came on the back of Minister Tegus’ reforms on education that saw the announcement of Greyfield last week. 

“Getting the young people of our world prepared for adulthood is a rite of passage that Hogwarts has afforded them for centuries,” said Ms. Thompson. “Why should their ancestry change that? Hogwarts is a place for everyone.”

URN, founded by Ms. Thompson after the death of her husband during the London massacre in 2014, has fought hard to have its ideas heard by the Ministry. Though the road has been long, Ms. Thompson says that she won’t be discouraged - not even by Greyfield.

“It’s an attempt to simply collect the children who don’t fit nicely into one category and silence them,” she said. “The Ministry will round up our kids and shove them in cell blocks, exactly like they’ve done to our friends and family in Greywatch.”

Minister of Magic Lowell Tegus was unavailable for comment, but instead reiterated through a statement to the press that the Ministry would not be deterred from their plans.

“We have been planning Greyfield for some time and believe that it is not only  a vital step for the wizarding world, but a beneficial one. Non-humans and half-breeds will have a safe and secure place to learn skills and valuable lessons without the risk of harming either themselves or anyone else,” he said in the statement. “There will always be naysayers to progress, but we must not let that deter us from what must be done.”

Greyfield is set to open next month.

[ol-plots-blog]

INSIDE GREYFIELD: WHAT WE KNOW SO FAR

The announcement of Greyfield, a school for the supernatural creatures of the wizarding world who possess some degree of human intelligence or interbreeding, threw many for a loop. Despite the arguments coming from pro-equality supporters which demanded education for those that had been excluded from Hogwarts, the announcement of Greyfield was unexpected and, in many cases unwanted.

Minister Lowell Tegus’ school, set to be open in only a few short weeks, will provide education for people of all magical ability - including those without magic. The Quibbler has obtained some specs of Greyfield’s incoming student body that might shed some light on the school and what we can expect.

Students between the ages of sixteen and thirty will be enrolled, with no prior education necessary. From The Quibbler’s understanding, this will mean that a werewolf aged twenty-nine will be required to enroll at Greyfield, while a werewolf aged fifteen will not. 

Students with no magical ability but of beastial origins are admitted. Given that there is magic curriculum, those with no magical ability - or, as they would be called by those at Hogwarts, Squibs - are not exempt like they would at Hogwarts.

Half-breed students will be admitted on a “case by case” basis. Administrative staff of Greyfield have stipulated that there is a spectrum on which half-breeds will be judged. Those with more magical leaning and a less beastial nature will go to Hogwarts, while those with a more beastial nature and/or less magic will go to Greyfield.

The increased age range for the school has been put down to “the complex nature of the beasts themselves and how early or young they present.” 

The curriculum itself, as well as teaching staff, school location, daily running of the institution, and general rules have been withheld as of the time of writing. 

“We understand that some are skeptical about Greyfield,” said Elise Arundel, Vice Minister of Magic who today addressed the media. “But we, as the government elected for our world, have listened to the people and addressed their needs and concerns. Greyfield is a solution to many of those concerns.”

When pressed about the issue of the school being mandatory, Vice Minister Arundel drew a comparison to the mandatory nature of Hogwarts.

“While an invitation to Hogwarts may be rejected, it is rare and ill-advised, due to the uncertain and often dangerous ramifications that come with not addressing magic in a proper manner,” she said. “From the extensive research we’ve done, the same can be said for the enhanced young people in our world. They need not only to be educated in the ways of our world like those at Hogwarts, but they also need resources and teaching that Hogwarts can’t provide, such as control over their own abilities. Hogwarts is not equipped to deal with such persons.”

The ways of old - where knowledge for creatures such as vampires and werewolves was handed down through communities, elders, and mentors - are dying out in our rapidly changing world. Now more than ever, our society has evolved due to the laws of the Ministry so much so that many communities and relationships are fractured by Greywatch, Azkaban, and travel/feeding restrictions. Can Greyfield fix those bonds?

“We don’t aim to repair what these communities have lost,” explained the Vice Minister. “We aim to establish a way of life and instill in these young people a set of skills that will radically alter both their own lives, and their children’s in the future. We hope that through education, these people will leave Greyfield not only with more knowledge of who they are and their place in the wizarding world, but how we can work together to make it even better. This aim is no different to the goal for our students at Hogwarts.”

Though The Quibbler has its doubts, we are reserving judgment until more information comes to light. Could this be a beneficial addition to the wizarding world? Definitely, but nothing good comes without a price.

[ol-plots-blog]

The house was restless with energy, and Lysander felt drained from trying to take it all in.

“They’ll want to hear from you,” Henry said, to his right. His hair was mussed and sticking out at odd angles in a very un-Henry-like manner that softened Lysander a little. “Lys?”

“I heard you.”

Henry looked at him, evaluating. “Are you alright?”

The question was rhetorical, given everything. Henry had known Lysander longer than almost anyone, and probably the best. Henry was the first person that Lysander had truly allowed into his confidence after everything that had happened with his family. Henry had taught him what it meant to have a brother, a friend, a lover. If it weren’t for Henry throughout Lysander’s years at Hogwarts, he wasn’t sure where he would’ve ended up – perhaps warming a cell in Greywatch.

“I’m peachy,” Lysander replied, sarcasm rolling off him in waves as he reached for his near-empty glass. “It’s just more good news on top of other good news. What isn’t there to love?”

The smile from Henry was familiar; warm. “We could burn the Prophet to the ground if you’re tired of reading the news,” he suggested.

Henry’s brand of sarcasm, to the untrained ear, was serious suggestion layered with careful contemplation. He said things in such a tone that most took him at face value. Lysander, who had grown up with Henry, knew better.

“Perhaps arson isn’t needed. What better way to get rid of the news than to control it?” he returned with a quirked, suggestive brow.

“Anything you have in mind?”

“We could kidnap a few journalists,” Lysander said, smiling. “Polyjuice them. Use a good, old fashioned Imperius. Outright murder wouldn’t be off the cards – they’d need to find a replacement at some point.”

Henry rolled his eyes, patient in the way he was humouring Lysander despite everything. “And which of us could volunteer ourselves for the task? Skylar?”

The two of them shared a laugh at the image of the big, blonde-haired man squeezing behind a desk.

“I’d trust you with the task,” Lysander said, taking the final sip of his whiskey and watching Henry over the rim. “You’d write great news.”

Something behind Henry’s eyes shifted, and he came around the desk to perch on the corner, levering the glass out of Lysander’s hand. “Is this your way of saying you want me to go?”

The very idea – the very notion of being so far from Henry for so long – rebelled inside of Lysander; a flash of anger, territorial and primal.

“No,” he snapped, looking up at the other man. “You’re staying.”

“Then what are you trying to say, Lys?” Henry said, shifting so that he was looking at Lysander with a tilted head.

Lysander didn’t know what he was trying to say, and he let out a groan, tipping his head back and scrubbing a hand over his face. “I’m fucking wasted, Hen.”

He laughed. “I thought that was your general state of being.” Lysander opened one eye to see Henry standing up. “Come on,” he urged, offering a hand to Lysander. “Get up and do your piece then go lie down.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Yes, it is,” Henry argued. “Come on.”

Lysander groaned.

“Don’t be a child.”

Lysander groaned louder.

“If only they could see you now,” laughed Henry, and he leaned down to pull Lysander up onto his feet, worn boots scuffing the floor as he got his bearings and took his own weight.

Vision swimming, Lysander squinted through slits to see two, then three, than back to a singular version of Henry. He clapped his friend on the shoulder. “Always got my back,” Lysander said, and he leaned forward to cup Henry’s face with one hand, stubble rough on his fingertips.

“Of course,” Henry said gracefully, looking at Lysander’s eyes, then to his mouth, then back up again. Everything about him was methodical, right down to his lust. Among the chaos of so much unpredictability, Lysander was glad to always have Henry.

Leaning forward, just for a moment, Lysander pressed his lips to Henry’s dry ones, before pulling back.

“Go,” Henry said quietly, but making no move to encourage Lysander further.

In the end, it was Lysander who detached himself from Henry and, stumbling a little, made his way out of the study and into the living room, where most of the group had gathered. The team were a mismatched group that Lysander had cobbled together, but each and every one of them were people who he knew inside and out. He would trust his life to them, and they to him. There was no room for secrets among them, and as Lysander stood in the doorway looking at them, he knew that he couldn’t hide himself now.

They fell silent when he walked into the room, the threadbare rug shifting under Lysander’s boots.

“We have to acknowledge that we were blindsided by this,” Lysander started, looking at Knox. Viola. “I was blindsided.”

“You couldn’t have known—“

Lysander cut Lexie off. “I should’ve.” He straightened himself a little. “And because I didn’t, we’re on the back foot. Again.”

No one said anything, and Lysander let the moment hang, chastising himself before rallying.

“I’m going to do better,” Lysander said. “We’re going to work this Greyfield shit out.”

“And you think—what? That we can stop it from happening?” Demetria said, her brows knitted. She wasn’t happy with him. “Because it’s a bit late in the game to be tearing down an entire school, Lysander.”

“We’re past that now,” Lysander admitted. “We’re going to have to do damage control.”

There was some muttering – Skylar exchanged a heated glance with Demetria. Knox received a squeeze to the shoulder from Lexie. Viola’s stare was hopeful and unwavering on Lysander.

“Will one of you just fucking speak?” he snapped, throwing himself into the armchair, head spinning.

It was June – quiet, sitting on her own, that spoke. “It’s just—between Hogwarts and everything else, how are we supposed to cover Greyfield too?” she said, voice solid and steady. She was the lighthouse in the storm, and Lysander let her guide the rest of them through the rough waters, glad that she had joined. “We’re already spread so thin, Lys.”

Lysander didn’t have an answer at hand, and sat there, glancing from June’s worry-pinched face to the others, but it was a hand on his shoulder that the answering voice belonged to.

“We’ll find a way,” said Henry, and everyone seemed to relax. “We have a few allies up north, and if we call in a few extra favours, we can make up for lost time on the Greyfield situation.” He squeezed Lysander’s shoulder. “We’re playing a losing hand, but that doesn’t mean we can’t take out a few pawns.”

“Mixing metaphors again, Hen,” Lysander mumbled, but he smiled up at the other man. “But he’s right. We’ll rally – it’s what we do.”

When Lysander had received a nod of affirmation from everyone – all confirming that they were still in this, no matter what – Lysander stood up.

“Then get the fuck to sleep so we can start this tomorrow. Lights out in ten.” Lysander cast one last glance around the room – everyone looking slightly more relieved at everything getting back to normal – before he returned to his study, flopping on the couch. “Henry, can you—“

“Already there,” came the annoyed but fond grumble of Henry as he poured Lysander another glass, the tumbler and ice rattling before something cool was pressed into Lysander’s waiting, outstretched hand. “Sit up and drink it.”

Lysander made a negative sound and only lifted his head up enough to take a sip before lying back down.

“This is such a fucking mess,” Lysander groaned, pressing the cool side of the glass to his temple.

“Getting wasted isn’t going to help.”

Lysander snorted. “Can’t make things much worse.” He opened his eyes and rolled his head to look at Henry, who was sitting on the coffee table, long legs bent double. “How can Lowell do so much? Isn’t he tired of this?”

They both knew the answer, and Lysander looked away, up to the ceiling.

“It’s starting to look inevitable,” Lysander said, quieter.

“Don’t say that.”

“Why not?” Lysander snapped, square tense. “It’s the truth. It’s what I’m going to have to do, eventually. Whether I like it or not.”

Henry eased the glass out of Lysander’s hand. “We’ll find another way.”

“And if there isn’t one?”

Lysander turned to watch Henry drain the glass with a wince, placing it on the table.

“Then we’ll make our own.” Henry placed a hand on Lysander’s arm before standing up. “Go to sleep, Lys. We’ll start fresh tomorrow.”

Lysander watched him go – watched the wooden door close behind him, and was left with the ringing, dull silence of the study.

The only problem with starting fresh tomorrow was that Lysander had no idea where to begin.

[ol-plots-blog]

GREYFIELD TO BEGIN ACCEPTING STUDENTS 

The doors to Minister Tegus’ much-awaited school for half-breeds and full-blooded creatures will finally be opening its doors after much planning, building, and safety checks, says the Minister. 

“Greyfield was designed to meet the needs and demands of our changing wizarding world,” Minister Lowell Tegus said yesterday. “Teenagers and young adults who have been born as lycanthropes can now receive a quality education. We also have a place for many other species and mixed-breed individuals, which will be assessed on a case by case basis by school administration.”

The school, based in an undisclosed location, has been revealed to offer young people a chance to learn skills that they would have otherwise been denied.

“While magic is not part of the curriculum at Greyfield, we will educate individuals who have been born with some degree of magical ability to ensure that they can use it to the best of their skill level,” said the Minister. “All students will, however, be taught wizarding and muggle history, practical application of plants and herbs for potions, as well as number of adapted courses from Hogwarts.”

Greyfield is said to give teenagers and young adults “invaluable skills” that will help to educate, reform, and integrate these individuals into society upon their graduation. 

“Much like Hogwarts, Greyfield will be mandatory for all individuals in the United Kingdom and Ireland not already enrolled at a magical institution and are of enhanced origins,” said the Minister. “With a state of the art school built and qualified professors on hand, Greyfield is ready to open its doors and accept students.”

The Minister explained that all children and young adults between the ages of fourteen and thirty will be invited to Greyfield, with enrollment set as mandatory. The Ministry will be checking names against their register to ensure that individuals have brought forth their family members, while aurors will be collecting students where necessary.

“This school will change the way our world works for the better,” said the Minister. “We will educate the young generation who are struggling to deal with their own conditions and give them a safe place to do it. I have always been, and shall remain committed, to the education of our word’s young people.”

Greyfield is expected to begin teaching next month, with student enrollment beginning next week.

[ol-plots-blog]

(PART ONE)

Cillian Fitzpatrick had been raised by fire and blood and pain, but nothing had prepared him for the last month. Nothing in his years of Turns and fights and missions to the mainland had given him the required knowledge and fortitude to withstand what he had gone through. The thought of home – of the fields and forests of Ossory – filled Cillian with such a sharp, stinging sense of longing that he felt as though he were suffocating with it. The smell of mown grass that clung to an auror’s shoe made him almost physically sick that Cillian had to shut off his heightened werewolf senses to keep from losing himself completely.

Even though the Minister had stamped Cillian’s transferral to Greywatch, the actual move took some days. It went like this:

Cillian was fed and hosed down like the animal he was. He was forced into a cage, smaller and barely big enough for him to stand up in. It was sealed – completely black, inside and out. And slowly, one by one, spells were cast that shut off his senses. He couldn’t see, he couldn’t hear beyond his own ragged breathing, couldn’t smell the sterile lab or stale cigarettes of the aurors. And when it was just Cillian in a black box, alone with his own self, that’s when the transition from the laboratory to Greywatch begun.

He could only assume he was heavily guarded – a whole troupe of aurors escorting him like he was precious cargo, their wands drawn. It gave him some sense of amusement to imagine their racing hearts at the thought of what was inside the cage they levitated – he wondered at how many longed to peek behind the black veil and see a glint of fang or claw. But they had been trained well: no one disturbed his prison, and time slipped. It might’ve been days or weeks that he was in that dark cage, but Cillian guessed at two. Two days of nothing but the sound of his own heartbeat in his ears and eyes dotting over with sparks of colour.

And then the world flooded back all at once.

The first of his senses to return was smell: animal, human, the sea.

Sound came next, his ears pricking at every sound from footstep to voice to the breathing all around him.

And when lastly his vision was allowed to return, Cillian winced. Despite how dark the room was, the light was more than what he’d had for days, and he had to sit for a moment with his eyes screwed shut, trying to sort through the rest of his senses, taking them all in one by one.

The most interesting part was that he wasn’t alone. He could hear multiple heart beats: resting, some agitated, others excited. He could smell the skin of humans and anima alike; the woodsy, burnt-ember smell of another wolf. They weren’t familiar, not exactly, but the concept was – because these were his people.

Cillian’s eyes opened to find that he had adjusted to the dim lighting better than the first attempt. He could see now that he had been moved to a much larger cell, a few metres square, which had been placed in a long hallway dotted with other cages. His neighbour was a man dressed in a grey jumpsuit, hair grown long and shaggy over his shoulders – and he was staring at Cillian with intent.

His mouth moved, but Cillian couldn’t hear a thing. He shook his head at the man.

The man pointed at his mouth, and with exaggerated slowness, moved it in the shape of words.

Read my lips, said the man, and Cillian’s eyes darted up to his. He looked feverish with excitement. Spells stop us from speaking.

Cillian nodded in understanding. Standing on four paws took effort – he hadn’t been able to do much more than shift from side to side in the confines of his travel cage, but he had been generously allowed a much bigger home here. Food, water, clothing, and bedding had been provided on one side of the cell, while a sink and toilet were placed on the other. Privacy, it seemed, was out of the option. Cillian looked back to the man.

You can Turn back, he mouthed. They don’t care.

He doubted that very much, but a quick glance around the hallway and the available cages told Cillian that the man was right – all the other prisoners had shifted to their human states, all wearing the same jumpsuits. In Cillian’s section, there were only males.

The Turn was harder this time. Never had Cillian stayed in his wolf form for so long, and as he grappled within himself to find the lock, he wondered what would happen if he simply couldn’t. If there was just something that had been lost during all these weeks that he’d spent living and sleeping as a werewolf – some crucial part of his humanity that had died off without use.  But when Cillian’s mind closed around the key, he made quick work of it, driving it home and Turning back.

Skin replaced fur, blunt teeth replaced fangs. It was incredible how weak and dumbed down the human body was after experiencing the world as a werewolf – and how fragile. A chill seeped into him immediately, and Cillian struggled his naked body into the jumpsuit and slippers left for him before adding the blanket around his shoulders. The loss of his thick fur coat was definitely a con, but he felt better – like a load had been eased that he didn’t know he’d been carrying.

The man in the next cell was waving at him, trying to get his attention. Cillian watched.

He mimed pointing at himself. My name is, but Cillian couldn’t understand the name. Kyle? Chris? Kieran? He nodded as though he’d gotten it. He mentally named his neighbour Chris.

Cillian pointed at himself and tried to say his name as clearly as possible. The ‘Cillian’ part didn’t stick, but ‘Fitzpatrick’ made an impression, because Chris wrapped his hands around the bars and leaned forward, eyes wide.

Really?

Nodding, Cillian ate a little of the food that had been left. It was boiled rice with some limp looking vegetables that he dutifully ate as well, knowing that he needed protein and strength if he was going to fulfil the task that Fionn had set him.

I heard you were coming, Chris said. We all have.

That caught Cillian’s attention, and he swallowed thickly. “How?” he asked, frowning, pulling the blanket tighter across his shoulders.

Chris just shook his head, as though answering that were beyond his scope of communicating. Help? Chris asked. You help?

The pure desperation in the other man’s face told Cillian all he needed to know – these people couldn’t last much longer in here. There was no knowing how long it had been for some of them; how long it had been since the sun touched their skin or the grass was beneath their feet. Cillian thought of full moons spent here, turning in the confines of their cages without an alpha or any semblance of a pack around them. He felt angry, sorry, sad – he felt the burning within him start back up, dormant from days spent locked away, but it was a familiar fire. It was that of the alpha when his people needed him, and Cillian knew that this why was he had been sent here.

“Yes,” he said, nodding at Chris. “I will help.”

[ol-plots-blog]

ON WAR AND ITS SANCTIONS

In our last report, we correctly identified Ireland as the location for the rebel werewolf group where suspect number one, Cillian Fitzpatrick, hails from. At the Quibbler, we want to see justice served, and if Fitzpatrick is indeed responsible for Septima Vector’s death, then he deserves a long stint in prison, no one would argue with that.

But at what cost do we find out this information? At what cost are aurors the wielders of magic and might, allowed to take the law unto themselves and get these answers? 

The truth might be more difficult to swallow than coming up with a response to these queries. Aurors under the leadership of Minister Tegus have, according to some reports filtering out of the Ministry, been using extreme methods to achieve their ends. In war, what is justified? What is right or wrong when done in the name of a ‘good’ cause? Does one go so far as to sanction the use of torture to achieve their ends if it means saving the lives of thousands? Is murdering one person justified if it means saving countless more? We must ask these questions as they become relevant in the interrogation of Cillian Fitzpatrick.

Arrested over a week ago, Fitzpatrick has reportedly not been held at the cells in the Ministry where ordinary prisoners are kept. After the news report from the Daily Prophet earlier today, one might suspect the reason for this is due to Fitzpatrick’s reluctance to return to a human form and instead remaining in a werewolf state. A simple precaution on the Ministry’s part, or a careful tactic to secure unbridled and unrestricted access to the prisoner? If we give the Ministry the benefit of the doubt and agree that keeping Fitzpatrick off site is a safer option due to his lycanthropic state, many other questions about the lack of transparency about his incarceration are raised.

Where is he being kept? How is he being held - what restrains him in this animalistic state? Is he eating and being given access to fresh water, air, and sunlight? Has he made any demands or been given the option of legal representation? The Quibbler believes that there’s every possibility that Fitzpatrick might be responsible for Septima Vector’s death - given his extensive record that the Ministry made public - but does that nullify his rights? And what of the methods being used upon him to extract crucial information - are these justified if the Ministry can save others from the same fate Vector suffered? If you answer yes, how do you live with the idea of torture? And if you answer no, how do you live with the idea of scores more dying for one man’s stubbornness? 

Easy answers are not to be found in the case of Cillian Fitzpatrick. We have not enough details to explore further his treatment or professed innocence/guilt. Instead we offer a musing on the allowances in morality that war gives us, and whether we should be allowed such things. Time will tell the fate of Fitzpatrick and whether his incarceration will lead to a decrease in attacks from the werewolves - a roll of the dice that all, including the Ministry, are holding their breath for.