#nox.plotdrop017

[noxtms]

MUGGLE METEOROLOGISTS MIGHT HAVE PREDICTED A LATE NIGHT DROP IN TEMPERATURE ACROSS THE COUNTRY, but nothing could have prepared the tiny population of carsington for the hopeless chill that descended on them in the earliest hours of the morning. most were, in a sense, lucky ; the ones who turned in a few hours before would shiver in their beds and find their dreams take a more sinister turn, but if they did manage to shake themselves awake, it wouldn't take long for sleep to reclaim them. it was the muggles awake past what was considered reasonable who would be most affected by what they couldn't see. it was these who would pull their dressing gowns closer when their breath came out in little clouds / who would take the chance to peek outside their curtains and watch the fog rolling in, see the unexpected frost that formed on the grass in their well tended gardens / who would find themselves preoccupied by thoughts of devastation that had no place in the comfort and the safety of their homes. in the morning, it would be an easily forgotten, freak weather incident that brought with it a village wide depression. for now… 

well, the dementors paid them all very little mind. they were only present to provide a cover to the masked and heavily robed figures that apparated into the town square, one by one - an added security measure, nothing more and nothing else, stationed along the path that these chosen death eaters took through the sleepy village. they did not turn their heads to watch them, as they went, but their presence led them all the way to the abandoned, stately home where their burning rings had told them they were to meet. 

floorboards creak underfoot as they make their way to the highest floor and a dreary attic space that was draped with dusty velvets and lit by dozens of taper candles, complete with the antique table and elegant backed chairs that they have come to know so well over their years of service. the location might have changed from meeting to meeting, over the years, but it is a familiar scene, save for the unexpected reappearance of an unmasked figure who stands loftily behind her throne, white knuckle gripping the back of it. her right hand man, rodolphus, returned to his place seated at her side. 

it's been two years since bellatrix deigned to appear at these meetings in person, but in all of that time, her presence has been felt as a suffocating weight, regardless. rodolphus has been her most trusted set of eyes and ears through it all, an ever willing mouthpiece putting voice to every thought and every instruction she's ever issued : a priest through which the lord's will is spoken. this arrangement has always been enough, until now. 

"it seems that in my absence," long documented, never discussed. her voice is clear as a bell, "some among you have dared to exaggerate your own importance."

nine individuals, their faces hidden from one another by the silver masks that mark them death eaters - not just any, but inner - exchange nervous glances from where they sit around the table. bellatrix's stormy gaze levels with the tenth, the one stood opposite her, face likewise hidden. her lip curls.

"sit," she tells him, a warning shot.

the room holds its breath, though the problem, perhaps, is that he doesn't.

"i am not a dog for you to call to heel, bellatrix," he replies, all silk.

and then, before their lady can say another word, antonin karkaroff commits the most cardinal of sins ; raising his hand to his face and pulling from it the mask that hid his features from view. he stands taller without it. shoulders back. chin held high. he is unafraid. his companions, the seated inner circle handpicked for their years of devoted service and unwavering loyalty, look down.

"if you were, we'd have already taken you out back," rodolphus murmurs dangerously from where he lounges, the pallid hand that his wife puts on his shoulder in that moment stopping him from saying any more. "you forget yourself, antonin," one of the mystery figures whispers like a prayer, a truth that goes ignored.

"my wolves were not for you to command," straight to the meat of it, she goes, her gaze unwavering. "and neither are my soldiers. you do not tell my death eaters where to go, what to do, when to die-"

"fenrir greyback was a rabid beast," he interjects, matter of fact. it isn't hearsay. they all knew it. "a loose cannon. untameable. he is no loss-"

"you had no right! you-" she snaps, but he doesn't stop there.

"i had every right. if i forget myself, then so do you. for two years, you have left rodolphus to oversee a crumbling regime while i, the minister of magic, have done more for introducing our best interests to the community and exerting control than you have since you took over. all you've done is chase meaningless relics and put your trust in a children's fairytale-"

"you insolent cunt-" rodolphus spits. he might've said more - might've risen from his chair, even - if bellatrix had not kept tight hold upon his shoulder while antonin charged ahead. 

"after the dark lord fell, you promised us power and yet, i am the one who's gotten the closest to delivering it. i'm a hero. i have the wizengamot eating out of the palm of my hand, and all i had to do was banish a few dementors with the flick of my wrist and serve them greyback's head on a platter. neither of which were difficult."

bellatrix, to her credit, remains a stoic. rodolphus' rage is an obvious thing. barely contained. he holds the edge of the table for good measure, but a muscle twitches in his jaw, fire reflected in his eyes. even the masked circle, a rapt audience, fidget in their chairs. they shift their weight uneasily and look between them both from beneath their eyelashes, unable to tear their gaze away. she, in sharp contrast, is unreadable. one hand remains visible, where it lays. the other - hidden by the back of her chair - wraps tightly around her wand.

the tense silence that follows his words stretches for so long that it becomes downright uncomfortable. and then, with an admirable simplicity, antonin speaks his truth into the world - long felt, never discussed. "you're done, bellatrix. we have no need of you, anymore."

she lifts her chin - an almost imperceptible movement, an almost betrayal of the raging storm inside. she works her jaw for one, long moment, and her voice is ice when she replies, holding tight to the illusion of her power, here : "with all due respect, you do nothing without my say." 

antonin, unmoved, continues to speak plain : "since when?" 

if it were not for rodolphus and one of the figures sat at antonin's side moving in the same instant that she did, antonin karkaroff's coup would have ended there with her fingernails at his throat. bellatrix, her expression finally splintering into an unfathomable rage, is little more than a blur when she lunges, her wand forgotten. her husband has to be faster and is hard pressed to pull her back, forced to wrap his entire arm around her waist to tear her from her path. the other figure, hidden behind their mask, is ultimately unneeded in a protective capacity but stands in front of antonin anyway… though he is unaffected by her outburst. the others, most of who jumped / pushed their chairs back / even went so far as to stand, also, and move a few steps away, are unsure what to do. 

the most surprising thing, of course, wasn't the explosion of her anger. it wasn't the need for intervention or the way that the feral fight goes out of her body the moment that both of her feet are put back on the ground. it's not that she gives up without her taste of blood, though when antonin's lips quirk upwards in a quietly satisfied smirk, she would be forgiven for going for seconds.

it's just how the ragged silence that falls over the room is broken, as bellatrix begins to laugh.

"you'll see," she says around a chuckle, dark eyes manic, "oh, you'll all see." 

it's how she keeps laughing until it leaves her system, encircled by her husbands arms. 

it's how her sobered declaration of, "and it'll be much too late, when you do," hangs in the air around them.

and it's, how despite everything, when rodolphus leads her towards the door - a stalwart protector recognising when best to fight and when better to live to fight another day - and a masked figure steps protectively in front of antonin again, she manages a smile for him. their protection is unneeded. she leans in as she passes by, teeth bared, voice low, but her words are for him alone.

"don't get too comfortable. minister."