[slaughter hall] everybody gets a shot [eris]

When he’d left for Australia (for Germany, for Italy, for Bulgaria, for Switzerland) he’d been smart enough not to waste his time on things he wouldn’t need; he’d only brought what he could fit in his hideous old trunk. Clothes and cigarettes and money, mostly. (He’d debated, for a bit, about his mask; in the end he’d taken it, and his father’s, as a spare. The Ministry would just have destroyed them.)

And, for four years, he hadn’t really gotten anything more. He’d spent the money, smoked the cigarettes, but he’d made and bought more. He’d bought a few short-sleeved shirts in Australia because it’d been absolutely disgusting there. He’d kept the newspapers from Germany and Bulgaria just for the headlines, that Britain was celebrating the fall of the Dark Lord, for no damn reason. He couldn’t read German or Bulgarian. All he could do was glower at Dumbledore’s little army and the Order of Phoenix, standing grimly in line at the rubble of Hogwarts— waste of his damn time, anyway. They’d been rolled into the corner of the trunk for years; maybe they were faded now. He didn’t care to check.

At least he wasn’t going to come off like a hypocrite to Rosier, he thought bitterly, as he packed his laundry up. Ranting about the Death Eaters who’d gotten to hide in their castles after the war, being tended to by their families, protected by their money— he’d look a complete fool if he turned up with riches galore. She already knew, of course, where he’d been shacking up— that was the only reason she’d extended the invitation.

This was a non-smoking room— in a Muggle establishment, so he’d set off their stupid electricity alarm at first, gotten fined a hundred Muggle pounds— which he hadn’t had— and Confunded the manager and sent him back away. Then he’d covered up the alarm. He’d be fined when he left too; he couldn’t remember the Charm to freshen a room and didn’t care. He’d be long gone by the time it was a problem.

That was what Rosier could find laughable, if nothing else— Death Eater reduced to a Muggles’ inn. But a Death Eater among the Aurors, that was about as unforgivable, wasn’t it? And, of course, his one trunk was laughable too— as he lugged his trunk up, gripped it firmly enough that he knew it’d come with him when he Apparated, and flicked his wand surreptitiously to undo the deadbolt, to knock the “Do Not Disturb” sign off the door handle, Avery imagined briefly what Mulciber or Yaxley would have said if they could see him.

Lots, probably.

He Apparated straight to her doorstep, dropped his trunk— careful not to let it fall onto his foot— and knocked twice, loudly as he dared. (Did she have an elf? She must, right? This was the sort of house that needed an elf.) The waiting, that was unbearable— he hoped she would share her alcohol. (She had some, right?)

This was probably a terrible idea, but then she’d been having a run of those lately, hadn’t she? She’d come to realise, following the evening at the O Sioda Manor, that she could no longer rely on anyone but herself. She’d known this all along, really, but it was clearer to her now than it ever had been before. There was, to her knowledge thus far, only one other person who had been in that room that she trusted – and she trusted him because of how far back their histories entwined. And because she knew he was terrified of her. He wasn’t a threat, she was. A much more palatable arrangement than the one she’d had with Gaius (not that she cared to compare them, in any way, thank you).

Eris couldn’t bring herself to leave Slaughter Hall, even if it felt ridiculous to have such a large house to herself; it wasn’t a sprawling estate like that which some of the true upper echelons of pureblood society called home, but it certainly was not pokey – any house that had multiple sitting rooms or a dining room able to fit twenty or so people was nothing less than a manor. The Rosier home, however, was in a sad state; Marcella Rosier had died only a couple of months ago, but she had been bedridden long before that – her refusal to go to St. Mungo’s (“where they let the mudbloods roam free”) had been the final nail in the coffin, quite literally. Eris hadn’t really mourned. She hadn’t been close to her mother – that tended to happen when one lived a double life and cut all ties with their family.

And so Slaughter Hall had become damp, and mould-ridden, and draughty. Eris had instructed their solitary elf to maintain the rooms they actually used and to not worry about the rest – they hadn’t the money to furnish the surplus rooms, let alone keep them clean and habitable. With Avery coming Eris had actually opened doors that hadn’t been opened in years – she wasn’t picking him the best room, but she was going to let him have the one with the least musty smell. Not out of any affection for him, mind you, but because she was proud and that was the only reason she hadn’t already sold the place. The reason she had kept up – publicly – the appearance of being a member of a still-grand family, with her well-made robes and fine taste in dining establishments.

The blonde witch ran her fingertip around the rim of her wine glass as she stared into the fireplace, the flames dancing in the reflection of her glazed-over eyes. What a life – how different would it have been, had she made any other decision than the one she had? How different could it still be?

Through the cavernous shell of the manor her ears picked up the sound of knocking on the door. Nobody knocked, nobody ever visited, so it could only be him. “Spawler!” Eris cried out in a harsh tone, and as she rose to her feet she saw the blurry shape scutter past the doorway towards the entrance to let her guest in. By the time she’d made her way to the door, the house elf had finally wrenched it open. She smoothed the front of her black gown and met his eyes. There was no smile, nor any other greeting – her expression was impassive. “Avery. Come in,”

“Take his things,” she said quietly to the elf, in a softer tone than might have been expected. “Follow me,” she spoke to Avery again now and led him to the sitting room – or, rather, the only one she used – her heels clacking on the hard wood floors. It wasn’t late, but it was already dark out thanks to the weather. Thick curtains covered every window and a fire was roaring in the grate. There were spaces on the walls were paintings had obviously once hung. The Auror gestured at the sofa opposite as she took her own seat in an emerald green winged armchair. “If I were feeling polite I would ask how you’ve been since Ireland, but I really don’t care.”

“For Merln’s sake relax, would you?” she snapped quietly, “If I was going to kill you I wouldn’t bring you here to do it.” She couldn’t really blame him for being on edge, but it was high time he grew a pair. She sighed and picked up the bottle of wine she’d been enjoying by herself (a cheap shiraz, he surely wouldn’t know any different), poured some into her own glass before placing it on the low table between them, pushing it towards him. “Spawler’s made up a room for you, you’re welcome to… decorate or clean it if it isn’t to your liking. Get some muggle ornaments if it will help you feel more at home.”

She was used to at least a little bit of small talk at the Ministry before getting to the crux of a conversation, but she didn’t feel it was entirely necessary with Avery. Then again, they hadn’t talked since… well, they hadn’t even talked then. “You look terrible,” she said plainly, giving him a piercing once-over. “Do you need clothes, too? Or do you wear denim now?”

She hadn’t bothered to say hello to him, so he didn’t say it to her, just grunted impassively as she ordered her elf, almost gently, to take his things. “I thought that thing would be dead by now,” he remarked, half over his shoulder as it pointed one finger at his luggage to levitate it away. Their footsteps were impossibly loud in the cavernous hall— Avery couldn’t help peering curiously around. It’d been years since he’d been here, and it’d only decayed since. He took his seat in the sofa and did his best regal, languid slouch into the arm. It was supposed to be casual, but he couldn’t help some nervous leg jittering; he was almost grateful for her rudeness. That was more like it.

Not that it made him any less nervous.

She snapped at him to be less nervous, which also didn’t help; he shrugged. “Sure, I know,” he said, a little sarcastically. “Couldn’t bear to dirty up this place.” He raised his eyebrows and glanced around the sparsely furnished room, the bare walls. She pushed the bottle of wine toward him; he made a face— he’d wanted her to share her liquor, not her wine— but fished his wand out of his sleeve to conjure a glass and pour himself some.

Decorating, cleaning, that wasn’t his main concern at all. “Can I smoke in it?” He ignored the other comment, which he rather thought she’d expected him to do. She had to know that there wasn’t going to be any complaint he could make about this place. He’d lived in a hovel in comparison. A smoky one.

She had hated it; he added “Just the one room” and lifted his chin a bit, as an uncompromising compromise.

It was hard not to compare it to his own family home, while he was in her sitting room drinking her wine. Smoky hovel though it’d been, he’d liked it. He’d also had more furniture. The Averys hadn’t been anything special but, he comforted himself, they hadn’t had to sell all their paintings to get by. He wondered, what’d become of his house— probably it was rotting in Suffolk, spiders and rats taking over it. Somehow that made him feel better, picturing his house as some disgusting shrine to his father’s mistakes.

Ego somewhat restored, he sat up straighter on her sofa, leaned forward to put his wine down on the little table. He looked terrible, apparently; he gave her a humourless smile. “Yeah, I cut the hair,” he said. “Bitch to maintain, though.”

She wanted to know if he wanted clothes; he thought briefly of Eris Rosier, Auror buying robes for him and gave her a less humourless snort. “No. I got plenty. And no denim.” Now that he’d refused, though, he couldn’t think of what else to do, other than let it sit between them.

“War wasn’t too kind to you, either, I see,” he added with some derision, as though that would put them back on level ground. There was really nothing he could do for this situation, of course— she was letting him stay in his guest room, and she was keeping him out of Azkaban, and she was sharing her wine. He’d be indebted to her for his entire damn life at this rate. “How are the Aurors? Still chasing shadows?”

Eris turned to look at Avery, then at her elf as it went the opposite way down the hall. She sighed wistfully, “Long overdue.”

The blonde witch raised an eyebrow at him, daring him to continue. “Would you prefer a cell?” she asked icily. Eris was well aware that the once-grand home had fallen upon hard times, and then fallen a little further, but she didn’t need Avery’s internal -- or external -- monologue rubbing it in. She would happily make alternative arrangements for him if she thought he wouldn’t sell her out. Would he? She tilted her head to one side, considering him silently.

The Auror took a long sip of her wine, watching him over the rim of the crystal. Typical. She lowered her glass, exhaling slowly before replying; “You may, but at least try to keep it off the drapes.” She wasn’t sure why she cared, but she did. She supposed, one day,  if she really wanted to, she could sell this place -- if anyone wanted to buy it, that was. She might get enough to not immediately starve, but couldn’t fathom starting fresh somewhere. Like Avery had done, sort of. He clearly just hadn’t done a very good job of it. But where would she go? The Ministry were watching the whole of Europe now, and she’d rather rot in Azkaban than go to America. She didn’t like rice or noodles, so Asia was out too. Perhaps she’d ask what he’d thought of Australia.

Despite herself, Eris’ lip curled up at one side. She couldn’t honestly remember if he’d been funny before or if this was a symptom of having been on the run for the past however many years. She lifted her glass again to hide the expression, not wanting him to get a big head or anything. “Cut it or aging prematurely?” she asked, eyeing the top of his head pointedly and tipping her head back to take a larger gulp of shiraz.

She looked mildly disgusted at his snort. “Suit yourself.” The Death Eater leant forward to pour more wine into her glass, reclining back and fixing him with a hard look. “War isn’t kind to anyone,” she said before she could stop herself -- sounded an awful lot like she regretted it all… Didn’t she? Even if she did, she wasn’t going to admit as much to Avery.

Eris uncrossed and re-crossed her legs, smoothing the fabric of her robes out along her thigh. “Chasing the shadows I tell them to, yes,” she answered loftily, nose rising in the air a little as a wave of superiority and importance washed over her. “Had Gaius -- or any of the rest of them -- been in their right mights I would have said at dinner,” she paused for dramatic effect, avoiding eye contact for the moment, “I’ve been made Head of the Auror Office.” A sly smirk stretched across her lips as she glanced at him, subconsciously desiring praise from someone, even Avery, for this achievement. It had been slow work, a lot of pretending to care and planting evidence to do away with people who’d tried to get in her way -- but worth it all, in the end, to show that she could.

Her expression quickly faded, however. “Fat lot of use it is now, of course,” she practically pouted, scowling at the fireplace. A brief minute passed before she spoke again. “You wouldn’t have come back if you’d known it would be like that, would you?” she asked, still looking into the flames. Slowly, she turned to face him, waiting for his response.

She’d love him to shut up, he imagined— he must have gotten under her skin if she’d jumped straight to threats. He was almost wistful for the Dark Lord, who had rarely bothered with wastes of time like that. “Oh, I’d forgot you were setting those up for us,” he said darkly. “Generous, that.” He didn’t like the way she watched him— studious, like he was a pinned butterfly or something— he drained his glass in one gulp. The Rosiers could have sat in their lovely manse, once, and pretended they were upper crust, but Avery had never cared to— he repoured.

“Can do,” he added gratefully— it didn’t really matter to him how clean he was supposed to be, and these drapes— this whole house, really— had surely had worse than smoke on them. What did her elf do all day? Lurk? (Once he thought it, he realised that must be the case. It was too elderly to do much more.)

Rosier took a stab at his hairline; he had to bite back the urge to say anything back, though chances were she’d know how he felt anyway. War wasn’t kind to anybody— he laughed, low and bitter, arched his eyebrows. “Quick on the uptake, aren’t you?” he sniped. Dislike of war wasn’t the most loyal sentiment to express, he realised belatedly— he should be more cautious. Rosier was, if not their de facto leader, somewhere in the chain of command above him. He half-closed his eyes to regard her, in a paltry attempt to keep her out of his mind, and wondered idly if she well and truly believed in them anymore.

In Australia disbelief had been the least of his problems— if the Dark Lord came back Avery imagined he was more likely to be killed for any of his other postwar activities than for heresy— but here, here he had to be careful again. This new lot seemed passionate and foolish and, for whatever reason, young— a dangerous combination.

He forced his mind off of it.

Rosier made her announcement with smug self-importance— a little annoying, but he supposed it was an accomplishment. “Merlin,” he said, a little appreciatively. Then: “Idiots.”

He let her sulk, though, a little amused at her disappointment— it took some of the edge off his own. For her this was a setback— she would land on her feet. Of course the rest of her existence would be miserable if she decided to keep up this charade in Shacklebolt’s Ministry, but until she did, she was well set— her house, her money, her job, her connections. Avery’s connections were mostly in prison; his house abandoned; his job lost; his money going quickly— but Merlin, at least he’d known when to stop trying.

He thought he heard her bitterness in her tone, when she spoke again; it gave him an odd satisfaction.

“My hopes weren’t high,” he admitted honestly. “But if you’re asking if I expected it to be a swah-ree of children with too much to say, no, I did not.”

He raised his eyebrows at her— he had the excuse of having been far from the home front; she did not. “You knew who we were working with, didn’t you?” he said, almost accusingly. All he’d heard of was Melissa Knox, and he’d put two and two together and worked out Rosier and Purcell, as well. The rest— the young women and the elderly men— he hadn’t expected. He didn’t even think most of them had been of age during the war.

She chose to forgive his unspoken thoughts, given he at least had the sense to not say them. “Oh, shut up,” she snapped, grace period over. But he’d agreed, in his roundabout way, hadn’t he? She could feel as much, regardless. She didn’t have to like Avery to agree with him.
 
“Most of them, yes,” she agreed. “Not all of them, though.” Loathe as she was to admit it, some were altogether too smart for their own good. Thankfully the vast majority of Aurors were convinced the Ministry was clean now – it had been four years, give or take, since they’d worked systematically through the departments. She could have done without Shacklebolt setting up a Corruption Unit, however – she imagined John Quigley would have felt the same now had he still been alive. “I had to dispose of someone,” she added, in a tone one might use to discuss the weather.
 
She was unsure if he was being facetious or if he was just stupid, so she elected to ignore the mispronunciation (swah-ree, honestly) and focus on the more important content of his admission. “It was awful, wasn’t it?”
 
He asked – or rather, suggested – that she should have expected as much by virtue of being more in the loop than he had been. It was a sharp barb to plunge into her chest – the fact that she had not been Gaius’ most trusted – but she sensed he didn’t intend it that way. “I thought I did.” She sipped at her wine. “Gaius—” she inhaled sharply, “before he was released it had sounded like there was a plan.” Like she was his lieutenant, not Melissa nor the stupid Swedish bint – whomever it was that had somehow usurped her position, despite everything she had done for him. Serve her right for never daring to look inside his head, she supposed.
 
She sighed and finished her glass, leaning forward with a little more of a stupor than before. “I was to train ‘the next wave’, whatever they were called, sleepers or some rubbish.” She poured for herself, then offered to do the same for him. “The ones I was looking after had genuine promise. Have, I suppose. They were smart enough not to pontificate at dinner, at least.” Nathalie and Basil had done her proud in that much. She reclined back into her armchair and gazed at the crackling fire again, a deranged grin spreading across her lips slowly. “And now we’re all fucked.” The blonde witch drank deeply. “We should never have abandoned the bloody masks.”

Rosier sounded like she wanted a pat on the back for having needed to dispose of someone-- or possibly for having had the guts to do it. Avery rolled his eyes, barely bothering to hide it. He remembered so infrequently that she’d only joined the Death Eaters in the second war; by rights he was the more experienced of them. It certainly didn’t hurt that she’d been judged more useful as a spy than a stooge-- he’d never asked, but didn’t feel too far off base in assuming that he’d generally done dirtier work.

Of course, he’d already known that she’d been just as disheartened by Purcell’s little symposium as he had, but it gave him a thrill of insubordinate satisfaction to hear her say so. Awful, indeed.

Purcell had always been a sore point for her; probably doubly so now that he’d been released into the arms of whoever the Swedish woman had been. Avery raised his eyebrows again-- “They had a plan and they didn’t tell you?” Even if she’d been left out of it— which he couldn’t imagine was the case— he knew too well that she had her own ways of finding information. She probably knew exactly what he was thinking about right now; he shifted his gaze away from hers. His father had tried, long ago, to teach him how to clear his mind of anything incriminating. Avery had never had the patience.

“What,” he added. “Who came out with that idea? Train them to do what?” Surely the others weren’t fool enough to be hoping for another war-- although, Avery thought, he wouldn’t mourn them when they inevitably failed. She held out the bottle; he pushed his glass over to refill and curled his lip, “Oh, genuine promise.” After Draco Malfoy he’d decided not to expect much of that generation. He imagined his father’s had felt the same after Regulus Black.

He hadn’t heard her swear in a long time; he bared his teeth with amusement-- she was in this far deeper than he was, and he was going to enjoy that change. There wasn’t anything else in this wretched situation to enjoy. “I should have stayed in damned Australia,” he said. “Now what? That Yessica woman knows who we are now, we’ve got foolish children trying to get involved, all of Europe’s looking.” He rubbed at the bridge of his nose and added bitterly, “Don’t reckon you could dispose of that.”

He wasn’t much help if he wasn’t making serious suggestions, though; he sat back and stretched one arm along the back of the sofa. He shouldn’t have come back to England-- he’d known better-- but the Death Eaters had called and he’d come, loyal bitch that he still was. With contempt he said, “Nothing will come of it. You know that crowd. Pretty faces, pretty words, nothing behind it.” They were all cowards in their own way-- himself included-- but there was a special place in hell for cowards like the idiots who’d spoken at the O’Síoda’s.

She was too distracted by her self-caused predicament to pay any attention to Avery’s thoughts – fortunately for him.

Initially Eris wasn’t sure if Avery was being facetious or genuine; a hard stare in his direction told her he was sincerely surprised – which was a surprise in itself, though not an unwelcome one. A few days ago it had been unfathomable to her that she hadn’t been included (and it was reassuring to know Avery agreed, even if it was Avery), but since that dinner she had done some serious soul searching. Jealous, irrational though she may have been, perhaps she wasn’t wrong to be so. “They didn’t tell me,” she replied in a flat tone, bitterness creeping into the edges of it.

“Gaius was in Azkaban. He couldn’t,” she explained, “and I’ve never--” she met Avery’s gaze, realising she was revealing more to him than she’d possibly done to anyone before – excluding the man they were talking about, “— I’ve never looked,” she finished simply. She assumed he was smart enough to know what she meant by that.

She drank, a little more than a sip, a little closer to having too much with company but it was Avery – what was he going to do? “Even once he was out, he didn’t come to me. I should have known then. I thought he was just being careful, for both our sakes.” She almost sounded wistful. She drank again, her glass almost empty now.

He had so many questions and it was so very draining on her to have to answer them all, but it gave her some semblance of being important – to know things that he didn’t, even if it was Avery. “One of the—” the witch waved her hand around dismissively, “—bloody socialites.”  Heiresses, whatever they were. Women who did nothing and therefore had time to sit around and come up with ridiculous plans over their knitting.

As quickly as that, Avery and his questions were getting on her last nerve. “I’ve already told you, they didn’t tell me everything,” she snapped. “I don’t know what the grand plan was—probably, in hindsight, to bow and scrape for that Swedish Minister.” She paused, took a breath. “Legilimency, Occlumency. Proper curses.” She glared at him when he essentially questioned her effectiveness.

Eris’ elf slouched back into the room, Eris looked at her glass and drained it. “Spawler, more wine,” she said, and the elf retreated, hunched over and shuffling.

He should have stayed in Australia. Eris laughed, high and clear. “I should have joined you,” she said, the wine making her silly. Yessica. She laughed again, head resting against the high back of her chair. Her brief break in character ended as quickly as it had begun, only a small smile playing across her lips. He was so optimistic, wasn’t he? She shrugged, her wine glass held in her hand like one of those claw machines, gazed at him. She repeated her earlier assessment: “We’re fucked.”

The elf returned, fresh bottle in hand, set it down on the table between them and nearly bent itself in half as it bowed out of their midst. Eris sat forward again, helping herself to a generous pour. Nothing would come of it, she agreed, though she forgot to say so out loud. He was right: they’d not done anything until now and it had been four years, almost five.

The statuesque witch sat back and sipped at her wine. She continued to gaze into the fire as don’t reckon you could dispose of that replayed in her mind. It had been quiet for a moment when she spoke; “What if we did?” she asked, not looking in his direction.

And then she did – look at him seriously. This was a risk, but what did they really have to lose? Between them they had sufficient experience and skill – especially in comparison to the children that would be stopping them. Eris had the benefit of having trained some of them, knowing they were the better of the ‘new wave’ and knowing their strengths and their weaknesses, if they were foolish enough to try and stop them.

“Ended it.”

Ah. Avery drained his glass again and set it down on her table, unable to keep a bitterly amused smile down -- it was as comforting as it was disheartening that her failing had been, all along, her faith in Gaius Purcell. He couldn’t imagine having the kind of power she wielded and wasting it for reasons of sentimental trust. She’d never even looked -- hopefully, Merlin willing, she’d learned her lesson. They were Death Eaters -- Death Eaters didn’t trust each other. Even the Dark Lord had seemed eager to teach them that; Avery thought for a moment about the backstabbers and sellouts and traitors that had filled their ranks at the end of both wars.

Rosier was as dismissive of their pretty, useless numbers as he was; he curled his lip up in a sneer. He’d never thought highly of the wealthiest Death Eaters, or of the women. This was a new low.

She snapped at him; for a moment he was half terrified -- he stiffened and thought, clearly, I’m going to die here on her dusty, expensive sofa -- and she glared. Then the moment passed. She asked the elf for more wine and Avery leaned back again.

“What if we did what?” he asked flatly, taking the bottle to pour another glass of wine. He realised too late that she was looking at him -- he met her gaze, brow furrowed, comprehension dawning.

What if they ended it?

“Well, I’m all for ending it,” he said darkly, dropping back into his recline, stretching one arm along the back of the sofa. “Specifically, what are we ending? The Swedish thing?” He raised his eyebrows -- “The Swedish woman?”

But he sat forward in the sofa, leaned in closer, gulped down his glass of wine and said, seriously, “Yeah, hell, I’ll do it. It’s been a long time.”

Eris glared at Avery for the second time in as many moments -- though it was more out of exasperation than any ill-will now. He appeared to catch up before she needed to curse him for being so slow and moronic -- more’s the pity.

He looked far more at ease with the suggestion than she had expected. Though, really, she had expected it or she wouldn’t have dared utter it to him. Eris already knew he was thinking along the same lines; there were too many people in that room in Ireland who had lost touch with the world around them and with what it had truly meant to be a Death Eater -- and should she be surprised? Half of them weren’t even old enough to remember any of it, let alone have met the Dark Lord, been blessed by him personally. She had gone along with this plan only because Gaius had asked her to.

“All of it,” she whispered, as though it was sacrilege to even suggest such a thing in this house; it was, wasn’t it? Both of their families had been decimated by this war and their determination to support the Dark Lord. She and Avery had pledged their own lives to this, and she was proposing they tore it all apart.

Avery sat forward and Eris did the same, uncrossing her legs. “The Swedish woman, Nyström,” she paused, staring at him intensely, her voice still low, “the Death Eaters.”

“You said it yourself, it should have died with him.” Had he ever said it aloud? Did it matter if he hadn’t?

Avery had said it almost nonchalantly; regarding her, he realised too late that her expression was grave, that they were suddenly both tense with the recognition of what they were saying. “All of it,” she whispered, like a threat, like a promise.

Oh, he thought. All of it.

He shouldn’t have held her gaze -- he knew better than to let her into his head -- but for a moment he did. Her eyes were sharp and blue, light enough that he always felt like he could see straight through them, though he knew it to be the other way around. It hadn’t been long enough since the end of war -- even thinking this way made him feel uneasy, unsteady, treacherous, crooked. He couldn’t imagine she didn’t feel the same. The woman, the Minister -- he didn’t care about them -- but the Death Eaters had been his life, hadn’t they? And weren’t they still? What in his life had ever been worth anything, if not the time wasted and the energy spent for them? The Death Eaters were as much a part of him as the blood in his veins.

“I did say that, didn’t I?” he muttered. “Fuck.” He shifted his weight and looked away, groped at his pockets for his cigarettes but didn’t take them out, smoothed his robes over his knees anxiously.

He’d meant it, when he’d said it -- that they were nothing without the Dark Lord, that it was a perfect travesty that they’d survived him to sit in their beautiful robes at their society dinners, accomplishing nothing. At least he’d been ashamed to be alive. At once Avery was overwhelmed with the conviction that the defectors, the cowards, the traitors in their numbers deserved to be punished for it. They’d failed -- the least they could do was act like it. But the Dark Lord was dead.

“Yeah,” said Avery, and grimaced at his weakness, his hesitation; he nodded slowly, warming up to the idea, and repeated it with more aggression -- “Yes.” He couldn’t bear to think of the Death Eaters crawling after some sham of a Minister -- he couldn't decide if it was too ignoble an end, or too much better than they deserved. They’d cheated their way out of the war; they should be cheated out of peace, too.

He met Rosier’s gaze again, but this time he smiled, almost wildly -- he couldn’t find the words to agree, to commit, so he shook his head and said, “We’d better look up this Swedish bastard.”

[out]

Coursing through her alongside the wine was a new sensation -- a level of paranoia she hadn’t felt in all of her years at the Ministry. It was fortunate that she had sold all of the Rosier portraits, leaving the walls bare, because she didn’t think she could have possibly avoided the piercing looks she would no doubt have been receiving for even suggesting they work to bring down the very establishment that had been their lives.

Eris didn’t bother to say ‘You did’, but she thought it. She watched him anxiously, her wine glass held to the side. They -- the Death Eaters, or what was left of them -- didn’t deserve to be handed a new leader to blindly follow, much less did any leader deserve to inherit what the Dark Lord had built. If she really thought about it, she didn’t think that those who remained were much to inherit; cowards and yes-men, mostly, the women (of whom Eris had just as poor an opinion as if she were part of the patriarchy herself), and the children.

Yeah, then a more confident Yes. Eris nodded. That was it then. They would remove Nyström, and the blonde bint, and then figure out what to do with the Death Eaters.

Her lips curled up slowly into a sneer. “We may need more wine.”


END