“Rook to G8.”

Victoire watched impassively as her small, black castle glided to its adjacent space, fingers folded beneath her chin. The handsome chessboard dominated a small table, exquisitely carved ivory figurines awaiting orders, shifting impatiently in their seats.

A light flickered from above the table, illuminating a sparsely decorated kitchen. If Victoire hadn’t been sat at the rickety table, it would have appeared abandoned. The counters were empty, the walls devoid of photographs, and but for the kettle on the stove, there was nothing to suggest that the room had been used in the past century.

After a long moment, a white rook glided along its row to D1. Victoire furrowed her brow and chewed on the inside of her cheek, thoughts racing.

“Queen to F3.”

The imperious piece crossed a diagonal, unsheathing a massive blade and goring the white knight she claimed, tossing its broken body aside. Victoire leaned back in her chair, blue eyes glancing to a watch about her slim wrist. It was very nearly seven—she needed to get to work.

“See you later, Uncle,” Victoire murmured, rising to her feet and leaving the table. Lifting a black cloak from the back of her chair, and her wand from beside the chess board, Victoire turned sharply on heel. With a crack, she was gone.

A white rook slid across the board, colliding with a black knight sat proud at E7. The cracking of the marble echoed throughout the lonely room.

--

Mist blanketed the clearing, knifing through even the cleverest of warming charms. An almost-rain freckled against blades of grass and the massive slabs of blue-grey dolerite that dominated the glade. In the morning gloom, shrouded in fog, they seemed more spectre than solid. They loomed in two concentric rings, polished faces glimmering towards the center, turning rough backs against the world. Some ways off, there was huddled a small gathering of cloaked figures.

The sodden grass crunched beneath her boots as she carved a path through the henge. Her gaze drifted to the massive dig site at the center of rings. Stone steps descended deep into the earth, flanked by soil and stones carved with runes. It took every ounce of her discipline to instead join the men and women gathered at a makeshift worktable.

"Weasley," a gruff, baritone voice greeted her. Bulstrode was a mountain of a man, with a strong jaw and a demeanor that suggested he did not tolerate nonsense.

Victoire raised her hand in hello. She found a place beside a swarthy witch and a heavyset man.

"Thank you," she murmured, fog spilling with her words, as the witch beside her pressed a mug of tea into her hands. Her pale eyes flicked back to the excavation, yearning to make her way into the earth.

"Preliminaries suggest we're looking at a pre-wand druidic site," Bulstrode began, folding his thick arms across his chest. He leaned back against the oak table, examining the small crowd. "So I don't need to emphasize just how dangerous this job is. We've cleared the entrance of hexes, but we have four chambers leading off it. The runes we've found suggest burial and ritual, but we've not got much beyond that."

"Do we even know what sect we're looking at?" The large man beside Victoire, Kennedy, asked with a thick brogue. He arched a bushy brow at Bulstrode, who simply shook his head. "Merlin's shittin' tits."

"It doesn't look like anything I've seen before. This is exploratory--we'll come back for artefacts once we clear it." Bulstrode looked sharply at the six witches and wizards gathered around him. "Right, let's not fuck about. Kennedy, take Winestead and the Northeast chamber. Godfrey, I want you and Tehrani in the Southeast. Shafiq, we'll be handling Southwest. Weasley, you alright with taking the Northwest on your own?"

Victoire couldn't help the giddy little rush at her assignment. To be trusted enough to work alone, to face curses without minding, was a delight. Mercifully, she managed to keep her composure as she nodded in assent. Bulstrode unfolded his arms and clapped his hands together.

"Let's get to it. "

The passage leading into the underground was impressive, to say the least. Especially when one considered that the ancient wix hadn't had the strength of wands, and had built the complex with magic as much as mundane construction. The carvings and runes had the marks of tools, etched firmly into the structure as they made their way into the earth. Godfrey was bantering with Kennedy, ever blasé. Passing through a massive door of stone and remarkably preserved wood, they descended another flight of stairs down, into a truly impressive chamber. A stone altar stood in the center of the room, surrounded by large runes and two concentric trenches, mirroring the henge above, golden patterns inlaid into their depths. The runes and imagery were truly unusual--almost familiar, but too monstrous to belong to any of the ancient people she had studied.

"This is odd," Shafiq murmured from behind her, the woman's voice filled with trepidation. Victoire couldn't help but agree--but where Shafiq seemed hesitant, Victoire was ready to forge forward.

"Keep in patronus contact," Bulstrode commanded, "And don't do anything daft. We'll reconvene here at noon."

"Cheers," Godfrey grinned, clapping Tehrani on the back with a bark of a laugh.

Victoire turned her attention on the towering door to the Northwest, eyeing its foreign runes. It stood open, with a passage that disappeared in shadows in the distance. Nearly buzzing with excitement, she set out, wand aloft as she recalled the joy of first beating her uncle at chess. The glittering swan that joined her swept around Victoire's frame, before taking the lead as they set out.



The passage was impossibly long and heavily trapped. Victoire had never seen so many hexes and jinxes woven into each other. Certainly not ones linked to mechanical, almost muggle, traps. Twice she had nearly walked into a flurry of ancient arrows, bearing what appeared to be phoenix feathers. It was slow going along the endless corridor--she was truly surprised by the lack of anterooms. She'd walked at least a mile--how deep into the woods did this complex go? It was becoming evident that this find was greater than they could have ever imagined.



Her watch informed her that it was nearly ten by the time she found rooms. The southern door was built of steel with galaxies of swirling banding. Damascus steel in a pre-wand site? It was impossibly incongruent. Victoire traced her wand in the air before the door, searching for catches of magic. It felt too old to match the steel--strangely almost Egyptian. It was unlike any other magic she'd encountered in the past year of work in Britain. Her brows furrowed as she murmured the diagnostic charms she had learned in Cairo, head cocked to one side. The door practically sang, tones pure and echoing around her. It was as though her blood hummed in response, goose flesh rippling along her skin. The grin that quirked her lips was wild, eyes burning as the wand in her hand began to dance.

Sparks erupted suddenly in the air, electric blue and flooding her senses with the stench of ozone. Victoire barely flared a shield charm in time, stepping back as the forks of lightning splintered against her pale barrier. Now that--that was beyond unusual. That was almost...modern?

When the taste of magic finally subsided, she approached the door. Her fingers ghosted down its surface, pale eyes scouring for anything that she could possibly translate.


She almost missed the stain. It was smeared in the shape of a rune. She might have written it off as age if the rest of the door hadn't been so pristine. Raising her wand, she probed it with a small charm, watching it flicker. After several moments, she shifted the rowan wand, gently brushing it with her fingers. Bringing her pale hand to the light of her patronus, she felt her pulse skip.



That was blood. Fresh enough to transfer. She was not alone.


On instinct, she drew the tip of her wand across her opposite hand, barely flinching as the skin split and crimson bubbled along her hand. Blood sacrifice wasn't unusual among ancient magic, and she'd grown used to the spell. Placing her hand atop the rune, she felt the door rumble, heard it sing once more, before it opened inwards. Stitching her skin back together with a rudimentary healing charm, Victoire locked eyes with her patronus and nodded.


Together, they went through the door into another passage. This one wound like a snake, or a river. The air had become damp, trickles of groundwater sliding down the walls. And, more worryingly, she kept finding disabled curses. They had kept this find secret--they'd all taken the Unbreakable Vow not to speak of it until allowed, for Merlin's sake. There couldn't be an intruder, they'd made the whole site unplottable. And yet...

There was a massive archway, roots and stone intertwining, gold and steel too young to belong forming snakes and other beasts on its surface. Wand at the ready, Victoire crept into a quiet chamber. The stillness was oppressive. The pale blue glow of her patronus illumined a yew tree. An underground tree--that was a magic she couldn't even begin to name. It loomed over a stone dais, covered in more of the odd carvings. A small stream switch backed across the floor, and yet its flow was silent.

Victoire's footsteps were the only sound that disrupted the odd chamber, her breathing echoing. Her fingers tightened on the rowan wand, eyes scouring the room, half a dozen jinxes on the tip of her tongue.

Never wake a sleeping lion. Or a sleeping dragon. Or a sleeping Evander. Sleeping on a stone alter designed for sacrificial rituals and the like was not his first choice of a bed, but you have to make do when hiding in a tomb. Three weeks in a dank stone room was enough to drive one crazy. And worse, Evander was almost out of drink. Crud. He pressed his flask to his lips, the intoxicating liquid flowing through him, rejuvenating him. After years of drinking firewhiskey he had become immune to its effects. His vision blurred for a second, he saw double, but everything re-aligned within five minuets. Just enough time for him to comprehend the situation. Somebody had come to his stone chamber. He was finally on the right track. The door was opening and a mis-matched horde came into the room. Dark wizards? It was too early to tell. Hiding in the shadows was a good way to spy on them, but they were to deep in coversation to notice the figure running to the northwest of the crypt, disabling the curses as if he had done in a million times. He had actually.

He could hear footsteps behind him, speeding him up a bit. Surely leaving the odd hex disabled wouldn't hurt? It's not like anybody would notice. Or not think anything of it. Not many would be able to notice, most people would think it was a trick. But you never know who's following you, they could be some sort of prodigy, who knows everything about magic, and will think about things too much. This appeared to be the case. This apperead to be the problem.

Once in the room, Evander hid in the stream to observe the goings on outside. A woman entered. He managed to hold his breath for a while, all he could hear was her footsteps. This was the big moment, his big moment. The one he had been waiting for. Keeping calm, he remained motionless. The water soaked through his cloak, which suddenly became too heavy for his tastes, and it clung to him for dear life. Breathing underwater was no mean feat either. Eventually he had to submerge for oxygen, or he could just drown. No, today is made not for dying. Slowly, silently he submerged, gasping of air. Approaching the woman from behind was hard, he got by. He quickly grabbed her wrists with one hand, wrapping his other arm around her neck.

"Alright. I've been waiting for days to see a Necromancer enter this Godforsaken hovel! So, the time has finally come. Good, good." He snarled with such contempt, it was almost unreal. He tiwsited his head around so he could see her. The contempt died down a bit, he loosened his grip. "Don't I know you from somewhere?" He asked bluntly. "Yeah, I reckon I do. Hmm. Oh I remember, you're one of those Weasley girl, right?" His grip tightened a bit, and he shook his head, his brown mop flying everywhere. "Never mind. You have ten seconds to tell me what you're doing here, or else!" He bellowed, loud enough to wake the dead.

This was not the first time Victoire had been strangled in a ruin.

Annoyingly, this strangler was soaking wet. The arm lashed about her throat was annoyingly cold. Something had her wrists—clever enough to know her for wix, but daft enough to think that it had the upperhand—and Victoire began to kick wildly. Nearly six foot tall, her thrashing did not make things easy.

It spoke, which was bizarre. It spoke modern English, which was weirder. Of course, it was all a bunch of nonsense.

“Get off of me, you nutter,” Victoire snarled, taking a moment to aim and drive the heel of her boot into his foot with all her might. Her wand sparked in hand, pressed between them, stinging her back, undoubtedly raising welts. She was too furious to much care. Her patronus had vanished in a whirl of light. She just had to survive long enough for Bulstrode to find her.

Her attacker called her Weasley, which just plain pissed her off. No. She had not stalked the halls of an ancient ruin for the past hour and change to somehow find someone who knew her fucking family name. It was ridiculous. She was never going to get away from her name, it seemed.

“My team will be here in minutes,” she hissed as best she could with the forearm cutting off her air supply. Black spots were beginning to blossom in her vision. “And my boss is going to hex the ever loving shit out of you for trespassing.”

"Nutter? Trespassing? Well, I haven't seen anyone else down here for the last three weeks! Stuck down he with nothing but a flask of drink to keep you occupied." Evader was confused to say the least. A Necromancer, being rightly accused, no less, in her own lair, was denying everything, and calling him the nutter. Him. It didn't really make sense. And calling the rest of her brethen her team was a bit strange. But she ws in there already, so she had to be in the wrong. She had to be, otherwise it wouldn't really make sense.

He thrust his strangling arm back a bit, and he moved his head forwards a bit. "Now, let's be a bit more competent, shall we dear?" He crooned in her ear, easily masking his confusion. "I want you to tell me what you're doing here, scum. Are we clear on that?" His knuckles where buring white. This threatening strangers in some ruins business was more tiring than he could have imagined.

And then it came to him. Inspiration. Genius. Revenge. He slowly let go of her wrists. "On second thoughts, I'm a generous man. So, let's make a deal shall we? You tell me precisely, what you are doing here and who you are with. The I shall, anot kill you, and prove to you that I am not trespassing. That sounds like a fair deal to me. If you agree, or if you aren't dead, nod. Or at least try to, Weasley." This was the fairest thing he could do. Though he wouldn't admit it, it was times like these when he feared for his life.

If Victoire had had the necessary oxygen, she might have wondered how the hell this madman had found this dig site, how he had managed to spend three weeks down here, with her team none the wiser. They'd happened on it only a month ago, and they had all taken Unbreakable Vows not to speak of it with others...

As it was, her thought processes were more along the lines of THIS CANNOT FUCKING BE MY LAST AIR.

Really, this whole being strangled business was just pissing her off. Victoire tried to drive the heel of her boot into his foot, but it lacked the necessary oomph. He was asking things, and it was difficult to focus on his words, as close as they were.

"Gringotts," she choked, wasting precious, precious air with the effort. "with--I'm with Gringotts."

And then he'd loosened his grip on her wrists, and she managed to barrel forward with a desperate burst of energy, breaking free. Her lungs burned at the sweet taste of oxygen, coughing with the sudden rush.

He'd bruised her windpipe, but she didn't need words. Victoire had her wand and she snapped it wordlessly as she turned on heel, incarcerous burning in her thoughts, as massive ropes shot from her wandtip. She snaked them up, catching a leg, his strangling arm, surging around his chest and lashing tight. Her knuckles whitened on her wand.

Every impulse in Victoire's head told her to rip him to shreds. She raised her wand, so tempted, so furious. Chest heaving, weight shifting, she very nearly did it, vision crimson with rage.

"This is a confidential dig site," Victoire rasped, pale eyes burning through his. "Who--who the hell are you?"

Evader made a serious discovery. If he was to further his relasionship with this woman, he would never be able to trust her again. He would know not to. Beacause when you make a peace treaty with somebody, you don't break it as soon as you have established it.

The ropes lashed around him, squeezing his chest so tight his breath almost failed him. The tables had been unfortunately turned on him, and he almost felt guilty he strangled her. How was he supposed to tell her something when he couldn't breathe? Oh yeah, he'd tried that just earlier. It really wasn't nice. Not nice at all. His limbs writhed fruitlessly, after a good three minuets of silence he gave up.

"Evander C. Barius. That's my name. Vigilante. No, not really." He snarled through his gritted teeth. "Unemployed, layabout, Ministry dropout." He whispered contemptuously.

He tried to reach for his flask. Just fingering it would make him feel a bit better, even if he couldn't drink it. His arms were pinned to his sides, and he could just about reach it, attached to his belt. Gently scratching the sides calmed him down. He tried the take in as much air as possible. It was hard when his chest could barely move.

"I'm not the guy you should be fighting. I didn't know about any dig site, honest. All I knew was this used to be a popular hang-out for Necromancers. And more and more of them are starting to crop up. I didn't know about any dig site, honest! Let me go!" He yelled, before struggling against the ropes again.

What a day.

Victoire was not a particularly forgiving woman. It was a rather nasty character flaw, she knew, but she'd never been good at letting go of grudges. People were often so quick to judge her--she didn't see the point in doing anything else unto them.

This Barius had not done anything in the past five minutes to endear him towards her.

Barius. The name snagged in her thoughts, cleared by the oxygen flooding her veins. That name was strangely familiar to her. For the first time since her would-be strangler had ruined her morning, Victoire took stock of his features. She was rather disturbed to find just how familiar he looked.

He was taller than her, but not by much. The dark coiff of his hair was tousled from their scuffle. A fire burned in his gaze, hate coiled and ready to strike. The realisation made her frown, wand lowering slightly.

His explanation made little sense to her. Necromancers? That was...an odd choice in word. It belonged more in fable than in reality, the sort of bogey man that haunted legend and ancient propaganda. Victoire knew dark magic better than most, but necromancer brought to mind Beedle the Bard's tales, not historical fact.

"Barius," Victoire repeated, an edge of curiosity entering her suspicious voice. She cocked her head to one side, appraising her prey for a long moment. Then, "You were in my year, weren't you?"

Her lips pressed into a frown. After a long moment, she flicked her wand. The ropes retreated, disintegrating into nothingness--although she had raised her wand once more, readied to fire a jinx at a moment's notice.

"You need to leave. I'll escort you to the surface. If you're lucky, you won't be charged." Nodding her head towards the massive doorway, Victoire tutted. "Go."

As the ropes disappeared from his chest and limbs, Evander half collapsed onto the ground, breathing hard and coughing. He never had the strongest of chests. His dark fringe, originally back-combed and now a tangled mess, fell over his eyes and clouded his vision. He groped for his flask and threw his head back as he took a big swig of Firewhiskey. The last drop in the flask fell into his mouth before he re-attached it to his belt and stood up.

As he stood up, he quickly looked over his ex-victim. This was most definitely the same Victoire Weasley he had gone to school with, in the looks department anyway. He stepped towards her, placing a hand on her outstretched wrist, lowering it to her side. "If we're to get along in the future, I suggest you don't do that. I also suggest you get out of here, as well, sweetie. This is no place for a lady. It's easier to get out of here than in. Come."

He hadn't heard the footsteps. He called himself a professional vigilante, and he was not able to hear the goddamn footsteps. It was just ridiculous. He hadn't heard that quiet rumble, either. Only when he turned to the exit did he notice the iron portcullis sliding down the wood of the doorway. Three shadows seemed to be present, getting larger and further away from them. They were not without company.

It was sliding with some great speed, but it wasn't going too fast to block it. Seizing some newfound courage, still clinging to Victoire's wrist, he ran to the portcullis and crouched under it, thrusting his head forwards and pushing his back up, supporting the iron grate. It slowed slightly, but cut his side, causing him to bite his sleeve to suppress a shout. With some strength he pushed Victoire to the other side of the portcullis, and started to retreat to the other side of the tomb.

"I'll be fine here. There's got to be some way to lift that thing up. Find it, please, and meet me back here. You said you would escort me out, and that you will. Now go! Oh, and stay safe, dear." He collapsed under the strain of the heavy grate and crawled the rest of the way back, pounding the ground with a numb fist.

For one brief moment, Victoire considered cooperating with Evander Barius.

And then he called her sweetie, and any good will between them went to shit.

He grabbed her wrist, wrestling her wand arm down with an annoying strength that made her want to head butt him. Hexes and jinxes sprinted through her thoughts as her temper roared to life. Sweetie. A lady. Like she was some limp kneazle, some fragile flower that might wilt at the first sign of frost.

“Don’t touch me,” she hissed, trying to rip her wrist from his hand as he pulled her after him like a child. A child, instead of a decorated Curse Breaker, a woman who had stared down ancient magic and bent it to her will for the past six years and come out with all her limbs intact.

Her temper interfered with her senses, the veela in her veins burning, screaming in her head. Victoire noticed a moment too late that the ruins were locking them in. No, not the ruins—people. Not her colleagues, not Bulstrode. Intruders.

Victoire began to sprint, long strides easily keeping pace with Evander. He then proceeded to do something extremely daft; without hesitation, he braced the portcullis with his lanky frame. Instinct took over and Victoire slid through the disappearing gap. Half a breath later, the iron gate slammed to the stone floor with a very final sort of thud.

“Merde.”

The git was locked on the other side. Rising to her feet, wand sparking to the burn of her anger, Victoire took a steadying breath. Potential solutions began to form in her head, pale eyes scouring every inch of the portcullis to hunt for clues. Her thoughts stuttered once more—dear.

“Merlin’s sagging tits, I’m going to kill you myself once we’re out of here,” she snapped, nostrils flaring. Every instinct screamed at her to curse him halfway to next Tuesday, to leave him behind and let the damned ruin consume him, to make him pay for the insult. Reason and morals finally kicked into overdrive, and Victoire forced herself to turn away and collect herself.

In the distance there was fog, ripples of dark magic, and the faintest outline of robed figures. Her heart leapt in her chest. She had to find the others, had to warn them, protect them—

Victoire bolted, leaving only the flutter of pale hair, dark robes, and the faintest of footfalls in her wake.

"Have fun, dear." Evander murmured, his voice sounding slightly weak from the pain. He wasn't prepared to lie on the ground, waiting for his saviour like some child. He wasn't a child, he was a vigilante. He had brought dark wizards to justice once before, he would do it again. He'd already managed to unearth part of a major conspiracy. He would be a hero, and this little girl wouldn't stop him.

Fumbling for his wand, he pressed the tip to his wound, a temporary healing charm escaping him. He smiled, evidently relieved, as the wound closed leaving a small scar. That would come back to bite him later, but until then he didn't care. Shakily rising to his feet, he brushed the dirt off his cloak.

He needed to get out of this chamber, Victoire could go to help for all he cared. So, deciding he wouldn't be able to open the portculis, he dived into the small stream at the back of the chamber. The world looked different underwater, more fluid. The stream didn't last long. He was able to swim for a minute before encountering a peculiar stone wall. He recognized the runes from one of the pathways leading into the main chamber. He twisted a jewel in the middle, before the wall retracted into the floor, the water in the stream draining.

He gasped for oxygen, having been deprived of it a second time that day. There was a stairway, one he didn't recognise. As he claimed it, he heard strange noises. Chanting in a language he couldn't understand. Like Latin but far older. He entered a chamber to find a slew of dead bodies on the floor, a man cowering in the corner, and a figure in a red cloak standing above it all, in some deep trance. Then the bodies started to rise.

A Necromancer. He would have yelled in triumph if it weren't for the severity of the situation. Instead, he crept forwards, the cloaked figure and the undead with their backs turned. The cowering man suddenly looked up, noticing Evander in the corner. He mouthed a plea for help. At this point, the cloaked figure turned, their incantations getting louder. The undead figures ran at him as best they could. "Thanks, mate." Growled Evander, spells forming in his brain, flying out his wand. The undead were easier to fight than he thought. With a well aimed spell hitting the shoulder of the cloaked figure, their concentration was broken. The zombies fell immediately.

"Run, man!" Yelled Evander, making a break for the nearest exit. The cowering man was not so fast, the cloaked figure had snared him with a killing curse. Evander turned to face the cloaked figure, raising his middle fingers before turning around and bolting down a corridor. Starting into some strange wall? No, it wasn't a wall, it was Victoire. "You'll never guess how glad I am to see you. I'd exp!ain buy we need to run. Right now."

He didn't allow her to say another word before he continued to run.