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TheDookieNut
quasarsurprise
puddingpunter
Tim the Yeti
“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.
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.
