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• FROM HER, TO ETERNITY •

“There is a fate worse than death, and it’s living to hear eulogies for the person you could have been. ”

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7th Aug | Moredell Manor, Bath
Avery's Hex #136b5c

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	----- ℑt began as any other day would, for why would it not? Two weeks had passed since Avery had stepped off of the Hogwarts Express, and returned home to Bath for the summer holidays. It hadn’t been the typical summer he had come to expect living in this family. Sure there had been a few garden parties and even a gala they attended, to celebrate some of the enterprises that his mother was putting their name to, but the family had yet to leave Moredell Manor. Oftentimes, the Leverets would bounce from property to property of theirs, visiting their chalet in the Swiss alps, their place in Edinburgh, or their chateau in France. Some of the Leveret family, such as Avery’s paternal Uncle Carolus and his family, liked to join them when they holidayed in France, not least because of the generally good weather in the south but also to make it a thing that they reconnected with older familial relatives from before the family fled the country. No such plans had been made this year, or at least they had but had been talked down by his mother for one reason or another. That meant there was nothing to look forward to, and nothing to do that he hadn’t already done. The routine was starting to become a bore. Each day was the same and Avery was beginning to feel like what he didn’t know to be; a typical teenager. Moredell was a big place for just one teenager; and whilst it was the dream of some; the boredom had taken root quickly this summer. In the first week, he had bought his next years’ books, devoured them and moved on to reading from their own library which was filled with much more interesting tomes. On the odd occasion he would chance himself in his father’s study to read one of his books but he hadn’t had the chance yet. This summer, his father had been here the whole time. Since Yule, his mother and father had become a little closer; as if the pressure had lifted now that they were taking steps back to normality, back to before his father’s sentence; not that Avery could remember such times. What he had heard of it had come from his brothers, Arthur and Barrow, or heard the scathing snipes of Granny who seemed never to have forgiven Willard for something she herself said she believed he didn’t do. People were like that, they lied. Avery hadn’t seen much of either brother this summer, which wasn’t too odd but usually the pair would at least come for the first week before they travelled as a family. Today, he at least heard from one of his brothers. The door to his bedroom was knocked, twice. In an instant he knew exactly who had come knocking on his sanctum of loneliness. Even through the heavy hardwood door he knew that whoever was knocking had been knocking at around a third of the height of the door. ”Door’s open.” Avery yelled from across the room. He sat at his desk, on the opposite wall to the door where he had an open tome wide on the desk; the biography of an Auror. Avery had been between reading it and looking outside the window; where the suns’ gleaming rays beamed upon the country estate; lighting up the dark earthy colours of his room. The beams of the sun lit up the area by the door which had timidly shifted open a few inches. ”Come, Kipney.” Avery commanded. From behind the door, the small house elf shifted into view. Despite its size, the elf’s presence was felt immediately, a strange blend of silent and loyal servitude and cautious humility; complete deference to those of the Leveret line. It was a strained relationship, and to outsiders this would feel like palpable discomfort. Owning a house elf was second nature, and Kipney didn’t think anything of it; he wasn’t progressively minded, or if he was Avery didn’t know it, or care to know it. He’d spoken to Kipney a lot more than the rest of the family had, out of loneliness, no doubt, but his version of care for the creature was not beyond the norms of how many purist homes would think and feel about their generational servant. Kipney raised a wan arm to his wincing face, to shield his orb-like eyes from the sun; the other held the strap of a postal bag that was comically over-proportioned to his meagre frame. "Kipney has brought the young Master his post, sir." Kipney spoke in his distinct, aged, tone, as he bowed his head low and began to rummage in the postal bag. ”Oh? Letters from all my friends.” He said, rolling his eyes at how pathetic that sounded out loud. He hadn’t expected Kipney to make a ‘Hrghh’ of uneasy agreement, and pull forth a single letter. Avery shifted his mahogany-hued interest over to the elf then; mind racing with the possibilities. The list of people likely and willing to write to him was incredibly small, but it hadn’t stopped him from thinking about it. Had he received a letter from June? From school? From family? As Kipney handed over the letter, his eyes kissed the envelope and he immediately recognised the scrawl of Barrow. "No sir, just your brother." came the scathing reality. He was less interested then, but his eyes spotted a wrapped parcel in the maw of the bag and that had grabbed his attention. ”Kipney, remind me of your duties. - Are you not to deliver to post to my mother first?” Avery asked with a scrutinising gaze, curiosity peaked as to why there was a parcel remaining to be delivered, surely Kipney wasn't stealing, was he? Merlin knew that Kipney wouldn't have received anything himself. "Y-yes young master. - Kipney is to deliver post to the lady of the house and then the young masters.” He replied. This was, unmistakably, Cadence’s home. Although when they married it is said that Willard had pushed himself to lead the family; going so far as to rename the manor in which they now lived to ‘Leveret Manor’ in a snub to his wife’s lineage, but since his prosecution she had deftly taken the reins. Control was hers again, and control of the post was only one of the subtle ways she had reinforced her position; something that Avery would only later realise. ”So what then, is that?" - He pointed to the parcel in the bag, drawing Kipney’s large eyes. "A parcel for Mister Leveret, from far away it seems. - Mistress Leveret asked me to leave it in Mister Leveret’s private study." Gave the elf. That made more sense, as Avery knew his brothers weren’t at Moredell of late, and perhaps his father wasn’t yet around to receive the post himself. ”From far away? Relatives?” Avery asked quickly, snapping his gaze from the envelope he held, back to the elf in worry that perhaps some of the extended family were due to visit. Was that why they hadn’t yet travelled? "No young master, the Americas.” Said the elf, who was keen to move on with his duties, his uninterest in elaborating probably signal enough that he didn’t recognise the sender. For better or for worse, Avery didn’t push the elf, and nodded to dismiss him; what he had initially thought odd, was seemingly harmless; and that was where his curiosity ended. wc: 1298
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I

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• FROM HER, TO ETERNITY •

“There is a fate worse than death, and it’s living to hear eulogies for the person you could have been. ”

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7th Aug | Moredell Manor, Bath
Avery's Hex #136b5c

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	----- 𝔄 few moments had gone by, since Kipney had closed the heavy wooden door on the the young boy’s room, moments that Avery used to tear open the letter he had received. It was nice to hear from him, not that he’d ever admit it out loud. Unlike Arthur, Barrow had the thought to keep in contact with the family via the owl postal service. He’d written of his adventures, how he was chasing some big sell to the Bigonville Bombers in Luxembourg. Avery didn’t know precisely what Barrow Beau-Bastian did, and nor did he particularly care, but he was fun company, especially when compared to Arthur who lived and breathed his rat race. Arthur was pathetic, and uninspiring. Chasing after the heights their mother had claimed, he’d seemed to have learned none of her skills, none of her grace and tact, and had certainly not inherited her mind. He would rather serve himself, where she would serve her family above all. Barrow, at least, had that sense. The purpose of the letter was unclear to Avery, who himself certainly lacked the kindness Barrow had shown in this thought. Perhaps he felt guilty that he was away? In all things, Avery was becoming self-reliant. He hadn’t made friends, not like the kind that would write letters at least. He had left the duelling circuit, after that harrowing business with Strix in the forest; but he told himself that was because he couldn’t rely on his team mates. In reality, blow after blow, things were beginning to take its toll and where before he wouldn’t be bothered by his loneliness, it bothered him this summer. Avery had to ask himself who cared; to occupy himself onto bigger and better things. School was simply too easy as he had excelled at everything he put his mind to and that meant that a hunger was beginning to form in the pit of his belly, something he had first noticed at Yule during his conversation with his cousin. That had been where his mind was, as he tossed the letter to the desk with little regard for replying immediately to it. This next year was beginning to show signs of promise in his mind, with designs and schemes beginning to form; objectives and individuals he either wanted to lure in or advance against. He, unlike his brothers, was determined to become like his mother; like the spider and all before him was beginning to become a web. That was his thing, it had always been. Avery had a skill in intuiting people’s nature, understanding them and their connections; a kind of, web-vision, where each vibration was opportunity. That could all wait until after he had sated his actual hunger, which meant he had to traipse the tall corridor to the landing, before descending the grand staircase. wc: 483
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II

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• FROM HER, TO ETERNITY •

“There is a fate worse than death, and it’s living to hear eulogies for the person you could have been. ”

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7th Aug | Moredell Manor, Bath
Avery's Hex #136b5c

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┏		┓
	----- 𝕾ustenance was ever the bore. Honestly, it was almost loathsome that he was beholden to things like sleep and appetite. The actual act of eating was a chore but at least it was preceded by a walk through their home. Moredell never had that sense of warmth, maybe before Avery was born; before his father’s conviction, but who was he to know. These days it was a beautiful building full of exquisite collections of paintings and artefacts of history, of the magical world, but it was empty of love, and that made it a cold place full of stuff. After a while, something like that weighs upon a person, whether they knew it or not, until the moment they felt it; the moment it demanded to be felt. Avery didn’t feel that yet, but he definitely felt the constant tension whenever the family were together behind closed doors. After slipping into the breakfast room, Avery was immediately aware of his father, who had taken to sitting at the head of the table with a copy of the morning paper; as if he was some old-codger, or someone who still had a stake in the goings on of the wizarding world. Avery thought about that for a moment, about how his father had once been part of society and how he was now an outcast, a hermit being sheltered, and about how he still thought he commanded their family as patriarch. Of course Yule had hoped to change the outcast part, but whether or not that had been a success was beyond him to know, but Avery couldn’t see it being that his father would reclaim such heights as to lead their family. Willard Calder Leveret had only recently referred to their home as Leveret Manor once again, snubbing his wife’s name and family, whose home this was. That was the tension, and Avery was old enough to both feel and understand that. That was why it was odd. “Good morning dearest, Avery.” came her familiar voice from behind him. He had arrived at the table and she had gracefully glided in behind him, unnoticed. He had been too focused on the headlines of his father’s prophet, that read: Magical Misfire in Muggle London; Obliviators Called to Clean Up After Cauldron Catastrophe above a moving picture of calamity on a muggle street; with several Ministry Obliviators turning blinking muggles away from the chaotic scene in confusion. That was powerful, to have that over others; something his Mother had done for a while after having been forced out of the Wizengamot during Willard’s trial. He was delayed in clocking that she had called him dearest, and not himself, and like most teenagers would; he cringed with mortification that his parents were showing affection. Now, that, he had never seen behind closed doors. Theirs had been a business operation, planned and seen to be what they wanted; as seen at Yule. It had always been different in private, and it had never been as this. She had walked into the room in an elegant deep blue sleeveless bodycon dress, with a blooming smile and that confused his father just as it confused him. Cadence Leveret was practically lit up from the inside, and her whole expression embodied soft warmth; not forced or fleeting but something that lingered and wrapped you in its quiet, gentle glow. He had seen this a fair few times, but rarely had he seen it extended to his father. Avery found himself busying his hands and mind, pouring his own bowl of cereal and taking it over to his seat; third on the left hand side, next to the opposite end of the table from which his father sat; far from him. “You’re in a good mood.” Willard spoke, closing the paper and showing her the front page. “Is it because of this?” He showed her the headline of the relevant article. “Mhm. A letter from Mister Grouse, personal secretary to the head of the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes. - They wanted a consultant with experience for this one.” Cadence said, as she fixed a small glittering earring to one of her ears, she was out to work, it seemed. “Inch by inch over the threshold, mh? - If you ask me, it’s dirty work. Not worth you going back.” “And have our world exposed?” “Yes, it’s about time the dregs of the world and their hate were stopped. They are not lesser, but other. They are not disposable and useless, but they are of a different disposition are they not? - What a world we could have for all if we snuffed out their lofty ambitions and arrogance, their barbarity. We could cure it all if we just took our rightful place in the world, I often think they had the right idea in the thirties.” Willard, always one to share his views; never one for tact. To the outsider, one might think that something had gotten into his bonnet and rattled him but this was what he was like. Cooped up within his vacuum, feasting on his own vitriol. Avery thought he had decent points but he was put-off by the tone he spoke to his deliverer in. She and Avery’s Grandmother had saved his hind, and he couldn’t carry an ounce of respect for that within himself? Was his pride so damaged that he was blind? Yes, yes it was. “Parroting purist talking points from an age ago helps nobody. You have to change the world from within, they at least knew that.” Cadence quipped, she had clearly not taken too much notice for she would have deigned to reply in full. Avery had seen her on form; former prosecutor, former policy maker; she often won these arguments but she was clearly too busy to engage today. “That was Grindelwald, wasn’t it?” Avery asked his father, familiar enough with the name given the amount of times this conversation had cropped up during one of the regular clandestine meet-ups held at Moredell with others of a similar mind. They weren’t quite a movement, but they represented significant disgruntlement within the magical community. “Yes. - He was the best of us.” Willard replied. “He doesn’t need those notions in his head, Willard.” Cadence spoke, maternal instincts kicking in; wanting better for her son. Avery didn’t know what she thought about purism, about all the things his father cared for, for she always placed herself directly in the middle, the view of balance and diffusion. “Well he’s old enough now. I knew a lot more when I was thirteen I tell you that.” He said, patronising as he did. What did he know of anything, let alone Avery? It was enough for Avery to swallow his mouthful and set his spoon to the bowl, in curious challenge. Willard failed to recognise that he rarely won the one-on-ones with Cadence, but he would certainly lose if he goaded a two-on-one, before his lips spoke. “What? He’s a bright kid, but he knows little of our world, always cloistered in his room with his books. He knows nobody.” Ungracious was the shattering of his comfort, but Willard had always been ungracious. He was not at all like his mother, who embodied class, power and tact. He was quick to temper, and hasty in his words; for he soon realised that both Avery and Cadence didn’t like that. “What? All I’m saying is that I know things he doesn’t and that it’s nice he’s shown an interest.” He continued. The room felt colder to Avery then, and he went through what had just been said, and what had been meant. In conclusion, Avery uncharacteristically decided to see the best in his meaning; Willard clearly longed for a relationship with his son; for someone to teach and to mould after his own views. He hadn’t done it for so long, perhaps he missed fatherhood, though it was a bit late now, wasn’t it? - Avery gave a look to his mother, as if to tell her that it was fine, that he was bigger than to rise to him. He wanted to bite back, and bite back hard; to throw down the gauntlet, but a part of him wanted to know the things Willard knew. “Perhaps you’re right, dad. Perhaps I should show more interest.” Avery said, taking up his butter knife to spread a layer over some browned toast; done with his cereal. He had no intention of eating, but the act itself paired with his response should indicate that this was no big deal to him, to lure his father into a false sense of security; to satisfy his ego, whilst Avery played him like a fiddle to get what he wanted. It was how she would do it. Lay a few seeds, see what happens over spring? Who knows what he could get from opening the door, but he insisted he was going to control how far open it was’ and that was how he’d continue to play this. Willard’s pride was preyed on, and it worked. Immediately he smiled; Avery hadn’t allied, or agreed with him when discussions like this occurred, ever. The pair had never gotten on, likely because he had not been a father to him; but an imposter. Before he could say anything to Avery, Cadence chimed: “Well don’t go teaching him anything like that whilst I’m out.” She said, Avery’s ears pricking at that. It got him thinking, what did his dad know? He was involved in Dark Wizardry, perhaps Avery should probe about that? Learn something for himself. This play might serve him, he thought, however much he disliked his father. wc: 1626
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III

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• FROM HER, TO ETERNITY •

“There is a fate worse than death, and it’s living to hear eulogies for the person you could have been. ”

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7th Aug | Moredell Manor, Bath
Avery's Hex #136b5c

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	----- 𝔉or a lie to work, it must be shrouded in truth. The Leveret lot dispersed from the breakfast room; leaving Kipney to perform his house elf magic to float the sterling silver silverware dishes, platters and cutlery through the air to the kitchen. Avery had never paid as much attention to what the house elf did, as he didn’t typically wait around to watch it happen; he always had something more important to busy himself with. However, after that breakfast, he remained at the table in thought. How might he get glimpses of things his father knew? Would he simply ask? - Would his father so readily offer the answers? He seemed to think the a lot hinged on playing his father right, who himself had been a dark wizard, Avery knew to be true. The family had tried lying to themselves, just as they lied to the public, but the problem with lies is that they spread like cracks in ice, and you can’t tell how deep they run until it’s too late; and those kinds of cracks leave marks. Avery’s father had left at the same time his mother had, and whilst his mother seemed to have some Ministry business to attend; his father had not. His mother had dressed exceptionally well too, perhaps to make an impression that would last; another machination within her series of plots and plans and politicking that was undoubtedly aimed at getting her back into the reach of power, into the Ministry, into the public once again. His father had nothing to work on for himself, nothing to be his beacon in the dark. His callousness had lost him his family; lost to shredded pride. Willard rarely left Moredell, he rarely corresponded with what few friends he had left. Now all he had was the past and the only thing he could do was feast on it, letting it destroy him further. He had become a burden unto himself, and his family, Avery could see that from a young age but here and now, he had an opportunity to try and capitalise on it; if he could only find the right angle. Avery stumbled over his thoughts for a time, slow to plot a path. In his thought he ambled back through the house, past the atrium and the open doors of a drawing room; the one linked to the floo network. He jolted his gait to a stop, his impetus struggling as he saw his mother necking a glass tumbler of amber liquid down her throat through the corner of his eye. Her deep blue eyes spotted Avery as she set the tumbler down, and there was a hesitance in them. The subtle wrinkle changes around her eyes were signs of palpable strain; something weighed on her, and he was pretty certain that it was him that had her so worried judging by the look on her face. She was often so poised and put together, but something was different now. In the corner of her eye was worry, and it was manifesting cracks through her crafted countenance in a way Avery had never seen. It was almost as if he was the cause of her worries, as if he was a problem which shrouded and drowned out the small inkling of desiderium that he detected in her. When he naturally frowned in question, she realised that he had spotted her just as she had spotted him, and in that moment she quashed any form of care or worry from her gaze and adopted the steel-visage of Cadence Leveret; somebody that was not his mother but something much more maleficent. In the next moment, Cadence had clutched a handful of floopower spoken aloud and erupted into brief green flames, leaving him to face the cold of their big empty house alone, to consider her odd and almost ominous look for a moment more. Avery came to the conclusion that perhaps she was nervous for her meeting, and he shrugged it off. Almost idly, Avery had walked to a part of the house he had not been in for some time; the corridor that lead to Willard’s study. He hadn’t thought about it, not at all; he had planned to idly walk all the way to his bedroom, to plan out an angle of attack; what questions he should ask and how he might appease his father’s ego just right to get answers to those questions; he rarely did things without prior thought or pre-planning. He had a keen instinct but this was probably the scariest thing he’d done and he was just doing it automatically without thought. He had finally struck the thought he had been trying to find buried within his laboured mind. It was odd how that happened sometimes, thoughts surfacing exactly when he wasn’t thinking of them. He was obviously not naturally gifted in Legillimency, he thought. – Before he had time to reconsider, his pale hand had reached and knocked upon the door. It was too late now, he was the kind of boy who would throw himself at things, supposedly. Avery had caved to impulse; thought was exactly what he didn’t need. “Come in.” came his father’s voice from beyond the door that had once served as an imposing barrier, guaranteed fear laying beyond; and here was he, just strutting up to it and walking right through. “Here I am, I just wanted to show some int–” Avery spoke, but it soon trailed as his eyes took in the room. It was striking, and not at all what he thought it would be. What he had taken to be a small dark room for Willard to hole himself up in was actually a striking study. The most striking feature was the dark polished wood on every surface. Tall towering bookshelves lined the walls, each filled to the brim with books. Avery had been sure he’d read every book in Moredell before he’d seen this, each self laden with tomes of varying description; ones made of different hides, ones embossed, ones faded, ones glittering in the firelight, ones etched with primitive pagan runes and ones that were so old the edges of the paper sheets that been been individually bound within had begun to dematerialise and turn to dust. On the other wall, a dominating fireplace was the captivating point of the room, where above the mantlepiece a portrait was hung; covered in a sheet and revealing the bottom corner of its golden frame. The room had several small tables dotted around, covered in open books, trinkets, quills. The table closest to the door was the cleanest, and atop it was a few crystalline decanters and bottled drinks, as well as the partially unwrapped package that Kipney had earlier been couriering around the house. It appeared to be a prestige edition alcohol. - Further into the room was a low sofa, an armchair and a writing desk. Willard was on none of them, instead he was tossing a letter into the roaring flames. “Mh? - Oh right.” He said, seemingly not having thought that Avery would take him up on the challenge. “I didn’t think you had so many- things.” Avery said, his eyes shifting throughout the room and finding something of interest every foot or so his dark orbs travelled. “I had a life before Azkaban, you know.” Willard said with some amount of venom. Avery stopped a sneer from forming; he just wanted to shout out that whatever life Willard had had was worthless, and that it had clearly been taken from him whilst he was there. Why had he always been so bitter? - He knew the answer, he just refused to believe it could contort someone so. That was when he noticed the plaque under the portrait just over Willard’s shoulder, a Norden piece. Willard had covered it in protection of his pride, he clearly hadn’t wanted to see it, to be reminded of his failures and so on. That was why; he was weak, weak and bitter. Everywhere he turned, there was a coldness in this house and he could feel it growing in his own chest, like a weight. “I wouldn’t know. - What did you do before?” Avery said, coldly then, as he stepped further into the room. His jibe was designed to push his father, try and play on his guilt, to see what he could learn. He didn’t suppose that any results would be anything of use, but he enjoyed dissecting people; why they thought the way they did, why they were the way they were. Avery had given over to impulse, he wanted answers as to why he was forced to live this way; why they always had to dance around Willard in their own home. Something had led to this, so yes, he wanted to know what came before this sorry existence. “Hah.” Willard shook his head and pushed himself off of the mantlepiece. He couldn’t quite believe the manner in which they were speaking; how direct they were being, frank and unjaded with lies. He must have respected that, because he turned to Avery then and considered him for a few long moments. “That isn’t a conversation to have without a drink.” He gestured to the box then before he continued, clearly intending to begin a ‘long’ tale and expecting Avery to pour him the drink throughout. “I was an adventurer, a free spirit. Like your brother, Barrow, except I hunted artefacts in my youth as opposed to thrills. - It was all for the sake of study, back then.” “In our world, powerful people create artefacts of some kind- of themselves, of their own power, of their will, so that their designs might be inflicted upon the world. With any luck, they last for hundreds of years and the witch or wizard gets comfort in knowing that their will extends beyond their short, pathetic lives.” “Originally I wanted to rid the world of those such objects, and so I joined the ministry. Sometimes it was sanctioned to study them, for the Ministry’s sake, and other times it was not. - There was this one fable that really stuck with me, throughout my rise in the Ministry; since before I met your mother really. It’s there, on that shelf.” Willard pointed to a purple tome, and Avery was pulled from his fixed attention. He hadn’t yet poured his father a drink, or even gone near the box of liquor and before he did, he found himself walking to the shelf to where WIllard had pointed, to pull it from between the tightly packed tomes. As Avery read the title in his head, his father read it aloud. Avery was familiar with the book, he considered it a dark fiction book, that spoke of a dark truth behind the splendorous tales that are told to the young and naive. He had read it, even; for there was a tattered copy of this very book in amongst one of the old attic rooms. Avery had only recently found and read it earlier this year, and it was of interest to him not because of the tales of the origins of grumpkins and snarks, or the truth behind Papa Noël but because of… “Eldric Morderan, a dark wizard of old who was said to have been the first wizard to have created a object of power; something beyond simple enchantment. He was said to have perfected the art of this magic and stored it in a fortified obsidian vault-box, the collection of all his works.” Willard completed, leaving Avery to wonder that he seemed to share more with his father at this moment than he thought he would. The book was an account of popular legends and the truth behind them. “It was all fables and rubbish to me, until I met Ignatius Buchannan Callan. - He published that book when he was in his twenties, and here I found him, in his nineties having dedicated his life to one objective; to finding the heirs of Morderan in search of ways to extend his life; to gain the secrets of the craft. “I suppose he had some kind of proof?” Avery surmised, jumping ahead to Willard’s irritation. “I said this wouldn’t do without a drink, boy. He said sharply. “Ignatius had records of the Morderan line proving they existed, but it had died out well over a hundred years ago. - But in his searching, he had found a repository of memories that lead him to a mausoleum built by the family.” He elaborated. ”Memories can be tampered with though.” Avery said as he moved back over to the table by the door, his eyes fixed on Willard in confusion; surely there was something more than that. This was something they both knew- something they’d even discussed over breakfast… “Yes boy.” Willard’s irritation grew. “No one in their right mind would follow this goose-chase, but Ignatius had spent years doing just that for one reason or another.” Willard moved to the arm-chair then, settling into it as though it was an extension of him. Avery absentmindedly opened the packaged liquor that arrived today, instead of a vintage he had already opened, and poured the foul smelling amber liquid into a crystalline tumbler, thinking nothing of it; his mother drank the stuff so it couldn’t be all that bad. After he handed Willard the glass, he spoke again: “And then?” “And then he found it!” Willard said, interrupted before he could put his lips to the tumbler. “He found the mausoleum and showed me his memory of it, he showed me an object he had stolen from there.” Avery hadn’t expected that, a legend that was actually true? How hadn’t Ignatius or his father become the greatest wizards to have ever lived, or at least; the richest. A small part of his father seemed hesitant then, a small section seeming to close off for one reason or another. Avery could see the shutters coming down, right when he didn’t want them to. “You see, real power is persuasive, Avery. I saw what Ignatius saw and had, and I wanted it for myself. - Soon enough I found myself searching for the mausoleum myself, or anything connected with it. I became enamoured with the idea of being the one to unveil its secrets to the world. I began collecting dark objects, rather than destroying them for my day job and the only way to be rid of them was to offload them to those that would buy them. I studied what I could of them and told Ignatius of my plan but he- he didn’t want it to come out. He didn’t want Morderan’s craft unveiled; he had a change of heart.” He said, almost defeatedly as he flicked his brown eyes between Avery and the fire. It was all becoming clearer, and not at all what Avery had expected after all this time. Avery thought his father was meant to be a Dark Wizard himself, and whilst killing a half-blood, taking interest in esoteric elements of magic and smuggling artefacts of such nature whilst working in that relevant department at the ministry could be argued by some as crossing that line; but Avery didn’t see that now. He saw weakness. He saw a man that was corrupted by the idea of other people's power, but he was not strong enough to realise it for himself; to inflict his will as he wanted. Surely there was no way his father had missed the opportunity ahead of him, he had let real power slip from his grasp; all for a handful of galleons. Willard took a sip of his drink then. “Hang on, you saw the memory though, surely you knew where it was?” Avery quizzed. “Ignatius had altered the memory he showed me. The location was wrong – ” “What?! You’re saying that after all that, you were fooled by a false memory? You let Morderan escape you because you were too weak to know when you were being lied to? - You let us suffer for–” Avery grit his teeth. Willard was more than a failure of a father, he was a failure of a wizard. “Avery, I don’t want to talk about this anymore.” Willard said, fidgeting in his seat. He was seemingly agitated, and his anger was bubbling to the surface. He had seen the flash of anger in Avery and that had changed something in his eye; perhaps he had seen the same hunger for power he had in himself in him, and he didn’t like the look of it. “So you did find it then? How did you find the real location? I didn’t think you were good at memory charms.” Avery interrupted, something his father hated. His questions were mocking, rhetorical even; tailor-made and laced with venom that had built up over years. “Avery, enough.” Willard said, more flustered. He looked red hot with temper, his skin flushing and a light sweat on his brow. “The great Willard Leveret, infamous dark wizard! - You’ve taken us to the dirt and for what? What have you got to show for it but your criminal record and your dingy hole. – You’re not like mother. You’re weak. ” Avery’s own temper had been something he inherited from the man he now shamed, years of thoughts and build up was slipping through his ill-thought interrogation. Willard was pathetic, and now the illusion was cracking; Avery was pressing all the buttons he knew that Willard would respond to; sacrificing any chance of a relationship with the man and it didn’t bother him one bit; standing opposite his seated father, who was hunched forward practically apoplectic with rage that Avery would so brazenly disrespect him. Everything that he was, at scrutiny by his own progeny. It burned within him, engulfing him whole. “I killed him! I killed him. You speak to me so, but I showed him. I cursed the real location out of his pathetic mind and- and I ended him. He was weak, not me!” He spat angrily, his teeth gritting as his anger raged. It made him look dishevelled, sick even. He was sweating, and his face was contorted in an ugly way; Avery had expected that response, but he just stood, aloof. Any ounce of fear was gone. Willard was pathetic and weak, but at least now Avery knew why he had thrown his family to the dirt; for something true, supposedly. Willard took a big breath and went to rage at him— but he found he could not speak. In the next moment, blood splattered out of his mouth, flecking Avery’s pasty skin and staining his white shirt crimson. Avery was stunned. His father clasped at his throat and had begun struggling to breathe. He was choking on his own blood. The heat of the moment had swept them both up; his father’s anger had masked the effects of whatever he drank; which he had since dropped to the floor. It became clear that Willard had been poisoned, by Avery no less. Just as the crystalline tumbler came to him then, so too did the thought that his father’s memory would hold the location of the Morderan mausoleum. Willard had nothing to show of his tale, but the one thing he did have was the spark of potential. Avery was frozen. Willard was pathetic and weak, and Avery pitied him then, but if he let him die the secrets of Morderan would go with him. Ambition came to a logger-head with shame, a tiny part of him hoped for his redemption but he knew that Willard had failed their family. He had been the cause of their outcast status; the architect of their fall from grace. Even if he knew where the mausoleum was, why hadn’t he used such to better all their lives; sized power, risen as a real dark wizard and not some coward that speaks the easy sayings and phrases behind closed doors with friends. Avery was going to let him die, until he found himself bringing out his wand. Part of him had asked himself what he could gain from his father, and he now knew the answer to be; everything. He knew sufficient charms; he was going to save him. Pity had paved the way for mercy. Throughout the chaos, and without his or his fathers’ knowing, Cadence Leveret had entered the room behind them. Her presence was as cold as it had been when Avery had seen her earlier; practically chilling the air as she stepped into the room through the shadowy corridor where she had been lying in wait, watching through the door Avery had left open. Avery was stunned in confusion again, struggling to process. She had left for work, he had seen her. Why was she back? It all started to make sense when she reached out a hand to pull him back a step. Everything that had happened, had been planned. Every aspect of the day. Cadence had chosen today, having seen the paper before Willard had. She had used the story as an excuse to get out of the house– which meant that she had used Avery in this plot too. That was what the look she had on her face had been for; her plot was coming together and she was making the active choice to involve Avery in her dirty work. - Had she shown him a tumbler of amber liquid to subconsciously plant that idea in his head– or had she planted those seeds even earlier by getting Kipney to show the package on his mail round? It’d make sense, Willard’s study was downstairs and Avery’s bedroom was upstairs. Did she steer the conversation at breakfast to get Avery and Willard to play to her tune? The revelations were dazzling and he took them for truth, each one as malicious as the last. She was making the choice for him. She was going to let Willard die, and with him their problems; at the cost of untold power in Morderan, at the cost of Avery’s innocence, and for what? - With Willard gone she could rise again from the ashes, to bring their family back from the brink of shadow and impropriety, into the light; but at how great a cost? This was the start of an unfinished symphony. Avery watched every moment, unable to look at Cadence as Willard clutched his throat, spluttering. Whatever poison had been imbibed was catastrophic. It seemed to Avery that Willard’s innards had been corroded given how violently his father reacted. When clawing at his throat and chest didn’t work, he reached for Cadence and stumbled to the floor; he had figured it out all too late. In his state, he looked up from the floor, wide brown eyes searching for his killer; no, his killers. That moment struck Avery then; he had had as much a part in this as she had. Death was so darkly beautiful, and yet sight of her was a sentence; Avery barely felt the beginning of a baleful dirge wrapping its tendrils around him, seizing his heart whole and conquering it with haunting ease. It was all consuming, and inescapably pervasive. It was inevitable, and almost graceful in its power as it bound them forever, and it was done. “Are you going to Obliviate me?” He asked with a chilled understanding after they waited a few moments, a tinge of fear behind his resolute voice and eyes. They had watched life escape Willard Leveret, and Avery hadn’t resisted her machination; he hadn’t been seduced by the idea of all the things his father knew. For the first time in years, the pair had spoken properly, and in a manner of moments Avery learned more than he could have imagined; it left him thinking what else he could have learned if he had not feared him sooner. It didn’t matter now, he was going to forget all about it in a few, painless moments. Perhaps with his memories, she would also take this trauma. – He found himself asking what he would do in her shoes, and so cool acceptance came over him. “No, Avery.” Cadence said, her gaze ripped from analysing Willard at his harrowing question. She was wrong, and weak like Willard was. She had used Avery to be the breaker of her chains, at the expense of untold secrets Willard held and at the expense of her son she now realised. The moment was palpable, again he could see the thought run through her head, it would’ve been easy, she had thought; that much was discernible in her gaze. He would remember that. She would tell herself- she would tell him that this was all for their collective good. Her next thoughts were also easily read, a small semblance of doubt in her- no, fear. She was met face to face with the monster she had made of herself; but she would tell herself that it was what he had made of her. Still in stunned silence, he watched as she absolved herself of blame, unsure what to say or do. Avery was in shock. “This is the start of a new life for us. I have given us, everything.” She reasoned. wc: 4404
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IV

This plot has been approved by index and proof is available upon request.