“You’re going to die a horrible, painful death.”
Truer words had never been spoken with a cigarette betwixt a set of lips. Augustus Rookwood had curled his fingers around the body of the cigarettes and had taken it from his mouth with an audible pop, sending bilious rings into the air as a steady smirk crossed his lips. Before him, his nephew Theodore had fidgeted awkwardly in the seat he’d taken, fiddling with his tie, his cufflinks and his hair. Augustus had chuckled, Theodore had despaired. Both knew that the ground upon which the young man now trod was perilous yet they were all in the unique position of understanding that their cards were now better than ever; as Death Eaters, they had never, ever had a better hand.
For the first time in years, decades, Number 12, Grimmauld Place was open to a Death Eater. The Mark had been shrouded beneath deep magic for as long as he’d had it but now that deception was all the more important as Theodore stood across the road from the urban manor house. He took in the old windows, the moth eaten curtains peeking from around the stark, white frames and he eyed ruefully the front door which was imposing and so very indicative of the people who had called that place home. The Black Family was partly belonging to his own. He had a right to the house just as the Potters did, as the Malfoys did – as every other Pureblood family did.
Unfurling his fingers from his palms, Theodore skipped over the road, passing behind an old Peugeot that was spraying water over the pavement he’d been stood on. Licking his lips, Theodore bobbed up the steps and knocked on the door, gaining admittance for himself. Once inside he shrugged off his light, summer coat to ward off the rain and folded it over his arm, gaping at the expansive hall that was not unlike his own quarter of the home he had grown up in. There was a taste, he realised, which all Purebloods seemed to share. Though, of course, it might have been because both places were built at a similar time. For whatever reason, it all felt too similar for comfort.
Stepping through the hall, Theodore opened the door of what he presumed to be the kitchen if his father’s recollections of a time when they all used to crowd in there, when it was still a home, were accurate. Upon opening it he found the Order of the Phoenix. All of them, milling around chatting about everything and nothing, drinking tea and smiling. Theodore felt his stomach drop into his shoes and he ducked his head, skating through the small throng of people to his wife.
“Hello love,” he murmured, pressing a quick kiss to her cheek as he dropped his coat onto the back of her chair.
His hand fell to Hallie’s back for a moment and he recollected himself by smoothing his fingers across the material of her shirt. He swallowed heavily, then he spotted the tea. Theodore made himself up one – which really consisted of adding a liberal amount of sugar to a cup – and did the same for Hallie before sitting down beside her, schooling his features to an expression of muted interest as he sipped at his tea. He felt so woefully out of place. Yet, he was there for a reason – a double-edged one: to keep Hallie safe and, as you’d imagine, to trade secrets with the Death Eaters.
He really was going to die a horrible, painful death.