Tyrant Rising

Chapter 1: The Approaching Swarm (Part 4)

"The transformation? Or the fact that the backstabbing bastard turns into an omen of death?" Unlike Boot, Wilkes made no effort to keep his voice down.

"He was exonerated, Wilkes. You do know what the word means, don't you? Or is it too many syllables for you to handle?" Tonks' hair had turned red with suppressed rage. As she and her mother were the only family Black had left who weren't Death Eaters, he had become something of a cross between a surrogate father and an uncle to her after her father's murder at the hands of Voldemort's followers.

"I'd say he only thinks with his cock, but it's probably too small to fit even the few brain cells he has in it," Bell spoke up, surprising Moody somewhat. She was a quiet woman, off the Quidditch pitch at least; she was known to be one of the mouthiest chasers in the unofficial auror league, as well as one of the best. Weasley didn't try particularly hard to conceal her smirk as Wilkes turned red at the slight.

Shouldn't have tried to hit on every female member of the squad in the week before the mission. Moody couldn't help but think to himself, even as Black transformed back and seemed prepared to make a report. "What've you got?" He asked before the animagus could open his mouth.

"Death. A lot of it, decay too, whoever did this didn't clean up immediately." Black's voice was sombre, Moody ignored Wilkes' swearing, it was an understandable response.

"Anything else?" Meaning, any idea who did this.

"Nothing I've ever smelt before, there were a lot of them, though." Black's fingers were tight around his wand, whatever he'd smelt, it was making him even more uneasy than he'd been already. Wilkes gave another scoff, muttering something about not trusting the word of a traitor, Tonks opened her mouth to respond but Moody cut them both off.

"Cut the shit people, we're going in. Wands out." Moody ignored Black's rolled eyes, they'd all had their wands out even before they apparated, but it paid to be too careful. "Weasley, Thomas, you're our right flank. Black, with me up front. Bell and Tonks, you're our rear guard. Wilkes and Boot, that leaves you two on the left." Moody gestured as he spoke, demonstrating where he wanted each of his squad members to go.

The group slid into formation with the mechanical precision of expert training and long experience, the Ministry Order -what the militant Ministry regime had been called since Dumbledore took the lead and it merged with his 'secret' Order of the Phoenix- didn't have an elite shock troop division, not that Moody hadn't been lobbying for one for the past decade, but if it did; this team would be the cream of the crop.

The aurors were close enough to clump up in order to cover each-others backs should a firefight break out but spread far enough apart that they couldn't all be taken out by a single overcharged exploding curse. Moody raised his hand, lifting two fingers and then pointing them toward the boundary of the shadow that concealed the village from his magical eye. As one, the group slipped through the barrier and into the unknown.

The unknown turned out to be as desolate and unnerving as it had appeared from beyond the shadow's reach, at least as far as Moody's mundane eye went. To his magical eye, it was as if he had stepped into the heart of a dementor breeding ground: he was surrounded by impenetrable darkness. The sensation of the tool which normally gave him complete awareness of his surroundings being so blinded was more disquieting than Moody would have expected, he could feel a shiver of unease building at the base of his spine. Then he squashed it. He was too old and too experienced to let the loss of a single advantage unsettle him.

Looking around, he was a little surprised to find the rest of the squad having similar reactions. Wilkes was bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet in a way that he clearly thought made him look alert and prepared, but only made it seem as if he desperately needed to pee. Tonks' hair was slowly bleeding white from the tips, Boot was tapping his wand against his thigh in a way that was liable to blow his foot off someday, and Bell's head was swivelling, checking the surroundings constantly, too fast to get a proper look at anything. Thomas' hand had strayed to the inner pocket of his robes, his thumb moving as if stroking something, probably the man's sketchbook.