29th November
"I didn't think you were going to show," a deep, gravelly voice said from behind. "Thought you'd forgotten all about me."
Hermione spun toward the sound and drew her wand, aiming it at his throat on instinct. The tip lit with a small green light; the killing curse ready, the incantation at the tip of her tongue.
"Wow, wow, wow, easy there killer." She could hear the smirk in Medusa's voice as he held his hands up, showing her that he wasn't armed - not yet. She knew all too well how quickly he could draw his wand and point it at her temple; he'd done it enough times during their meetings. "Don't shoot the messenger, Lilith."
"I don't have time for games Medusa," she snapped, the charm on her voice box unnaturally distorting the words. "What's the information?"
"Ah, ah, ah, not so fast," he said, waving his index finger at her. "First things first, you made a right cock-up last week. I told you to be careful. You almost lost the artefact. Do you have any idea how valuable that thing is?"
Her fingers twitched to hex him. "My cock up? Are you serious? The team followed your instructions! And thanks for telling us about The Vhaltera Dagger by the way; they almost died because of that thing! If it's anyone's fault, it's yours because of your shitty information!"
Medusa tilted his head to the side. She could tell he was mocking her, even from underneath his mask. "I wasn't there. Don't blame me because your team was underprepared. I gave you enough; the location, the time, the size of the group. Everything else is on you. Your teams' failure is on you."
Hermione couldn't help but flinch, or stop her spine from straightening.
"I take it you lost one of your own?"
Hermione stayed silent. The grip on her wand tightened, her knuckles turned white as she swallowed the bile in her throat. Colin's death was still too fresh, like scratching an open wound. The impulse to lash out was growing stronger, each cruel torment from Medusa's tongue another lashing that pushed her towards the edge.
God, how she wanted to kill him some days. Wanted to tear his eyes from his skull and shove them down his throat just to silence him. He always seemed to know how to get under her skin, rile her up to the point the rational part of her brain dulled and she was a slave to her impulses.
That couldn't happen today. She needed to be calm. Couldn't risk pissing him off and losing their rat. Couldn't kill him right there on the spot like a dog. No matter how much she wanted to. He was too valuable; his information was too important.
"I'll take that as a 'Yes' then."
"Why are you even doing this?" she snapped, an acidic lilt creeping into her voice. She didn't lower her wand. "Isn't it a little late for redemption for you? How much blood is on your ledger?"
"Oh, I've lost count, sweetheart. The list goes on and on." Medusa started to circle her; predatory, the way a wolf circles a baby deer. "But I don't pretend to be something I'm not. I know what I've done, I know who I am. Do you know who you are?"
"What are you getting at? I don't have time for games. Spit it out!"
Medusa chuckled under his mask. His pace slowed a little, but he didn't stop circling her. "How does your Order feel about some of your foot soldiers casting killing curses? I hear from a very reliable source, that the Granger girl has become quite the little murderer, and I know she's not the only one. They wouldn't have sent you to me, into the snake pit as it were, if they didn't think you could defend yourself. So, I wonder, how much blood is on your ledger?"
It was a test if she'd ever heard one. A challenge. An open invitation for an execution. He knew the effect he was having on her, probably guessed it from the way her chin jutted out defiantly, or the deadly green light illuminating from the tip of her wand.
Hermione took a calming breath, feeling her shoulders tense and relax before they slumped altogether. She finally lowered her wand. "More than I would like. It keeps me up at night, as it should. But this is war; we don't have time to be gentle anymore."
"Indeed. Spoken like a true Death Eater," Medusa said as he finished another rotation. She could feel his gaze burning into hers as he made another round. Examining her, dissecting every twitch of her hand and micro movement. Sizing her up. "I wonder, were you a Slytherin back in Hogwarts?"
"What does that have to do with anything?"
"Ah, it seems I was mistaken. Only a Gryffindor would roar at such an accusation. You lions are all the same; your bark is always worse than your bite."
Hermione snorted, feeling her lip twitch upwards into a sort of smirk. "I can prove you wrong if you'd like?"
"Yeah? What were you thinking? Small Knockback jinx to the knees? Little blinding hex to leave me vulnerable for ten minutes? I know you lions don't like to use lethal curses if you can help it.
"How about a hex that boils the blood in your brain?" she asked, loving the way he paused at her words, like it caught him off guard. "Nothing brightens up your Tuesday evening quite like seeing a man fall to his knees in agony."
Medusa chuckled at that, his shoulders shaking as he started walking again. The sound was menacing, vibrating low in his chest. It slid down her spine like freezing water. She suppressed a shudder. "You are full of surprises Lilith, even after all these years."
"Why do you care what house I was in? What difference does it make to all of this? Are you going to switch sides, again, over some pathetic, long-forgotten quidditch house rivalry?"
He came to a stop in front of her. He was close. Much, much too close. Their chests were almost touching. "Perhaps. Maybe, after all these years of our secret meetings, I'm growing curious as to who exactly is under that mask of yours."
"I'll show you mine if you show me yours."
"You first," he said with a nod of his head. She could hear the smile in his voice.
Hermione narrowed her eyes at him, knowing he couldn't see from under the porcelain, doll-like mask she was wearing. She was dying to know who he was, to figure out which of Voldemort's loyal dogs had betrayed him.
Voldemort had started ranking his generals early in the war, rewarding loyalty and devotion by ensuring that different levels of his army wore different masks. A way to showcase their ruthlessness, and intimidate The Order.
At the bottom of the pile were the Black Masks. They wore the usual dark, cast iron masks; the ones that had given Hermione nightmares when she was at Hogwarts. They were nothing to her now. The majority were freshly trained and new to the ways of war. They were still lethal, but most of the time they were just impulsive. Eager to show their worth to Voldemort, but easy to manipulate. They made excellent hostages for interrogations, usually sang like canaries on the first night - no curses needed. Harry encouraged capturing those types of soldiers, probably saw it as more humane, seeing as they broke quickly.
Next on the hierarchy was the Gold Masks; the second in command. There were maybe thirty in Voldemort's army. Highly trained, and immeasurably dangerous. Their masks were skulls crafted from the finest gold, every curve, and dip of the metal shining and covered in spikes. They were incredible on the battlefield, vicious killers that spared no one. Hermione guessed they were Voldemort's oldest followers; Yaxley, Rodolphus and Rabastan Le Strange, and Barty Crouch Jr. The fights always ended in multiple Order members' dead if Gold Masks were on the field.
The highest-ranking Death Eaters were the Demon Masks. Voldemort's right hands. There were only two of them; a man and a woman. The woman was obviously Bellatrix. She didn't even try to conceal her identity most of the time; her wild, untameable black hair clearly visible beneath her hood.
Nothing was known about the male Demon Mask other than he was relentless on the field. Lethal. A monster. The handful of times he'd been seen on the battlefield he'd left a sea of corpses behind him, no survivors.
The aim of the Demon masks was to instil fear, and they did the job perfectly. The masks themselves were grotesque, but incredibly intricate. The top half was a pure black human skull, similar to the black masks; the lower jawbone was an animal's - a wolfs or a lion's, perhaps. The jaw was made of striking crimson metal with long, sharp prominent fangs that stretched up either side of the mouthpiece. The most renowned feature of the Demon masks were the horns; two huge, elaborate things made from the darkest metal, that curved out from their temples to cast the most sinister shadow.
But Medusa wore a simple black mask. Nothing unusual or fear-inducing about it. It was a façade if she'd ever seen one.
Hermione knew that he was high-ranking. She guessed a Gold Mask, possibly turned out of spite for being deemed not worthy or dangerous enough for a pair of horns. He wouldn't have been able to gather this much information if he wasn't in the inner circle. He was intelligent too, frustratingly so. He'd managed to pass on invaluable information for years, completely compromising Voldemort's power and giving The Order a chance. So many lives had been saved and battles won because of him.
Despite his downright predatory stance and sharp tongue, Hermione had always thought he was interesting. Found their small battle of wits and sparring matches of words oddly enthralling. Sometimes she thought - if circumstances were different - she might have actually found him appealing -
Then she remembered which side he was on. Remembered which master he'd chosen to serve, and the thought was extinguished as quickly as it'd ignited.
No, there was nothing redeemable about Medusa. No matter how much intelligence he leaked. He was a monster. A vile, inexcusable murderer. He'd probably killed so many of her friends. Probably murdered hundreds of Muggles and slept like a baby at night.
"They're moving some girls in a few weeks," he said, derailing her train of thought. "Seven in total, I believe."
"Who?"
Medusa held his hands behind his back, and started to circle her again. "Well, one is Shacklebolt's daughter, so I'm sure he'll be very eager to rescue her."
"Why now?" she asked, her mind already formulating a hundred different strategies. "Who are the others?"
"Are those really the most important questions right now?" he hissed, voice low as a whisper but sharp as a blade.
She tried again. "Where are they taking them?"
"To The Dark Lords headquarters," he answered, tone lighter, a purr; apparently pleased with her question. "He means to keep them close and use them as a bargaining chip later. I believe he wants to use them to draw Potter out. A trade; seven lives in exchange for one. You lot are stupid enough to fall for it. Hero complex and all."
Fuck. Medusa was right.
Harry would undoubtedly want to offer himself in exchange. Wouldn't be able to stop himself from being a sacrificial lamb, especially if young witches were involved. They couldn't let that happen. The prophecy was clear; Harry needed to be the one to kill Voldemort. He was their last hope. If Voldemort got his claws into Harry, the war would be over. There would be nothing left to fight for.
"It will be a simple operation, in and out," Medusa said. "Can you manage that?"
"Yes."
"Good."
She turned to leave, her hands already reaching for the portkey in her bag -
"Oh, and Lilith?"
"Yes?" she asked without turning around to face him.
"Send your best soldiers on this one. The Dark Lord is furious that his last mission was intercepted, he'll be meaning to draw blood this time."
2nd December
Hermione woke to a scream.
It wasnt unusual. She quite often rose to the shouts of petrified soldiers waking from night terrors and screams of people calling out to loved ones that'd been murdered in battle.
This scream was different. It was agonised; a blood-curdling wail of pain.
The scouts must've been back from their mission.
Hermione shot out of bed, snatching her wand and satchel from her bedside table, and sprinted to the infirmary. "What happened?" she shouted as soon as she crossed the threshold to the makeshift hospital. Her hands automatically dove into her bag for pain potions she kept there.
"Sneak attack near Manchester," a young healer named Kirsty, said, her voice trembling as much as her hands while she tried to pin down the writhing wizard beneath her. "They... they tried to disarm one of his bases but it was a trap."
The wizard thrashed when Kirsty added Essence of Dittany to the burnt flesh around his shoulder. He gnashed his teeth together, and hissed as the sting of the medicine interacted with his injuries.
Hermione stood beside his cot. "I'll take this one," she said, jutting her chin to the other beds of injured soldiers. "Go tend to the others."
Kirsty released a heavy sigh. She looked like she was on the verge of tears. "Thank you." She quickly schooled her expression, and then turned and ran to one of the injured, her dark blonde hair poking in every direction as she went.
Hermione surveyed the wizard on her bed, trying her best to drown out the screams around her.
Cormac McLaggen was almost unrecognisable. His skin was severely burnt. Scorched flesh covered half his face and the crisp ivory bone of his cheek and eye socket were visible. The left half of his body was burnt beyond repair, meaning he would have little use of his left arm and leg. There wasn't a healing charm in the world strong enough for that type of extensive nerve damage. She just hoped she could repair enough tissue in time so he wouldn't lose them completely.
"What spell did this?" Hermione asked.
"I...it was... eugghhh!" McLaggen squeezed his eyes closed, screaming in pain when Hermione cast a charm to disinfect the wound on his shoulder. "MOTHER FUCKER, IT HURTS SO MUCH!"
"Please calm down, try to breathe. I can't get you an antidote if I don't know what spell caused this."
"Wasn't - eughhhhh - wasn't a spell!"
"Then what was it?"
"The dragon- FUCK!... the dragon was back!"
Hermione looked at Cormac's burnt face and froze. "Black Shadow?"
"Yes," he panted, writhing in agony. "Bla-black Shadow was there!"
Hermione had only seen it once. If the ace up the Order's sleeves was muggle machines, then Voldemort's was Black Shadow.
The dragon was an exceptionally large beast. It had pure black scales, eyes that seemed to glow like Satan, and a wingspan akin to that of a football field. It was twice as big as the Iron Belly she'd ridden while looking for Horcruxes, maybe even three times as large.
It was only ever ridden by the male Demon Mask.
The dragon had earned its name by its gargantuan size. The only warning it was ever present in battle was the giant, demonic-looking shadow on the ground before the field was eclipsed in searing heat.
Seamus had survived an attack by Black Shadow once. Had the common sense to hide under a pile of bodies when the beast flew overhead a final time to check for survivors. He said its flaming breath was hellfire itself. Hotter than anything he'd ever come across. Itd melted the strongest iron, disintegrated bodies to ash and left nothing alive. He said its roar made the very earth shake, and the sound of its wings beating against the air was comparable only to loud claps of thunder. Unforgiving. Heart-stopping.
If Black Shadow was being utilized on the field more, then The Order was fucked.