the hunt begins(chapter 156)

Chapter 156

The kind of laughter that had nothing to do with joy. Grey's head fell back, his drenched hair sticking to his face as the laughter poured from him. It was jagged and harsh, filled with the kind of pain that broke minds and shattered souls. He laughed until his chest ached, until the sound became a scream. "They'll pay," he whispered, his voice shaking. His eyes — wide, bright, and far too empty — turned back to the stones. "Don't worry, my love. My little star. They'll pay dearly." The words were a promise. A curse. A vow carved from rage and despair.

He reached forward, his hand pressing against Hunter's name. "I'll make sure of it." And then — softer — "Goodbye." They weren't buried here. He knew that. Their bodies were far away, hidden where no one could touch them. This place — these stones — were just symbols. Just a place for the world to mourn. But for Grey Snape, the war had just begun.

-scene change-

The market was bustling with life. The air was thick with the scent of spices and roasting meats, the sound of merchants hawking their wares blending with the chatter of shoppers. It was the kind of place where people walked without fear, their minds occupied with simple pleasures and daily errands.

And among them were the members of the Order of Merlin — blending seamlessly into the crowd. They laughed. They bartered. They carried on as if they had not destroyed everything. As if they had not stolen his life. But Grey Snape had not forgotten. At the far end of the market, disguised as an unremarkable wooden gate, stood the entrance to one of their hidden outposts. A place where they felt safe. Secure. Untouchable. They were wrong.

The gate exploded inward with a deafening crash. Wood and stone shattered, dust and splinters filling the air. The force of the blast knocked several workers off their feet, and those still standing scrambled for their wands, their eyes wide with shock and confusion. "What the hell was that?!" one of them shouted, coughing through the dust. "Was it an attack?!" another called, their voice rising with panic.

"Get ready!" a senior member barked. "Form up! Shields at the ready!" The dust began to settle — and then a small metal flask rolled across the stone floor. It stopped in the center of the room with an eerie stillness. Hissssss. Thick, dark smoke poured from the flask, billowing out in every direction. It spread rapidly, filling the space with an unnatural heaviness. The air grew cold — sharp and acrid, burning their noses and throats. "Seal it!" someone ordered, their voice cracking. "Seal the room!" "Too late!" another gasped, pulling their cloak over their face. "What is this stuff?!" "Don't breathe it in!" "Is it poison?!" "Where's the attacker?!" Their shouts turned frantic — and then they saw him.

A tall figure emerged from the smoke, slow and deliberate, his steps echoing against the stone. He was clad in the robes of a witch doctor — long, black and adorned with bones and feathers. A wide-brimmed hat cast his face into shadow, and beneath it, a mask stared out at them — a long, birdlike beak and hollow, empty eyes. He did not speak. He did not raise his wand.

He only watched. "Kill him!" someone screamed, and the room erupted into chaos. Spells lit the air — flashes of red, green, and blue streaking through the smoke. Stunning spells, cutting curses, binding charms — they attacked with desperation and fury. The air cracked with the force of their magic.

But the figure did not move. The spells passed through the smoke — and missed. Their aim wavered, their hands trembling. The air grew heavier still, and the first scream tore through the room. "Agh—! My—my head!" A witch fell to her knees, clutching at her skull as blood began to trickle from her nose. "It—it hurts!" Another wizard staggered, his face pale and slick with sweat. Blood leaked from his ears, his eyes wide and unfocused.

The smoke did its work. One by one, they fell. Their magic cores writhed within them, like something trying to break free. Pain surged through their bodies — twisting, burning. They coughed, choking on blood, their vision swimming. "Get—get out!" someone choked, clutching their throat. They raised their wand, the spell for Apparition already on their lips— But their senses were in chaos. They twisted. They spun. With a sharp crack, their body folded inward on itself — and they fell, lifeless. Others tried the same. And one by one, they died. "Please—" a voice whimpered. "Please, stop—"

But the figure only watched. Unblinking. Unmoving. Uncaring.The survivors collapsed to the ground, their bodies twitching as blood pooled around them. The sound of their ragged breathing filled the room — slow, shallow, fading. And still, he did not speak. The witch doctor simply stood there, his mask tilted slightly — as if he were observing. Studying. Judging.As if they were not people — but insects.

-scene change-

The Ministry of Magic was a fortress of bureaucracy — grand, ancient, and seemingly impenetrable. But within its sprawling departments, hidden behind the veils of law and governance, lay corruption — a cancer rotting at its core. The Order of Merlin had embedded itself deeply, using this outpost as one of its many roots.

They believed themselves untouchable here. Protected. Shielded by layers of enchantments, illusions, and wards older than most bloodlines. They relied on their voices — their spells woven from spoken incantations and word magic — the very foundation of their power. But words meant nothing to the dead, as they would soon be.

The entrance to their hidden department was tucked behind a nondescript corridor — an unmarked door that led to a space twisted with illusions. The air shimmered, distorting reality, cloaking the room in endless falsehoods. Spells of confusion and misdirection layered the walls, and the very light felt wrong, colors bending and flickering.

The Order's members went about their work with a sense of ease — confident in their secrecy, their safety. Quills scratched against parchment, and whispered words of power drifted through the air like a symphony. A woman adjusted a series of glowing runes on a stone tablet, while a man stood over a map, tracing lines of light with his wand. And then the door broke.

Not with an explosion, not with fire or fury — but with a slow, grinding creak. Wood splintered and cracked, the frame warping as the heavy door fell inward with a dull thud. Dust rolled into the room, thick and suffocating. Every head turned toward the entrance. And from the darkness beyond the door, the witch doctor stepped through. He was tall and thin, his black robes sweeping the floor as he moved with slow, deliberate grace. His wide-brimmed hat cast his face in shadow, but the mask beneath it stared — cold, emotionless. A long, curved beak jutted forward, and the hollow eyeholes reflected nothing but emptiness. Bones and feathers hung from his cloak, clinking softly with every step. He did not speak. He never did. "Intruder!" someone shouted, raising their wand. "Seal the room!"