Message

The rain had slowed, but the scent of smoke and scorched earth still clung to the air. I stood at the centre of the ruin, bodies scattered like discarded dolls, steam rising from the scorched ground where spellfire had kissed flesh. The silence that followed wasn't peace—it was the hush of aftermath, thick with meaning.

And for the first time… I felt in control.

No white-hot fury clawing at my throat. No need to bury myself beneath masks of civility. I wasn't pretending anymore. I wasn't performing for sympathy, trust, or favour. The man I'd trained to become—stone-eyed, calculating, precise—had finally stepped into the light.

For once, I was simply... myself.

Comfortable in my skin.

But comfort is a dangerous thing. Comfort dulls the edge, makes killers forget their purpose.

And I had a show to put on.

The Aurors would come. Even if they were late—as they always were—they'd arrive eventually, breathing fire and protocol. I had to be ready. Let them see what they needed to see.

I reached into my pouch, fingers closing around cold silver. A goblet. Then, from another compartment, a vial of thick, dark red—blood. Still warm.

I moved toward the surviving Death Eaters, my steps unhurried, deliberate. Each pace echoed a choice. They were scattered, injured but alive, groaning or swearing, trying to collect themselves.

One of them noticed me approaching and bared his teeth in a snarl.

"You've no idea who you've just crossed," he spat, voice wet with hate. "We'll end you. We'll end everyone you care about—"

"—You've just signed your death warrant, bastard!"

"I'll slaughter your family while you watch—"

Empty threats. The kind men make when the power slips from their hands and they've nothing left but bark.

I stopped in front of one of them. His lips still moved, but his words no longer mattered.

My wand flicked once.

"Expositum."

The man's chest was laid bare, his robes peeling open and falling away . His feet locked to the ground, knees trembling but unmoving.

"Stupeo Loci."

Rooted.

Then I poured the blood into the goblet and began to etch.

Runes, ancient and binding, curved across his flesh in precise, symmetrical patterns. He screamed—not from pain, not yet—but from fear. He didn't understand what the symbols meant, but his body did. Magic recognizes magic. And it trembles before the unknown.

I worked methodically, moving from one man to the next, painting the circle. When I finished, they were seated around me in a ring, stripped, marked, bound by forces they could neither comprehend nor resist.

The storm returned, not with thunder but with voices. Footsteps. Wands drawn.

Aurors.

I straightened, wiped my hand against my coat, and turned to face the sound.

"Hello, gentlemen," I called out, pleasant as a host greeting late guests to a private performance.

Barty Crouch Sr. stepped into view, wand trained on me, flanked by half a dozen tense, trigger-happy Aurors.

"Identify yourself," he barked. "Now."

I let the moment breathe, silence hanging just long enough to sharpen tension.

"Me?" I asked, almost amused. "No one. Not yet. But soon."

Crouch took a step forward, suspicious eyes flicking between me and the men at my feet.

"I won't ask again. Who are you, and what is this you're doing with these men?"

The Aurors were already studying the prisoners, some of them recognizing the faces. now quiet, now shaking.

My hands slipped casually into my pockets as every wand lit up faintly in threat.

"They're not men," I said evenly. "They're warnings. And you can call me Ashen for now. You'll learn my real name later."

Crouch scowled. "No need to wait. We'll find out today."

He raised his wand, and the others followed suit, wands glowing hot.

One of the prisoners screamed.

"No—don't—!"

Spells flew.

I didn't flinch.

But the runes reacted.

With a sudden, searing light, every symbol on their bodies blazed red. A translucent shield flared to life, spherical and pulsing, surrounding us. The spells struck, but they didn't hit me.

They hit them.

Each impact echoed with a pained shriek. The prisoners convulsed, backs arching, blood vessels straining beneath their skin.

The Aurors halted, wands lowering, horrified.

Crouch stared. "What the hell is this?"

I tilted my head.

"You're a wizard, Barty. Surely you've seen magic before?"

One of the prisoners—older, grizzled, still bleeding from a dozen cuts—choked out words through clenched teeth.

"He's turned us into... a ward system. We're the bloody wardstones! Anything you throw at him hurts us!"

Every Auror's eyes turned to me.

Crouch's voice hardened. "Black magic. You're a Death Eater."

He gestured to the sky, where the Dark Mark still lingered like a scar.

I let out a laugh—soft, dry, tired.

"Me? No. Don't insult me by grouping me with this lot."

I pointed to the Dark Marks etched into their arms—faded, but unmistakable.

Crouch narrowed his eyes. "Then what do you want?"

My tone turned to steel.

"To send a message."

"Message?" His voice cracked slightly. "Why the hate? What do you hope to gain from this madness?"

I paused.

For the briefest moment, he thought he'd touched something. Doubt. Regret. Hesitation. My hands trembled slightly—but then stilled, and my eyes met his.

"What do I hope to gain?" I repeated.

My voice dropped to a quiet fury.

"Tonight, I'm just sending a message."

I drew my wand.

Every Auror cast Protego instinctively.

I smiled. "Relax. It's not for you."

A single spell left my wand—a crimson bolt, quiet and elegant. It struck one of the prisoners.

Then the runes came alive.

The magic—once blue and inert—flared red. It leapt from one man to the next, dancing along the etched flesh like fire in a wheat field. One screamed. Then another. And another.

The air was thick with agony.

They weren't dying—not yet. They were feeling everything. Every ounce of suffering they'd ever inflicted, reflected back through the arcane chain I'd built.

Barty and the Aurors stood frozen, unsure whether to act or watch. Power can paralyze the brave when they don't understand it.

I stood in the centre of it all, wand raised, voice clear.

"That's all for tonight, Barty. I've left you a gift."

I gestured to a figure lying apart from the circle. Unmarked. Bound. Breathing.

Then I Apparated.

The moment I vanished, a final scream ripped through the night. One of the men—young, pale, just beginning to understand—burst like a blood balloon, red mist splattering across the Aurors' shields.

The silence afterward was louder than the screams.

Barty stumbled forward, wand still raised, expression shattered.

He reached the lone man I'd left behind.

And froze.

It was his son.