CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

"MON DIEU," DOMINIQUE GRINDELWALD UTTERED UNDER her breath, her facial skin feeling slightly damp with hot perspiration as a vein jutted out in her fair jaw—all her self strength at work to resist the infuriating pain that enslaved her all her limbs and the fiber of her person, as she crumpled slightly to a knee, with József Kelemen—the performer of the dreaded apparation—covered her form with his from the confused scrutiny of the other Red Shrikes.

"It feels as though it will tear me apart the next time," Dominique managed, her throat clogging up as she met the Hungarian wizard's dark eyes and clasped onto the secure hand he offered her, trying to shakily pull herself up while the wizard rested his other hand on the side of her waist, assisting her to her full form gently.

"We have to find out what the matter is," József spoke then, his tone hard and eyes narrowed with concern as he stood near her, unwilling to part lest she stumble.

"Else you won't be able to travel anymore."

Dominique-the pain of her weak form threading into her consciousness-focused on the wizard's rich Hungarian accent lacing the French words he spoke. Had she ever been grateful to him for this small feat that he contributed to her without her asking? In private, when they were outside of The Dark Lord's court and his designated court language—the curt and abrupt sounding throes of British English—József spoke to Dominique in her mother tongue, French. He spoke it with visible effort in his Hungarian accent, though over the past two years his French had become as flawless as it could be for someone like him. He never spoke it with anybody else, for there was nobody else in the Red Shrikes, or perhaps in Voldemort's court, who was familiarly French to Dominique. And she wasn't much in favor of fraternizing with just anyone holding a coveted position at Lord Voldemort's court, French or not.

Perhaps, when a little less than two years ago, Voldemort had brought her out to meet the rest of the Shrikes and József had come up to her amidst training and introduced himself in broken French—perhaps that was when she had started her reliance on him, her trust in him. Language was a powerful barrier, yet a powerful bridge at the same time.

Since then, the Hungarian Shrike had only strengthened his hold on the language, employing use of it only with Dominique, in moments of privacy. And she, meanwhile, had been grateful for this ode to her—for this chance to stay connected to whoever she used to be before The Dark Lord guided her. Her past self was deplorable to her-humiliating and shameful—still, a part of her was secretly gratified that it existed. It made her understand that she was not just someone erected from the ground to serve Voldemort, she was an existing someone.

"The Dark Lord is trying, isn't he?" She managed then, casting her eyes over the waiting forms of the Shrikes in the distance.

"He will find a way."

The sky overhead was bright in the afternoon light, with the sun shining blinding overhead from its throne in the sky. The safehouse location, given by Severus Snape, had been arrived at, and Dominique could see the building in the distance amidst the abandoned part of the village—the darkened, broken down part of town that people avoided.

Darkened dull buildings were rooted in a smatter like that of a stain in the distance, a stain that Dominique had observed enough to declare an abandoned town.

"It isn't enough," József let out, his curt French cutting. "He doesn't know the situation is getting dire, High Shrike."

Dominique swallowed thickly, keeping her eyes away from his. He called her by her name when he spoke to her in private, but he pulled out her title like a reminder, to bring her out of her reluctance and hesitance, to remind her of who she was and the extent of her value.

He didn't approve of her keeping her growing discomfort a secret from the Dark Lord. He didn't agree that Voldemort knew not how excruciating apparation was getting for her as each day went by. Part of that was her refusal to burden him, for the Dark Lord had already matters pressing enough like boulders on his mind. Courtesy of Severus Snape's incapability to control the resistance efforts being made in England, and having them grow out of hand to a grand extreme, Voldemort was in no position to be further burdened by the matter of Dominique's personal discomfort. The mere idea of telling The Dark Lord that she was hurting, was enough to make her feel nauseous in her own self.

József Kelemen watched her with firm orbs full of concern and caution. He disapproved of her decision of keeping The Dark Lord in the dark, and in the same vein, he respected it. He respected the High Shrike's refusal to bring the lights onto herself as though she were the lead character of a tragic stage play, when in reality, she was just that. Dominique Grindelwald, in another life—or in another timeline—could've been a woman worshiped for her beauty as well as for her power, yet Kelemen watched as she did the worshiping and used her power for just The Dark Lord's gains and not her own.

He thought of her past then, of what she used to be two years ago when the Lord had first recruited her for his own. Unlike József and the other Red Shrikes, Dominique Grindelwald's memories had been taken away and fractionated into her own mind. They had been broken and trapped inside her own mind, with Voldemort's mark towering in the forefront of her frontal cortex and empowering everything else in the French witch's senses. Still, József had heard the rumors, the stories. He had heard how she once used to run with the terrorists. He suspected that she had run with Harry Potter as well. If only she had her memories back, she could use them for The Dark Lord's gain. She could remember something which could essentially aid the Red Shrikes' endeavor in bringing England's resistance to its knees. But for some reason, The Dark Lord didn't trust that The High Shrike would act accordingly if restored to her memories of the past, that was why he had torn them apart in her mind. József faintly wondered what could've happened in the French witch's past, that were she to be reminded of it, she would let go of Voldemort's loyalty like the Dark Lord feared she would.

Dominique Grindelwald took a deep breath to steady herself, and just like that, the High Shrike's moment of weakness was eviscerated in the winds. József Kelemen looked at her, awe tightening the muscles in his chest and pulling every inch of his awareness towards her as though she was iron and he was a magnet.

Her beauty was palpable in the very wind that circled her, her sharpness infusing into the atmosphere like the scent of a blooming rose with deep thorns. He swallowed thickly, finding himself entranced by her form as she watched the abandoned safehouse in the distance with keen and thoughtful silver eyes. He found himself entranced by her just as every other death eater who looked at her, and he had to steel himself with effort to drive the sensation away. It made him feel like every other useless death eater at Voldemort's court, gawking and gaping at the French witch with eyes full of lust and brains full of shit.

He didn't like to feel like them, he wasn't them.

"I hope we have not decided to revel in this weather," The High Shrike spoke, her voice edged with sarcasm in her sharp notes of English as she turned to glance at the remaining Red Shrikes who were standing at a distance behind, giving József and herself a wide berth in lieu of respect and the lack of a present order.

Laszlo Kelemen bristled before letting out a small laugh as he pushed himself to attention and Tatuli and Svetlana followed suit.

"We await your orders as usual, High Shrike," Laszlo mused as his elder brother shot him a hard look. "Besides, I am quite in the mood for some rain."

"That makes one of us, I suppose," Dominique responded pointedly, though there was a smeared edge of fondness in her tone that canceled out József's disapproval for his brother's manner, a sibling dynamic that the Shrikes had gotten habitual of.

"Svetlana," Dominique called as she turned her gaze back on to the safehouse in the distance.

Svetlana Morozov was at The High Shrike's side in a swift moment.

"I need you to map out the entire place," Dominique spoke, "I need to know what areas were being used for what, and everything that they were keeping here. I need to know everything you can find out."

"Yes, High Shrike," Morozov uttered, her voice firm. She met Dominique's eyes and nodded once, before she disapparated into thin air and her form vanished from sight.

"Laszlo," Dominique looked at the blonde Hungarian wizard, "I need you and József to track any traces of magic you can find. See if you can pick up any traces of wand magic. I want all trails found to be secured so we can hand them over to be tracked."

The resistances, regardless of whichever country they originated from, had a tendency to use their governmentally registered wands to conduct their terrorist affairs, a stupid mistake that led the Red Shrikes to dig them out of whichever hole they hid inside, effortlessly each time. It was the one thing in which these terrorists were trapped, most their wands were registered by their government given license, and most those governments fed themselves from in between The Dark Lord's toes.

József Kelemen met Dominique's eyes in firm determination, etched with a subtle confusion.

"Tatuli will be here with me," The French witch ignored József's stare and looked at Tatuli Giorgadze, as the Georgian witch nodded receiving the command.

Dominique could sense the hidden relief in the girl's features, for Tatuli had always been the one known for the way her mind worked and how she connected things-her observational skills with the information she had been provided, was exceptional. However, she was no good for getting her hands dirty to seek out the information herself.

"We shall see what we can find around this site," The High Shrike continued, "This abandoned town, there must be something here to lead us forwards."

"High Shrike," József interrupted then, stepping close to Dominique. "Let me stay with you, Giorgadze can aid Laszlo and Svetlana at the safehouse."

The French witch's silver gray eyes fixed themselves into József's with a sudden irritation. It was clear to her that Kelemen had begun projecting a stark concern towards her that she refused to accept, and in her ignorance, that concern had seems to deepen as much as her ailment and dependence on him had gotten stronger. She understood that he applied himself to her in a way that made her often times grateful, but she found it angering that her gratitude was being morphed this way.

She was The Dark Lord's greatest weapon, she had no room to accept anyone's concern or sympathy. Whatever was the matter with her body and magic at present, The Dark Lord had said that he would configure it out, and she need only rely on that.

"I gave an order, I believe," Dominique tightened her jaw, her eyes bearing into József's. "Do not think yourself above it, József."

The dark haired Hungarian blinked, his jaw angled at a certain point as he swallowed before meeting her eyes in determination and submission.

"Yes, High Shrike."

With that, he disapparated from sight and Dominique felt the tug of guilt at her core. The guilt of striking at feelings she had earlier found comfort in. With a frustration she hated, she pushed the feeling away.

Laszlo came up to her then, and with his too bold of a conviction to settle emotions at unsetting times, he touched Dominique's elbow in gesture of comradery, met her eyes in a silent affirmation, and disapparated, leaving Tatuli Giorgadze standing behind the form of the High Shrike on the plains as subtle flairs of movement could be observed in glimpses from the open windows of the safehouse in the distance, perched in between the abandoned town-fragmental visions of the three Red Shrikes at work.

─── ☾ ───

Gabriel Chevrolet watched as perspiration dotted his forehead, his skin heating up as he maintained his focus on the scene. He felt like a fool, as the sweat dripped down his back and he held the Invisibility cloak over his head, merely because the sensation of the material resting on his closely shaved head was a thoroughly irritating sensation.

He was positioned in the abandoned safehouse, in the foyer underneath the main stairs that led up to the first floor. Though the safehouse was far from a grand house, it stood like the foundation of one. There was no paint on the walls, only the unsettling glaze of dark cement covering the bricks in the walls as the granite on the floors. Chevrolet had often fantasized about mixing two particular shades of blue and smearing it finely all over every surface in this battered down house, and furnishing it, just so that it could look less of a safehouse and more of a proper house. There was no glass on the windows, the windows being merely big square spaces left out in the brick placements.

The Invisibility cloak blocked out the fresh air that his countenance at present so needed, and Gabriel felt the irritation of it claw at him. Why couldn't Dimitrova or Wood have been positioned here? Chevrolet should've stood his ground and demanded to be placed outside where he could do a much better job of placing his targets and stay hidden in the meanwhile too. Instead, he was hiding under a freaking cloak, and sweating like the sun itself had decided to take a walk outside.

He wasn't sure exactly where Krum, Dimitrova and Wood were. Wood could too be in the building, positioned elsewhere but the main plan was to keep the abandoned safehouse in secret surveillance until the death eaters showed up with their guards down to investigate.

Krum had planted a handful of misleading clues that were to be convincing enough to derail the death eaters down a different path in search of the resistance, and while the death eaters evaluated and made divisions amongst themselves to pursue the clues further, Chevrolet, Wood, Dimitrova and Krum were to pursue and track the division that sauntered back to Voldemort's capital or had knowledge of the horcruxes the resistance needed.

Gabriel wasn't so sure that they would be able to outright follow the death eaters to Voldemort's capital, at least not now. They didn't have half of the supplies they would need to make a cross country traipse like that, considering Voldemort was hiding out in one of his infamous capitals instead of having a drink at the nearest pub. Heck, there were only four of them at present, and they were all too worn out at present to undertake a mission like that. So no, only a bit of knowledge as to the whereabouts of the horcruxes, or even some other information of value overheard, was enough for at present.

Gabriel didn't know how long he waited, his muscles stiff with his efforts to stay still, until he heard the disturbance that was not being caused by his own breaths and occasional grunts of discomfort. He stiffened, and trained his eyes, looking out from underneath the stairs to grasp any movement. His ears were scaled, aware of every little sound.

He heard the sounds in succession, tiny disturbances as though a bird were merely fluttering its wings upstairs, before the sounds grew loud enough to be deduced as the shuffling of feet and before Chevrolet knew it, a figure stepped from the right entrance of the foyer and ducked underneath the stairs swiftly, wand held high.

Gabriel took several steps back, pressing himself into the darkness of the empty space underneath the stairs as the glowing wand tip scanned the area, thankfully gliding over his form in ignorance. The glow was a fiery ball of red resting at the tip of the wand, the end of the stick being held in a white wrist where Chevrolet made out the glimpse of a daunting dark mark. Once the glow swayed away from the figure's face and stopped stabbing his own vision, Chevrolet made out the features of a dark haired girl with big onyx eyes, her features sharp and cutting, a contrast to the girl's glowing fair skin. Her dark hair straight was cut to her neck, precise curved bangs on her forehead, and for a moment her gaze bore deep into Gabriel's eyes as though she had seen him. But then, she stepped back with determination in her manner, and swiftly disappeared into the foyer.

The French wizard's heart hammered inside his chest at the encounter, and for once, he felt like kissing the cloak he was holding over himself in gratitude. His feet stumbled slightly as he tried to make sense of the girl he had just seen. For the past two years, in the battles he had fought, he had always faced elder death eaters—ones that he supposed Voldemort felt confident enough to present for they were his most trained and experienced. Sirius Black had claimed that once students started graduating from the new magical curriculums assigned by Voldemort, they would begin to join his ranks. Voldemort prized magical education for pure bloods over all else, and only upon graduation would he take them into his ranks aside from them becoming part of his pure blood marriage program.

But this girl he had seen, she was the first he had seen. It won't be long, he decided, when the next time he held his wand in a battle, he was sure to face trained wizards and witches-death eaters-his own age.

Clutching the Invisibility cloak over his form, Gabriel ventured out from underneath the darkness of the stairs. He stepped into the foyer, in plain view were he to not have the cloak over his form. He heard even more footsteps, careful shuffles of feet as he trained his ears to listen. From in front of him again then, a guy looking much his own age, with smooth blonde hair, a practiced effortless gait, the dark mark encased on his wrist sprinted past him to climb the stairs that led upstairs, two steps at a time. Gabriel made to follow, pushing the hollow feeling in his gut aside.

Viktor Krum and Zubair Dimitrova watched, transfixed, from their hidden positions on an abandoned terraced house a little north of the safehouse. Their eyes were on the safehouse, both the men sharing an enchanted telescope in between them, tracking every movement they saw the three death eaters inside the building make.

"They could be them," Zubair murmured a second time in thick Bulgarian. "They could be the fucking troop Black was talking about."

Viktor's hands tightened in fists at his side. Hearing Sirius Black's name mentioned, added more to his fury than anything ever did, it seemed.

"He said there would be five of them," Dimitrova continued, "He said they would have the mark of a small red snake aside from their dark marks."

"Fuck, Viktor," Zubair grunted, "Black said they would be wizards and witches Voldemort does not bring out in fights, but rather he has them operating from a distance to manage resistances and the like. He said they would be young, and trained in secret in Merlin knows what sort of damned magical combat. This could fucking be them."

"Think about it," He turned to face Krum. "Have you seen them before? In no battlefield or raid have I laid eyes upon these three. If they are so insignificant to include amongst Voldemort's ranks, then why would he send them to do such a crucial task like scouring an abandoned resistance safehouse?"

Viktor shut his eyes momentarily, a vein throbbing in his tight jaw. Sirius Black, had said—speculated—a lot of things. He had managed to secure an insider amongst the death eaters, a sole fucking insider who related information to only Black. There was no telling how much of the information relayed was true, but Black seemed to believe in every word of it, even if he wouldn't say who the insider amongst Voldemort's ranks was.

Black had also said that the specialized troop of five Voldemort had built and trained over the course of the past two years, had a name and a leader.

"The Red Shrikes," He let out, the name making the skin at his back tighten as his gaze hardened.

"And they are led by her," Zubair affirmed, his voice firm.

Just then, Oliver Wood's sturdy form was seem walking along the scaffoldings against the safehouse exterior, with his back pressed against the walls and his steps lithe and precise as he kept his focus trained to what was happening inside the building. His figure camouflaged against the grey cemented walls, courtesy of his dull coloured jeans and shirt. He looked like a spider, clinging to cobwebs with the focus of a spy.

Sirius Black had shared the information about the Red Shrikes with only Dimitrova and Krum, and whatever Wood or Chevrolet managed to overhear in between the three possible Red Shrikes searching the safehouse, would only confirm or deter that fact.

"If three of them are here, the other two must be close by," Zubair spoke up then, fixing his face in front of the telescope glass and positioning it in a different direction as he scoured the area near and around the safehouse.

She must be close by. Viktor swallowed thickly, feeling a tremor in his hands as he forcefully regained his control back. He had been hardened in the two years that had passed, he had blood on his hands and had slept with his head against granite, his sword against his chest, and his wand safe on his person for all of those nights. For him to feel this godforsaken tremor—as brief as it was—in his hands at the thought of her, was fucking insane—stupid.

"The recent resistance in Bucharest, Viktor," Zubair uttered after a pause. "If these Red Shrikes were truly the ones to destroy it.."

Viktor thought of the colossal destruction of the hope he had felt, his spirit suffering the damage that other spirits in the England resistance had felt at the news from Bucharest. Bucharest was one of Voldemort's capitals, to have a powerful resistance brewing in one if his own capital states had been a silver lining. Sirius Black had managed to get in touch with the resistance leader, they had talked of travelling to meet up, to combine forces. But then that resistance had been crushed, according to Black's informant, by The Red Shrikes.

The leader of the Bucharest resistance had been impaled on a cross along with more of his confidants and burnt on the highest plain of the capital.

Fury and hatred churned inside Viktor Krum, and he had felt these emotions for so long that they took their natural places in his head and heart.

"If there are five of them," He found himself speaking. "There are four of us."

Zubair lifted his face away from the telescope glass and glanced at Krum.

"No, we need information on the horcruxes, we can't attack—"

"Why the fuck not?" Krum let out, his eyes hard as stones as his facial muscles contracted.

The rage in his chest upon the dismantling of the Bucharest resistance was still raw. He had pinned up much of his hope at their existence and strength, and their death and destruction had been a blow he had suffered like the twisting of plunged knife in his gut.

"If Voldemort relies so much on these Shrikes, if he has trained them so ardently for two years, I don't want the fucking sun to go down tonight before I see what they are made of."

"Viktor, we don't know where the rest of the two are—the heuristic witch too might—"

"We take them down in pieces then," The former Bulgarian Quidditch seeker spat, his tone that of a quidditch player scouring his next game.

"First, those three."

He pointed two fingers in the direction of the safehouse, trying with all his might to ignore the flashes of her form that emerged in his mind upon Zubair's mention of her.

"I'll join Chevrolet and Wood, you charm the fucking place and lock us inside with these three death eaters. No sound or body comes out and no sound or body goes in. I don't want them signaling or calling out for the remaining two, wherever they are."

"Viktor," Zubair pressed, his voice hard. "We didn't come here to fight, we need information on the horcruxes."

"Then we'll get the information," Viktor snapped, "When I have one of these so called Shrikes' neck in my hand, I'll gut the information out of them."

"But—the heuristic witch," Dimitrova struggled to keep up his argument. "If she joins this fight, we won't make it."

Viktor paused, fury emanating from his tense muscles and his jaw tightened further and his eyes flashed.

"That is why I need you to charm the place, she will not join this fight—she won't know of it until after we're done. We can leave them weakened, Zubair."

He turned away to glance again at the safehouse. "If she leads this pack, she clearly intended to position them this way to search for whatever they can find, while she's out looking elsewhere."

Viktor met Zubair's eyes briefly before he took out his wand and made his sword reappear in his other hand, holding both his sharpened sword and wand high, ready for combat.

"Stay here Zubair, shut that fucking safehouse away with a charm. This won't take long."

"Chevrolet and Wood," Zubair exhaled, knowing that the two would likely not take well to the sudden change in plans.

"Well," Viktor let out scornfully as he rolled his shoulders and bent his neck sideways and a clear crack sounded.

"A good fucking reminder of the intricacies of being part of a resistance, never hurt nobody."