CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

"REBELLIONS NEED TO BE CUT at the root," The Dark Lord's voice was reminiscent of thunder—brutal and harsh—though his features remained schooled and his tone remained of steel.

Lord Voldemort was a force who could rival thunder itself, his deathly pale skin glistened with an appalling inhuman yet subtle green—thrumming with the Dark Arts his vicious life force thrived upon.

"Tell me why I have to reiterate that very simple fact," The sovereign's tone settled to a menacing edge as he glanced at the present death eaters seated submissively around the table, before his eyes settled on The Red Shrikes.

"Tell me why, after two years, I still have to reiterate that fact."

"You do not have to, my lord," The High Shrike spoke up, leaning forwards at the table, her fair elbows peeking out from the designed cut of her sleeves as she rested them on the table.

"The problem lies with those who choose to blatantly ignore."

The Dark Lord's eyes flashed something as he looked at the French witch, his features molded into a calculative display as he leaned back against his chair, a long bony finger under his thin gray lips as he rested his chin in his palm. The gesture was entirely human, perhaps that was why it briefly sickened Dominique Grindelwald, for she had long since separated The Dark Lord from mortals, in her mind, casting a thick iron barrier in between.

She gathered her bearings, pushed her disgust at the back of her mind and swallowed the rest of it down.

"I won't have conquered lands rebelling," Voldemort spoke after a pause, before he abruptly leaned in and slammed his bony palm hard against the table surface, rattling submissive death eaters as a cascade of startled gasps radiated in the room.

"I won't have it!"

He leaned back again, eyeing those near him before his menacing gaze ventured further and settled on someone.

"Do you know, my High Shrike, that in your absence I have been unfortunate enough to be saddled with continuous reports that rile nothing in me but my displeasure?"

Dominique narrowed her eyes slightly, biting back the discomfort that churned inside her stomach. She would kill for Lord Voldemort, burn down herself for him, yet something in her flared up when he spoke to her like that—like he was a petulant child complaining to his mother. Dominique wanted him to raze whoever displeased him to dust, she detested his waiting, his weighing of the scales. She abhorred it when he complained, she loathed the fact that he even considered a second option when faced with disobedience. She knew it was a show he put forth, in order to tug at the fear emanating from all those in his presence, in order to command the heavy energy in every atmosphere he found himself in—but she abhorred witnessing it. It was never quick enough for her.

He was the master, The Dark Lord, the sustainer of the wizarding world—if someone displeased him, she'd rather have him kill them outright without the drawling or the prolonging. She'd rather have him do it without making her pay for his displeasure alongside everyone else. She'd rather not have him tug out her fear like a common death eater just to mold her into the submission she had already willfully thrust herself in.

"Just this morning," Voldemort continued when she hadn't responded. "After I summoned you back from Albania to crush the rebellion taking shape here, I receive another news about a much stronger rebellion brimming elsewhere. You understand my discomfort, don't you?"

"Severus was kind enough to inform me," The Dark Lord lifted a hand to single out Severus Snape, a death eater who's face The High Shrike had the clearest in her memory.

She had heard Voldemort mention him often, but she hadn't had the chance of being in the death eater's presence after their first meeting two years ago, at Hogwarts. She had come to submit to The Dark Lord then, as Voldemort had informed her when he had deconstructed and reconstructed her memories, shaping them seamlessly to his will—helping her by mercifully breaking apart her shameful past inside her mind.

That meeting had been the moment she had chosen to obliterate her terrorist path and given into the rightful one.

The witch felt a sudden fury roll through her at the thought that the sleek haired, grim faced elder death eater had had even the glimpse of the pathetic terrorist she had been before her submission.

Voldemort had seen her that way, and he had guided her. It was only he she could allow to have seen her that way, no other mortal had that right. Others who had, were long dead, as they deserved to be—being terrorists and vile resistance fighters bent on disrupting the proper law and order of the rightful wizarding world.

"Tell her, Severus, as you so kindly told me," The Dark Lord broke the witch out of her reverie, his menacing dark eyes pinned at Severus Snape as the death eater pushed his chair back and stood up.

The High Shrike pushed back the distaste of the remembrance of her undignified exposure to the man brought to her, and laced her fingers underneath her resting chin, positioning her silver gray eyes on the death eater.

"A resistance has been forming in England as well, my lord," Severus Snape started, a faint tremor to his voice.

"Address The High Shrike, Severus," The Dark Lord snapped, his voice razor sharp. "For you already addressed this news risen of your imbecilic incompetency to me, did you not? How many times must I hear it for me to tether to the edge and slice your throat open? Would you prefer that, Severus?"

"No, my lord," The man spoke, his bent head rising as his small eyes met the French witch's seething silver ones.

"A resistance has been forming in England, High Shrike," Snape managed, a hint of humiliation seeping into his tone—no doubt at being forced to address The High Shrike with a close to similar regard that needed to be shown to Voldemort himself.

Dominique Grindelwald was much familiar with that sort of humiliation, for much to her consuming contempt, she had been privy to witnessing the similar emotion on countless death eater faces and in their—always those who were twice her age or more. All the Shrikes had witnessed it, they were all complicit in enduring that response—partners in being faced with the distaste that stemmed from only their age and their supposed entrancement of The Dark Lord's interest.

"For how long?" Dominique's question sliced the air. She had no urge to get to anything but the general specifics if this was yet another mission The Shrikes were to embark upon.

The past rebellions she had dealt with had all been minor. They had been cut at the root, as per Voldemort's words. Albania—the Shrikes' most recent was too a very minor job, and they had only had to use the killing curse once. The matter had wrapped itself up in moments.

The disruption in Bucharest the French witch had just witnessed had been extreme to all past missions in comparison, yet it had been easy still to crush—considering of course the commons remained retreated. But of course, that had been the risk everywhere The Shrikes had tackled the fire of resistance, hadn't it? The fight yet left in commons continued to remain the risk.

"Answer her," The Dark Lord seethed, his hand slamming against the table surface again as a wild vein jutted green on his jaw.

Severus Snape startled slightly, and had to clear his throat before he responded.

"We don't know how long," The wizard swallowed. His eyes hesitated in Dominique's. "The force is—bigger. It's mightier. They have heavily warded safehouses located over the country. We don't know how many yet. They haven't—they haven't made a move, High Shrike. Their presence was only found out when St. Mungo's was broken into. A wide variety of potions and healing assortments as well as other medical supplies were stolen, leaving the hospital mostly bare. We managed to track the disturbance to an abandoned safehouse. It had broken wards lingering around it, and it's presence was not on our records."

A flare, hot and iron, went up inside Dominique Grindelwald as she fought to maintain her composure.

"Safehouses?" She managed then, letting a laugh escape from between her lips. "The rebels in England have been given leverage enough for them to have multiple safehouses?"

Severus Snape stirred as if he'd been struck.

"We don't know if they have multiple—"

"You found an abandoned safehouse after they had stolen quantities of medical supplies," The High Shrike broke in, her glare hard on the wizard. "They gave one of their spots away to make their presence known and to derail you to a wall. They have multiple safehouses."

"That it may be," The man muttered after a pause, before clearing his throat as a determination swelled inside his small eyes. "But we have been endlessly trying to trace the activity, to uncover their hiding places."

"Hiding places," Dominique exhaled softly before she lurched, her palms against the table surface as she pushed herself up. "Rebels do not having hiding places! They do not get to have safehouses or stolen medical supplies! How dare you let the intrusion get this far?"

Her sharp voice rattled the submissive death eaters present in the room, a tremor pulsating throughout the wooden table courtesy of spasming hands and feet.

Severus Snape didn't respond, merely broke his eyes away and stared downwards.

"What else? You will leave no detail, Severus Snape."

Dominique was keenly aware of the rest of the Shrikes in her periphery just as she was keenly aware of The Dark Lord's presence beside her. She could sense his elevation at his own anger having found a source so that his exertion would not be required. That was, in part, what Dominique was to him. She was the relay neuron for everything he felt, she was the muscle. And the French witch had resigned herself to steep into that role, because it fit her, she felt, in more ways than one.

"My lord," Snape looked to Voldemort then, a reluctance in his eyes.

"Go on," The Dark Lord responded with a forced nonchalance. "Tell Dominique everything."

The wizard looked away, meeting Dominique's eyes again.

"We believe—that the resistance in England is aiming to find the last three horcruxes, High Shrike. They are not concerned with attacking or causing disruption in our masses at present."

Horcruxes. The word flashed in the French witch's mind like a lighting flare caught and trapped. She knew what they were, she had learned about them with Voldemort himself—yet she had known what they were before him too. She had known horcruxes when she was a terrorist, but she couldn't remember who had told her or how. The relief of her destroyed memories from her past terrorist life was palpable in her as she breathed calmly, gathering her resolve once again.

"The last three horcruxes?" Dominique Grindelwald broke away to glance at The Dark Lord. "My lord, I was under the impression that you had all the remaining ones safe in your possession."

The eight horcruxes, The High Shrike, had often marveled at the feat. Eight tears of the Dark Sovereign's soul. One had been destroyed years ago, and Voldemort, after taking over the wizarding world, had been intent on retrieving the remaining ones for safety. That had been his personal mission—the reason why he isolated himself often or relied on other death eaters for aid in the endeavor.

His Red Shrikes had only ever had one task—to ensure there was no rebellion or resistance to his prospering reign.

"I had aimed to share the very impression, High Shrike," The Dark Lord exhaled, his sharp eyes focusing on Dominique. "Yet it seems none of my intentions are being carried out as per my will. How frustrating."

"It pains me to admit that only I have four as of yet in my possession," The sovereign's eyes fixed themselves at the window in the distance. The Bucharest sky had blackened outside.

"But there are three others still not with me, excluding the destroyed one of course."

"We believe—," Severus Snape continued next as Dominique jerked her head towards the death eater, a furious glare in her eyes.

"We believe that is what they intend. Instead of open rebellion they have chosen to hide and strike at the horcruxes first."

Before Dominique could respond, József Kelemen jumped up at her side, the tall dark haired Hungarian wizard's fist colliding with the table surface as he towered over Severus Snape.

"Where are they, then? Why not ensure the safety of the horcruxes first?"

Severus Snape hesitated, forcing himself to not acknowledge Kelemen's interruption, as the grim-faced wizard eyed The Dark Lord for confrontation.

"Well, that is because the three horcruxes are not to be found where I had secured them, József," Lord Voldemort raised a brow, his eyes on his nails as he toyed briefly with his fingers. "By the time Severus thought they needed to be ensured, they were gone. Yet another failure of his given courtesy."

"Say the word, my lord," József seethed, his eyes burning—fixated on the English wizard's submissive form. "Say the word and I'll have his entrails strewn throughout Bucharest."

The Dark Lord let out an amused chuckle, a light airy yet sharp thing that penetrated through every muscle present in the room.

"I would love to see that. It will surely be a fitting curtain call for Severus Snape," The sovereign smirked, thin gray lips lifting up slightly. "But I'm afraid a thorough crucio will have to be done for now. For we will be acquiring whatever knowledge he has on the matter if we are to retrieve my horcruxes. Are we not, József?"

"Yes, my lord," The Hungarian Shrike bowed his head.

"Well, it's settled then," The Dark Lord exhaled sharply and got up, briefly glancing at every silent death eater present before his eyes landed on The High Shrike.

"Make the necessary preparations, Dominique, The Red Shrikes will all be departing to England at first light. You will be retrieving the remaining three horcruxes and crushing this rather.. unsavory resistance. Is that clear?"

"Yes, my lord," The High Shrike bent her head.

"Refer to Severus on the previous locations of the horcruxes if you must. I want them found and brought back to me. I want this budding resistance obliterated."

"Yes, my lord," Dominique repeated, slowly lifting her head to meet The Dark Lord's eyes.

"Oh and," The sovereign spoke before he turned to leave, glancing at The Shrikes. "I want to hear Severus' screams tonight, József, and I want to emerge in the morning light to see Antonin Dolohov's cadaver strung up in the front hall of the castle, Laszlo. I hope you brothers will oblige like you volunteered."

"My lord," The two Hungarian Shrikes answered in unison before The Dark Lord's receding footsteps were heard against the stone floors as his figure exited the main hall, the doors shutting taut behind him.

─── ☾ ───

A faint drip could be heard emanating from somewhere in the dark dungeons, as though someone had let loose a tap and had forgotten entirely to fasten it tight. The drops of water—or rather blood—clunked to the stone floor with equal intervals in her periphery and Tatuli Giorgadze had the sudden urge to clamp the loose thing shut—just so she wouldn't have to hear the consistent disturbance which at present weighed on her like lead as she watched the figure of the notorious Severus Snape slumped over as the man grunted with every jerk elicited by the force of József Kelemen's wand.

Severus Snape—one of the most prominent death eaters Tatuli could name—had been stooped to this. Chained and manacled like a common terrorist to Voldemort's regime, the grim faced wizard was held taut with his limbs all pulled to a side in opposing directions, making his body appear available and eager for Kelemen's strikes.

"Salazar Slytherin's locket, Rowena Ravenclaw's diadem, and—," The man broke out in a groan, his statement cutting itself short.

The High Shrike stood by, her arms wrapped across her chest as she raised a hand for József to pause briefly. Her question required answering, and it seemed to her that the death eater present could not deal with his punishments and her questions at the same time like others before him had.

The firelight from the lit stumps of wood scattered sporadically in the dungeons were all that reflected on everyone's faces, making some appear feral and others appear forbearing. Tatuli hated the smell of the dungeons, having made it a point that she was to be excluded from having to watch the torture in the depths of the incorrigible stench, regardless of which of Lord Voldemort's castles they were in.

At present however, The High Shrike had pressed upon the presence of every Shrike, so Giorgadze was there. Having planted herself in a clean spot, she stood with her arms at her sides, counting the time in her head forwards and backwards.

"And what, Severus?" Dominique Grindelwald vociferated, her voice dominating the entire atmosphere, molding it to her will. "What third horcrux is still missing?"

Lord Voldemort had taught The Red Shrikes about the concept of horcruxes and his obsession with having made them. The knowledge had been part of their vigorous training, but unlike Tatuli's old professors at her school in Georgia before the abrupt war, The Dark Lord was hesitant to elaborate, refraining to tell them all just what all those horcruxes had been. She had assumed then that he hadn't garnered enough trust in them for explanations to be made, but now she had long since realized that Lord Voldemort made no explanations.

Tatuli Giorgadze knew of some horcruxes, she had vague ideas about some others. But horcruxes were a taboo and a personal mission of The Dark Lord's and he had asked for no one's interference before. She glanced at Svetlana Morozov and Laszlo Kelemen at her either sides, unlike her, the two Shrikes looked resolved at the fact that they standing taut in the middle of a dingy dungeon with a stench that would possibly not leave Tatuli's body despite how many times she were to scrub herself raw over the course of the next few days.

"The boy, Harry Potter."

Severus Snape blurted out before József struck another blow at him, a deep glowing black shard ripping from the tip of his wand and plunging inside the manacled wizard's chest as the latter contorted with a loud agonizing yell.

Dominique Grindelwald stilled at the name, as did the other Shrikes. Harry Potter was not a name they could all hear without any consequence. The name carried the misery that The Dark Lord had suffered in his fight to reclaim the wizarding world to its natural order. Harry potter had been a terrorist like Dominique. She wasn't sure if their paths had ever intersected, she wasn't sure if she'd ever had the misfortune of laying eyes on the boy. Everything that had happened to her two years ago was fragmented and closed off inside her mind, but somehow at present she felt the fury of it instead of her usual relief.

If she'd known the boy two years ago—if she had run with him somehow, sharing the same terrorist ideals—she had been a fool to not slit his throat and then slit her own as well. The Dark Lord would've been pleased, she would've taken the burden off of him. The burden of dealing with the boy and then dealing with her. Navigating her stubborn heuristics—she was grateful to The Dark Lord, but she was also keenly aware of the distress she caused him at turns.

"Harry Potter is dead," She seethed, the fury engulfing her palpable in the air nearest to her.

Severus Snape coughed out blood on the stone floor as The High Shrike motioned for József Kelemen to halt once more.

Harry Potter would die. That was what Lord Voldemort had told her months into her training. Her memories were hazy then, blurring in and out of her periphery instead of just blocking themselves away. Voldemort had told her that she had helped him uncover the boy and a handful of other terrorists, and that they would all die courtesy of her. Emotions seemed foreign entities to her back then, her mind still tearing through with the marks he had etched inside her. Voldemort had told her to be proud. So she had been proud.

"No he isn't," The battered wizard let out once he gathered his little bearings, lifting his head to look up at Dominique. "When you helped reveal the hiding place of the resistance fighters—"

The High Shrike ground her jaw, patience ebbing away from her by the second.

"Those resistance fighters—they knew their hiding spot had been compromised. The death eaters The Dark Lord sent found only Harry Potter. The entirety of Northern Ireland was searched, but there was no trace of the others that had been with him."

"Harry Potter was taken to Malfoy manor immediately. The Dark Lord—he went to see him often times, but he didn't kill him. The boy was a horcrux, and The Dark Lord was aware that killing him meant killing a piece of his soul. I believe The Dark Lord imagined killing him was not necessary since the boy was in his possession and couldn't do anything."

Severus Snape coughed out blood again, and it dripped stark and dark over the edge of his lips. "But then, a few weeks later Malfoy manor was broken into and Harry Potter escaped. The Dark Lord was furious. He was sure they were the same terrorists who had been harboring the boy before you revealed their location."

"He didn't tell me," Dominique gritted her teeth, her voice slicing the thick air like a knife. "Why wasn't I told any of this?"

"The Dark Lord—he was training you," Snape managed. "He had given you the marks in your mind, and he had already deconstructed and reconstructed your memories. You didn't know anything else and he didn't want you to focus on anything else except your strength and training. If he had told you—you would've suffered irreversible brain damage because the freshly deconstructed memories would've been scoured through again by you. That would've torn your mind apart."

Dominique looked away, her glare fixing on a wall in the distance. She motioned to József and the Hungarian Shrike struck Severus Snape again, the latter shouted at the top of his lungs as he was crucioed, his body contorting every which way as he shook and rattled. Dominique motioned again, and József stopped. Snape slumped over, heaving.

"Harry Potter is still alive and running," The High Shrike spoke after a pause, letting a small laugh escape her lips as she turned to look at the bound death eater. "With resistance fighters harboring him because they are searching for the three last horcruxes and are possibly aware that the boy is one of them. Magnificent. I assume you have everything else under control in England too?"

"The Dark Lord—he doesn't want the boy dead," The death eater trembled. "The resistance doesn't want him dead either, because they broke him out of Malfoy manor and are harboring him."

"Yes, well," Dominique shot him a ruthless glare. "I had already deduced that."

"So we get the boy," József Kelemen spoke up then, his eyes meeting Dominique's. "Those other two horcruxes and crush the resistance. It will be complex, High Shrike, considering Severus Snape had been letting all this simmer for quite a while."

"This is why I need you to make him realize all the irritation and trouble he has caused us," The High Shrike raised her brows slightly. "Just don't render him immobile, József, he is still required by The Dark Lord."

"Yes, High Shrike," The Hungarian Shrike bowed before Dominique turned on her heels and made her way out of Severus Snape's cell.

"Svetlana, Tatuli," The French witch bristled. "You are allowed to watch but I'd rather have you both in Dolohov's cell, I have some business with him before his evident demise at Laszlo's hands."

Thus they left József Kelemen to his own devices with Severus Snape, the elder wizard's screams echoing in their wake as the remaining Shrikes made their way towards the nearing cell.

Antonin Dolohov was pulled taut by his chained manacles in a manner reminiscent of Snape's present state, except Dolohov had not yet been tortured enough to have his head down and his shoulders slumped when The Red Shrikes barged in.

He cast them a look, his eyes settling on Dominique Grindelwald in an antipathy that the witch was habitual of yet ignored efficiently each time. Voldemort was not present, and Dolohov would die regardless of what he said or did. There was no need to show The Red Shrikes any respect, Dolohov could sneer at them all he wanted, now when he had nothing more except his life to lose.

"My, what a change to see you like this, Dolohov," Dominique couldn't help but muster her passive aggressiveness and force a smile on her face. "I was just telling Tatuli yesterday that Bucharest seems to always surprise me."

Laszlo Kelemen whipped out his wand and took his spot near the chained death eater, ready to strike for torture on Dominique's command before he got to kill.

"Indeed," The man spat as he eyed Laszlo briefly. "The surprises seem never ending."

The High Shrike raised her brows and frowned playfully at Tatuli and Svetlana behind her before casting a look at Laszlo and returning her gaze to the disgraced death eater.

"What has got you surprised? Surely you didn't make the mistake of thinking your faults wouldn't have consequences?"

"Oh I didn't, believe me," The man let out a spiteful laugh. "Only I expected The Dark Lord would have courtesy enough to dispatch me independent of the vigilance of a witch who had whored herself away with terrorists before she joined Lord Voldemort's Red Shrikes."

Laszlo struck then, a brown spark shooting out from his wand as it penetrated Dolohov's mind and the wizard yelled as he scrunched his eyes shut tight, veins jutting out at his forehead.

"Not the mind, Laszlo," Dominique conferred. "We need him to be stable enough to communicate."

Laszlo halted his spell, nodding once.

"You fucking bitch," Antonin Dolohov choked as he opened his eyes, the whites of his eyes were red, and his nose bled profusely from the brief internal damage. "I told them—I told them that you are a bunch of fucking whores who need to be thrust into the pure blood population program. You have no fucking place fighting and taking over Lord Voldemort's regard for us."

"I have served him for twenty years!" The man yelled like a wild beast, his voice cracking as he violently tugged on the chains that bound him.

The High Shrike's hands fisted at her sides, but she forced herself to maintain her composure. "Well, telling didn't do it then. How about we take it as a lesson, Dolohov?"

She turned her gaze to Svetlana Morozov, the Russian witch stood rooted to her spot, a look of anguish and horror marring her face as she stared at the man in disbelief. Dominique had known The Shrikes longer than she had known anyone else. They all had their memories, and hers had been taken, rebranded and then given back to her by Voldemort.

Dominique wasn't sure what real connection with people had meant to her two years ago when she had been with the terrorists. The Dark Lord had told her that she had been captive most of the time, her heuristics seen as a weapon to be used against him, her body seen only as an object. But these past two years everything she had felt and made had been of her own will, and in those memories were The Red Shrikes. She knew them, and they knew her—even if not completely—but they knew more of her than anybody else did, even Voldemort.

"I suppose Svetlana has already learnt hers," Dominique spoke softly, a touch of reprimand in her eyes.

She knew The Shrikes, more than she knew anybody else. They were diligent and efficient warriors, and even if they were vowed to protect and fight for The Dark Lord, Dominique had long since vowed to protect them as well.

Svetlana Morozov met The High Shrike's eyes, a silent resolve in them before the witch's onyx eyes met the ground.

Dominique spun around and motioned to Laszlo. The Hungarian wizard had the death eater under his wand in a crucio that elicited sharp screams from the man as he contorted, his body bending in odd angles as he thrashed his heavy chains with his each movement. Snape's screams were still evident in their periphery, and mixed with Dolohov's the sounds felt like torture to even listen.

"Finish him Laszlo," The High Shrike swallowed tightly. "You know where The Dark Lord wants the body. We're leaving to check up on the city situation before we depart for England tomorrow, I would hate to have Bucharest flare up again whilst we're not here."

"Yes," Laszlo Kelemen bent his head.

"Oh and, you can go for the mind now."

"Come, Shrikes," Dominique gave Laszlo a single nod before motioning to Svetlana Morozov and Tatuli Giorgadze, as the three witches pivoted and made their way out of the cells and headed towards the dungeons exit with death eater screams reverberating in their periphery.