That damned house was a pigsty.
A Muggle dwelling, forgotten at the end of the world. A filthy, damp, worthless place. And yet, there he was—Augustus Yaxley, reduced to hiding like a rat in a hole.
He clenched his fists, cursing Alexander Goldenhart.
If it weren't for that wretched old man, he would still be safe. But the Ministry's new background checks and internal investigations had been devastating. Many former Death Eaters had fallen. He himself had been exposed.
For years, the information he provided had helped the Death Eaters plan their moves, eliminate enemies, rid the world of filthy Mudbloods. Now, ironically, he was the one being hunted.
And no one would help him.
No one would risk themselves with Goldenhart's hounds sniffing at their heels. Sometimes, Yaxley wondered who was crueler—the Death Eaters or that old man's damned hunters. Those mongrels with tainted blood, as he liked to call them.
They said those hounds took no prisoners. That they tortured, killed, and made anyone who crossed their path disappear.
Yaxley cast a wary glance around.
The furniture was broken, the walls coated in mold. Near the fireplace, a group of men huddled around a makeshift fire burning inside a metal bin. The filthy mongrels Greyback had arranged for him—ragged men with long, tangled hair and unkempt beards. They looked worse than beggars, but they knew how to kill. They liked to kill.
They would have to do.
Three more days. Then he would be far from England. Far from Alexander. That was all that mattered.
Two days.
Two days in this hellhole.
He wanted to leave. But every time he thought about stepping outside, a shiver crawled down his spine. As if something was out there. Waiting for him.
Night crept in, and the feeling of unease grew stronger.
Then he heard it.
Craw, craw, craw…
That damned crow.
It had been tormenting him for a while now. Every five minutes, like a twisted clockwork. Bored, Yaxley had started counting the intervals. Four minutes and fifty-eight seconds… Four minutes and fifty-nine… Four minutes and sixty…
Silence.
This time, the crow didn't caw.
Yaxley frowned, his heart pounding. Something was wrong. He scanned the room, searching for a sound, a shadow—anything.
And then—
BOOM!
The front door exploded.
Wood splintered in every direction. Yaxley leapt to his feet, nearly tripping. One of the werewolves grabbed his wand and ran toward the hallway, but he barely took three steps before a green flash hit him square in the chest. His lifeless body crumpled to the floor.
The others tried to flee through the back door.
BOOM!
This time, the blast came from one of the windows. An orange spell shot through the shattered glass and erupted in the middle of the room. The floor shook, flames roared, and Yaxley was thrown back against the wall with brutal force. His body slid to the ground, his head spinning, ears ringing with a deafening shriek.
The stench of burnt flesh filled his nostrils.
When his vision cleared, he saw the charred remains of the two werewolves.
He reached for his wand.
Too late.
Something swooped in through the window—a dark blur, fast as a shadow. A crow. But before Yaxley could process what he was seeing, the bird shifted midair, landing with feline grace in the center of the room.
Kyle.
Damn Kyle.
With a single, silent flick of his wand, Yaxley's body seized up. Total paralysis. He couldn't move anything but his eyes.
Five men entered behind him.
They wore dark suits, long coats, an air of quiet menace clinging to them like a second skin. The room seemed heavier, colder. One of them bore a silver brooch gleaming under the dim firelight—the image of a hunting hound.
The men spread out. Two guarded the exits while the others moved toward the windows, sealing them with wordless magic.
Kyle raised his wand.
— Lumos.
The glow revealed every detail of the decrepit house. The last of the men inspected the room, searching for hidden traps or enchantments. After a few minutes, he lifted his head and gave Kyle a subtle nod.
The house was clear.
Kyle turned to the guard at the door, who nodded in response.
Another man entered.
And the guards immediately sealed the doors.
His footsteps were slow. Deliberate.
Yaxley didn't need to see him to know who it was. The air itself felt heavier. Even so, he fought to move his neck, struggling to glimpse his approaching doom. He caught only a shadow before the man crouched, bringing himself level with Yaxley's eyes.
Alexander Goldenhart.
The bastard.
Yaxley's breath hitched. He wanted to scream, but Alexander's calm smile trapped the words in his throat.
— You know, Yaxley… I expected more from you.
His voice was almost gentle.
— Normally, I'd interrogate you. But there's nothing a rat like you could say that's worth hearing.
Yaxley tried to speak, to beg, but all that came out was a trembling whisper.
— Please, Minister… I don't want to die. I can give you names!
Alexander let out a low, amused chuckle.
— I wonder if the people who died because of you also begged for their lives.
Yaxley had no time to respond.
The green light was the last thing he saw.
His body fell limp.
Alexander rose slowly, tucking his wand back into its holster. He adjusted his gloves, then spoke in a tone as casual as discussing the weather:
— Dispose of the bodies. Send a statement to the Daily Prophet. The fugitive Yaxley died when his own spell backfired while attempting to flee from the Aurors.
He paused, smiling faintly.
— Minister Goldenhart regrets the man's tragic end but reaffirms that all guilty parties and criminals tied to Voldemort will not escape justice. Whether in this life… or the next.
Alexander straightened his hat and glanced at the restored door.
— Have a good night, gentlemen. If you'll excuse me… I promised to finish reading The Chronicles of Narnia to little Circe before she falls asleep.
And with that, he vanished into the darkness.