Her father's dusty old study was her uncle's favorite room of the mansion, something she'd never learn to understand. Addlyn preferred the courtyard, herself. Still, she followed Joramir's summons, a small paper weasel that slinked along just inches ahead of her feet as she carried herself to the study. She didn't have to guess where she was being led. The weasel flattened itself beneath the door frame, but Addlyn opened it without the flick of a wand or the mutter of a spell. As she entered the warmly lit room, walls lined with books, the paper charm hopped its way onto the broad desk before happily shredding itself into non-existence. Her uncle cleared the mess with the flick of his wand.<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ffff00">"I have news for you, my dear. News that should put a smile on that lovely face of yours."</span>She grinned, seating herself in the lavish armchair opposite Joramir. Her uncle was a grizzled man, ten years her father's senior. With a well-groomed salty beard grown halfway down his chest and bushes for eyebrows, his voice was more a growl than speech. He'd raised her gently enough, however, despite his fierce appearance.<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ff4da6"> "Go on, then,"</span>she ordered, waiting for the news that Joramir had deemed so great that he'd interrupted her studies.<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ffff00"> "The attack worked. His followers are beginning to come out of the woodwork."</span>He pushed an antique mirror across the expanse of the desk and Addlyn wasted no time leaning over it.<br/><br/>What she saw reflected back at her within the aged glass did, indeed, bring a smile to her features.<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ff4da6">"The mark!</span><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ff4dff">" </span>It seemed there was hope in growing their numbers after all. They were no longer alone and her uncle's plan of making a scene at the Ministry had inspired the confidence her people needed to reach out to her. Or soon to be her people.<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ff4da6"> "So we go there tonight,"</span>she stated matter of factly, but of course her uncle preferred a different approach.<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ffff00">"No, Addlyn. London will be crawling with Ministry dogs for days. Have patience."</span>Whimsy, one of her family's house elves brought her a tray bearing a selection of scones. She plucked up a mulberry one, her uncle continuing.<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ffff00">"You leave the contact to me."<br/>
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</span>​</div>A series of loud cracks filled the streets of muggle London, Hawke's boots materializing with a wet thud upon the freshly-drenched cobblestones outside 1733 Crestmont Drive. The rain was no matter, Hawke casting an invisible umbrella over both himself and Theo as his eyes took in the sight of something he'd hoped to never see again, a chill creeping through him that had absolutely nothing to do with the weather. The Dark mark hovered above the townhouse in all its former glory, taunting him, threatening everything he'd worked towards over the past three years. The green conjured clouds mingled almost too well with nature's own coincidental response to tonight's events, fat drops of water rolling down the invisible barrier around him. Momentarily, Hawke's mind was beckoned back to much darker days, the days when being an Auror was as a practical death sentence.<br/><br/>He should have died that night in the forest.<br/><br/><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ff8000">"I never thought I'd actually see it . . . "</span>The wonder in Theo's voice brought Hawke back to the present, turning a concerned eye to his brother.<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#b30000">"It's nothing to take lightly." </span>With that, he shrugged his robes tighter around himself and led Theo past the group of younger Auror's laboring away to ward the crime scene, make it invisible to what few muggles hadn't already been drawn to this blatant violation of the statute. CRACK. CRACK. CRACK. Coming to a stop just outside the splintered doorway, Hawke turned back to the fresh wave of eyes on the scene.<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#b30000">"Someone get rid of that thing before the other bloody half of London sees it,"</span>he pointed in distaste to the insulting symbol laughing at them from above.<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#b30000">"And make sure the Obliviators are notified."</span>They certainly had their work cut out for them this evening.<br/><br/>He turned back to the entryway.<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#b30000">"Blown to bits, likley using Reducto."</span>Normally he wouldn't think aloud, but Theo was still learning. Stepping over what was left of the door, Hawke took in the remainder of the neatly-kept home. It seemed very devoid of personal touches, which Hawke found quite odd. He let his fingers brush over the petals of the fresh rose briefly.<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#b30000">"I wonder if whoever brought him this knows he's dead,"</span>he mused to his brother. The thought of a mourning family always weighed heavily on Hawke's conscience. With a sigh, he abandoned the flower in favor of moving up the stairs, his eyes searching for any hint of a struggle, any sign that perhaps the perpetrator had come here to steal something . . . but the rest of the house was as pristine as the first floor.<br/><br/>Hawke was unaffected by the sight of corpses by now. The dead had bothered him once upon a time, even haunted his nightmares during the beginning of the war . . . but now the only corpse that unnerved him was the memory of finding his own mother lying in the leaves, her eyes as empty as the gaze now staring back at him from the floor of the victim's bedroom. Ophelia and her own apprentice, a young man who'd graduated with Theo, had beaten him to the scene, as per usual. The woman greeted him with a grim nod as Hawke took in the rest of the room, the words carved hatefully into the walls above the cold corpse sending a wash of dread over him.<br/><br/><div style="text-align: center"><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#8000ff">'HE WAS NOT THE VICTIM'<br/>
</span>​</div>Hawke couldn't stave off the thoughts of Nastah Dornsby, likely now rotting in a cell. A victim . . . placed there by Hawke, himself.<br/><br/>It didn't take him long to connect the dots, having been inside the mind of a murderer only hours ago.<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#b30000">"A revenge killing . . . "</span>Hawke's words trailed off as he took in the symbol beneath those words that begged to justify what had happened here tonight. Hawke would recognize that mark in his sleep, the signature of one the few known Death Eaters still at large . . . and another taunt as far as Hawke was concerned.<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#b30000">"Albiorix . . . "</span>The bastard had evaded the Ministry for years now. Hell, no one had even seen the man's face, the make of his wand being the only identifier they'd had on him for months. And that was assuming he still used the same one he'd been issued on file years ago. The very mention of his name brought irritation to the surface as Hawke glared at the symbol. The asshole may as well have left him the middle finger. Theo nudged him from behind, a questioning look in his eyes.<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ff8000">"Err . . . Albi-who?"</span><br/><br/><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#0080ff">"Do you think he acted alone? Or is this connected with the attack at the ministry?"</span>Hawke thought on Ophelia's question for a moment, watching as her apprentice examined the body beneath her observing gaze. It seemed the Ministry would never catch a break between the two attacks occurring within twenty-four hours of one another. And of course it was Hawke's first inclination to connect the two, his mind straining to piece together any remote strings of information at all. They had nothing on file of Albiorix using necromancy, but he didn't suppose it was impossible. Then again, the petulance of this crime scene spoke otherwise.<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#b30000">"I don't think so. He obviously wanted us to know he was here. Whoever orchestrated the assassination attempt wants to remain unknown."</span>Ophelia nodded, accepting his answer.<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#0080ff"> "So two attacks back to back, likely unrelated. At least we have a suspect for this one."</span>Hawke had yet to tell anyone of his encounter with Arthur McClagin . . . but all he had to go on with that case was a face and little else.<br/><br/><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ffff00">"His finger's missing a ring,"</span>the apprentice levitated the man's hand, his fingernails crusted with freshly-dried blood, the answering crescents marred into his palm a sure sign of the torture curse. And sure enough, the older man's ring finger sported an oxidated indentation where, presumably, a wedding band had once been.<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#0080ff"> "Looks like Albiorix wanted a keepsake to remind him of the good times,"</span>Ophelia confirmed.<br/><br/>Having learned all they could from the body, quite clearly tortured to the brink of insanity before being dispatched with the killing curse, Ophelia had Frederick Davis sent away, leaving little else at the scene of the murder. Before leaving the room, Hawke gave it a last once-over, resigned that they would leave here with no leads on Albiorix's true identity. However, his brother bent and lifted an object nearly hidden behind the headboard of the bed.<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ff8000">"It's broken. I guess Albiorix didn't like Frederick's photos?"</span><br/><br/>Hawke crossed the room in two steps, taking the cracked picture frame from Theo's hands. Mr. Davis stood outside what could only be assumed to be a previous address. His mailbox was visible just behind him in he photo . . . Hawke took in the other items left unmolested on Frederick's nightstand, other photos that Albiorix hadn't touched. Why throw this one across the room?<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#b30000">"This house. We need to find this house,"</span>he jabbed his finger at the cracked glass in triumph.<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ff8000">"Does this mean you owe me a drink?"</span>Theo laughed.<br/><br/>Little did they know that Mr. Davis's own house wasn't the most important feature in the photo . . . but it was a start.