Once the nightmares ceased their ravaging parade through his mind, Hawke finally fell into a fitful sleep. As he woke groggily, staring up at his own ceiling from where he'd collapsed the night before, he raised an eyebrow at his own state of undress, unable to recall hastily ripping off his robe and clothes. Clearly, judging by the mess of buttons lying around him on the duvet, he hadn't even had half a mind to simply spell them away. As the blond sat up, he regretted it immediately as pain pulsed through his skull with every heart beat.<i><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#b30000">I didn't drink that much . . . </span> </i>No, his memories, his precious and carefully constructed walls, they'd all been destroyed, rifled and rearranged. Even now, as his fingers massaged his own temples, he could recall his mother's screams as if she were in the same room. And his father . . .<br/><br/>What had Albiorix done inside his head? Wreaked havoc. Some of his memories were spotty, almost as if . . . they'd been manipulated somehow.<br/><br/><i><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#5900b3">Black smoke. A body swinging from the rafters. Himself pleading for it all to stop, begging them to please, please stop hurting his Papa. Such a hatred for muggles.</span></i><br/><br/>But Harold was dead. He'd killed him the very same night he'd burned his childhood home in Islington. Except Harold couldn't be dead and he'd never, not once, called the man Papa. He'd sooner cut out his own tongue. Furthermore, Hawke had never killed anyone aside from a handful of Death Eaters and a dozen supernaturals under Voldemort's control. He'd never killed an innocent. Though Harold was no innocent and suddenly a part of Hawke was very much<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#5900b3"> pleased, almost prideful</span>that he'd gotten his revenge for years of torment. He'd never felt anything like this before . . . aside from perhaps the Battle of Hogwarts. He'd felt a similar sense of sordid satisfaction watching his mother's killer bleed out in the courtyard, another memory he'd ferreted away and now somehow was clear as day.<br/><br/>Concerned, he dug deeper into his own mind.<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#5900b3"><i>A silver mask in hand. A silver mask melded to his face. The mark burning on his wrist. The face of a young blond boy, begging him to stay.</i></span>These memories weren't even his own. These emotions, were they his? They certainly felt one and the same and yet different, darker. If he'd leached this much from the Death Eater's conscience, then what else had changed? And . . . what had Albiorix stolen from Hawke? His heart pounded in his chest, fear and nausea coming to the forefront as the realization settled in. That man, the murderer with the charming smile and the personal vendetta now knew him better than even his own brother.<br/><br/>. . . how had this happened? Hawke had his suspicions, but he didn't dare bring them to light.<br/><br/>And so as Hawke moved to get dressed, covering the collection of thin white scars scattered across his upper body, he began the arduous task of rebuilding everything Albiorix had shattered, sifting through himself in search of memories and emotions he hadn't allowed himself to feel in years. He'd have to ensure the walls were stronger than ever before. He needed to ensure Albiorix had access to as little as possible.<br/><br/><i><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#5900b3">Accio wand. Accio wand.</span> </i>Suddenly Hawke's hand was occupied by a very familiar piece of Aspen as his wand zipped from it's hiding place amidst his discarded clothes, where he'd abandoned it on the floor the night before . . . Except he hadn't thought or uttered a single syllable. Stunned, Hawke rolled the finely crafted wood in his palm. He hadn't dared cast wordless magic since his days in Hogwarts, having absolutely no control over it. And he certainly hadn't cast that spell, which meant that he and a certain Death Eater had quite a problem on their hands. Brow furrowed, Hawke slipped the wand into the pocket of his slacks.<i><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#5900b3">Accio wand. Accio wand. Accio wand.</span></i>Only to find it immediately right back in his palm even as he made the attempt to pull on his own boots. Frustrated, he tossed it onto the duvet and glared as if a mere magical object had offended him. Wherever Albi . . . Albiorix was in this moment, he was evidently failing quite miserably in finding his own wand.<br/><br/>Hawke hoped the bastard had broken it.<br/><br/>He hoped the bastard hadn't yet discovered this new . . . development.<br/><br/>Now resembling a perfectly groomed and sane member of wizarding society . . . not at all a man with scrambled thoughts and ideas not his own . . . Hawke stepped outside into the cool morning breeze. He really should head straight for the ministry. Instead . . . he scratched at the bundle of memories, the alien presence now residing within his head. All he needed was . . . darkness. As he pried further he found nothing but darkness. Odd. He thought it might have been easier than that.<br/><br/>Frustrated, he decided to go on the only real clue he had. A photo. A mailbox. An address. Except he oddly already knew where he was going. CRACK. Hawke found himself in front of the house in the busted picture frame.<br/><br/><div style="text-align: center"><div class="bbImageWrapper lazyload js-lbImage" data-lb-caption-extra-html="" data-lb-sidebar-href="" data-single-image="1" data-src="/proxy.php?image=http%3A%2F%2Fhowrsearchive.weebly.com%2Fuploads%2F5%2F3%2F5%2F7%2F53576017%2F4412476_orig.png&amp;hash=adc33ebe414aa21c77dd9ed19811c714" title="4412476_orig.png">
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</div></div>Niah had watched the man sleep for hours, her eyes adjusting to the lack of lighting just enough to see him toss and turn in his bindings upon the slab. He was certainly not dreaming of sunshine and daisies. This was drab work, but of course she did her job dutifully. If she pleased her Majesty, then she too would someday become all-powerful. And so she was determined to follow every order perfectly. Suddenly the man went still and Niah half worried he might be dead . . . but for the slow rise and fall of his bare chest.<i> <span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ffff4d">So he's awake . . .</span> </i>She dared not speak even as the man demanded answers of her. She hadn't been ordered to speak.<br/><br/>And she'd seen what happens to those who failed to follow orders. Blood. They became those who were more worthy.<br/><br/>Muttering silently to herself, she placed her hand upon her sternum, the fresh mark there tingling beneath her cloak as she summoned his Grace, Joramir. In the meantime, blue eyes bore into the man on the table, wondering why exactly it was that her Majesty, Addlyn, seemed so interested in having him while his Grace had been less than thrilled. The heavy swing open minutes later as Joramir strode into the cell.<br/><br/><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#808080">"Albiorix."</span>Was the only word spoken as the grizzled man approached the other, looking down on him as if to make his lack of respect quite clear.<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#808080">"I must admit, I never thought I'd see the day when only you and I walk outside Azkaban. That black heart of yours is still beating I see, and still hungers for a dark lord to follow if your little scene in London last night is any indication."</span>He produced Albiorix's wand, waving it between his fingers as if dangling a reward before a dog.<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#808080"> "I'll give this back to you, perhaps . . . but first I must ask you why is it that you answered our show of strength to the Ministry. Killing a single muggle . . . I recall you being much more creative, but I digress."</span>He slid the dark wand deep into his robe pocket.<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#808080">"Do you crave a master, for the return of the glory days before the fall of our Lord Voldemort? Do you crave the same respect you once demanded? Because if this is the case . . . then look no further. For the very night, the very hour our Lord perished, his strength was reborn anew in the form of another. And she's building an army. Even the dead obey her command, but we require the living as well."</span>Joramir took a step back, eyeing Niah in her corner as he withdrew his own wand.<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#808080">"Avada Kadavra,"</span>said without warning and with little remorse as the blond girl's corpse collapsed onto the stones at their feet, her hood falling away from youthful features.<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#808080">"Tell me, Albiorix. How do you feel about immortality?" </span>The girl could be reborn anew in due time. In another body, perhaps, but he needed an answer before Albiorix could be allowed to see.<br/><br/>However, it had slipped Jora's mind that Niah had been the one to cast the binding spell upon their prisoner and, as such, the ropes securing Albiorix's wrists and ankles began to fade in strength the very instant that Niah's body touched the cold stone floor.